I tug out my phone and connect to the Bluetooth speaker my dad allows on-site. Scrolling through my playlist, I pick Michael Bublé’s “Sway” to get me moving and crank it.

I carefully lay a cloth along the new floors and crack open a fresh can of cherry varnish and prep my brush, making sure I have everything I need within reach. I did the first sanding and layer of varnish in the shop, but I needed more space to do the second and third layers, so now I’m at the house. Varnish is a magnet for dust and prints. I’ll finish it tonight, and by the time the crew shows up tomorrow morning, it should be set enough to be safe.

I tug a pair of latex gloves and a face mask out of my jacket pocket before removing my coat, dropping it next to the soft drink I haven’t touched. The heat isn’t turned on yet, but it’s March, and once I start moving, I’ll be working up a sweat.

Sarah Brightman comes on singing “Time to Say Goodbye.” I start to hum under my breath and can already feel myself relaxing into the work. My shoulders soften and any tension in my neck slinks away.

Dipping my brush, I begin at one end of the wall and work my way across, singing the Italian lyrics. Despite my bubblegum-pop reputation, I was classically trained.

Classically trained to sing Broadway standards in an empty old house.

It almost makes me want to record a clip and send it to Ada Mae with a text reading Warmest Regards.

Except she’d probably accidentally-on-purpose leak it to the press.

I’m really in my feels, belting out Hayley Westenra’s cover of “Never Saw Blue,” when the doorbell rings, nearly causing me to pee myself and spill varnish all over my dad’s new floors.

“Shit!” I screech when the doorbell rings out again, but I compose myself enough to carefully put down the can and brush. I fling open the door with a scowl. “Who is—?”

“Hey, Shelby.”

My breath leaves in a gust of “Cameron.” If I hadn’t seen him a month ago, I would still recognize those grass-green eyes anywhere. Even on a thickly bearded face.

“What?” I manage to croak out after.

I cringe. Jesus. Cameron Riggs shows up at my door five years after stabbing me in the ego and all I can word vomit is “What?” In L.A., I had this miraculous confidence, likely borne out of the thick layer of don’t-give-a-fuck-ness I applied along with my sunscreen after landing at LAX. I scramble to regain that feeling, but I’m coming up short. The Midwest has made me soft. It’s probably all that fleece we wear.

I clear my throat, dragging my mask off my burning face. “I mean, what are you doing here?”