For some reason that bothered Chase. She’d known women like Neve—shit stirrers who took pleasure in causing others discord. But she didn’t say anything to either woman. Just looked at them with bored eyes before Olivia handed her a broom and started up the stairs.

Chase found her bag in the larger of the bedrooms. The room had a westward-facing window that allowed warm sunlight to slant inside, making the room less dreary than the others. She pulled the blankets off the queen-size bed so they could be laundered. New sheets sat in a package on the writing desk beneath the window next to a folded quilt.

“Olivia, this package says I should wash the sheets before using them,” she called out the open doorway.

Olivia appeared in the doorway, looking perturbed. “We don’t have electricity.”

Chase pointed to the instruction again. “You told me to read the instructions. Just following orders.”

Olivia seemed to repress a sigh of irritation. She opened her mouth to say something, and the lights came on.

“Oh, thank God,” she said instead, closing her eyes in what Chase guessed was gratitude. “Look, for now, dust the room, sweep, and make a note of anything that needs addressing.”

Chase made a face and then handed the package to Olivia. “Fine. Here are the sheets.”

Olivia looked at the package, and her mouth went flat as a toad’s. “The washing machine is downstairs. You can toss them in now that we have power.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“Figure it out. There are instructions on the washing powder. Once you’re done with laundering your sheets, we’ll start supper.” Olivia set a duster, a bottle of cleaner, and a broom inside the door and turned to leave.

The whole idea of figuring this stupid stuff out made Chase itchy. After all, she’d failed at actually checking out groceries. How in the world was she supposed to figure out a washing machine? She sent her clothes out to be cleaned, or her housekeeper, Tracie, did the washing once a week, folding the clothes neatly in her dresser. God, she missed Tracie.

“We?” Chase repeated.

“Yes, we. This is an adulting boot camp where all the adults present pull their weight.” Olivia looked resolute. Her gaze swept the room. “You should be able to tidy this room in thirty minutes.”

Then she left.

“So fly-fishing takes practice,” Zeke said, jarring her out of her contemplation of how she was terrible at dusting. How could one be bad at wiping off dust? Meet Chase London, failed duster.

“Seems a lot in life takes practice,” she said, tired of hearing those words, even though she knew they were true.