in the other.
She was twenty-nine.
Her shoes were worn at the heels.
One sleeve of her blue work shirt had been repaired with stitching that did not quite match the original thread.
She had tied her dark hair back quickly, and a stubborn strand kept falling across her forehead.
Within thirty seconds, she caught one shoe on the edge of an expensive living-room rug.
Her bucket tilted.
Catherine twisted sideways, bumped it against her knee, and somehow prevented most of the water from spilling.
A few drops hit the
hardwood.
She froze.
Then she stared at the squeegee in her hand.
“Riley,” she whispered, “nobody saw that.”
Two rooms away, Ethan watched her through the household security monitor.
His eyebrows lifted.
Catherine crouched immediately and wiped up the water.
“We are professionals,” she told the squeegee. “Professionals do not declare war on rugs during their first morning.”
She glanced toward the hallway.
“And if anybody asks, the rug started it.”
Ethan almost smiled.
Almost.
He had not hired Catherine personally.
A local residential staffing service had sent her after
