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When Shane doesn’t say anything, just stares, I ramble on.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stolen it. Or gone into your room. It’s just, when I clean, I kinda have to go into your room. And I was in there, cleaning, and felt a bit chilly. I can give it back once I wash it.” I bite my bottom lip. “Actually, would you prefer that I not go in there anymore? I could stop if—”

“It’s fine. You can go in my room.” After a beat, he adds, “You can also keep my sweatshirt if you need it.”

Need is a strong word. Want is more accurate. The delightfully cozy crewneck sweatshirt feels like being nestled in a cloud. A storm cloud. Because surprise, surprise, it’s black.

“Thanks. And you can go in my room whenever you want too,” I say, gesturing for him to go in first.

Though my new bedroom is ginormous—twice the size of my studio apartment—Shane looks massive as he marches around, evaluating everything. The best part of my new living space, besides the floor-the-ceiling windows, is the luxurious tub in the attached bath. The walk-in shower is larger than my old galley kitchen.

It took me four days before I even felt comfortable brushing my teeth at the marbled sink. Sure, I’d cleaned all these surfaces, so I knew the layout of every inch of this penthouse, but living here? It still feels like an odd fever dream. Add in the limitless credit card, full-coverage health insurance, and the nice man who came on Monday to make me a week’s worth of delectable meals, and I can’t quite believe my luck.

Part of me feels like I’m living on borrowed time, but Delilah encouraged me—over a dozen times that first day—to enjoy the unexpected windfall. Instead of foreboding the future, I’m choosing to focus on gratitude…especially for the man standing in front of me.

“This won’t work,” Shane says, hands on his hips while staring at the colanders I hung over the bed.

“I’m pretending they’re dreamcatchers,” I say, stepping beside him. “The good dreams flow through, but the bad ones get caught like spaghetti.”

The corner of his mouth quirks as he glances down at me. “Has it been working?”

I shrug. “Couldn’t tell you. The mattress is so comfortable I drop into a deep, dreamless sleep the second my head hits the pillow.”

Shane nods, looking satisfied. “I updated the mattress before you moved in. I’m glad you like it.”

“Like is too simple for how I feel about that mattress.”

I’m awarded with one of Shane’s rare grins.

“Could we put some of this in the shared areas?” he asks, spreading his arm wide to encompass all my knickknacks.

“You’d want that?”

“I bought this property sight-unseen. Sally toured it and mentioned that I might want to use an interior decorator, but”—he turns, giving me all his attention—“I’d rather see what you could do with it. I liked your apartment. I like this room. Can you do this out there?”

I stare, mouth gaping.

Shane—Mr. All-Black Grumpypus—wants me to give his penthouse the kitschy rainbow treatment? This man keeps surprising me at every turn.

“You’re sure?”

Shane nods, serious as a heart attack.

My eyes widen as I shake my head. “Okay. Yeah. I guess.”

“Can that be relocated to the living room?” Shane moves toward my painting.

Right now, it’s just a red wash over my sketch. I decided to finally give in to the impulse of painting Piper. That’s what this agreement allows me, after all: the freedom to do exactly what my creative soul desires. There’ll be plenty of time to create pieces for sale after this one. Then I’ll worry about approaching galleries, entering juried art shows, and building an online following. Right now, I just want to feel the joy of holding a brush again.

Piper is sketched in profile, a delicate crown on her head while a chest plate of armor covers her torso. Her shoulders are covered by dainty cap sleeves with girlish ruffles, and her hair tumbles down her back in unruly curls. A Tyrannosaurus rex’s face is also in profile, acting as her sentinel, her family crest adorning his metal collar.

Though I really wanted to use a museum canvas, I knew this would end up in Piper’s room, so I scaled it back to a more manageable five-by-six-foot canvas. It’s still massive by most artists’ standards, but it’s on the small side for me. I know the exact wall in her bedroom where it will fit perfectly.

“It’s going to take up a lot of space,” I hedge. “The painting is just part of it. I’ll have to create dozens of palettes. I’ll leave those out as I work because once I mix a color, I’ll reuse it in different places. There will be hundreds of variations on each hue. Then there are the paints themselves, jars of brushes, rags, solv—”

“Are you telling me my penthouse is too small for your art?”

The slight quirk of Shane’s lip sends a blush of warmth over my collarbones. I love when his dry humor comes out, especially if I’m in the middle of a verbal tailspin.