Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway

that led to the fancy house.

      She took another quick peek at the place, exhorting herself not to be intimidated by its amazing lakefront location, its immense size, the wealth that it testified to. The area surrounding Blue Arrow Lake had been home her entire life and the divide between the haves and have-nots something she’d breathed in like the clean mountain air.

      Most locals didn’t resent the rich who had homes on the choicest coves or the most stupendous mountainsides. Without them, what jobs would they have? The way things were, there was a need for grocers and Realtors and restaurateurs to serve the needs of the affluent who came up the hill with their inherited fortunes or with the money they made from TV or tech or investing other loaded peoples’ dollars.

      Most locals didn’t feel the least bit used by the well-heeled whose lawns they tended, whose food they prepared, whose houses they cleaned.

      A few locals, though, ended up providing services of an entirely different nature. And to Tilda’s mind, they were used.

      She pushed that thought away, along with the pang of grief that accompanied it. Neither were productive and she didn’t have the time or energy for anything beyond what would keep her solvent—making her rent, filling her gas tank, filling her belly and paying for the online courses that were her only way of getting an education beyond her high school diploma.

      At twenty-one, she was on track for getting her degree in biology in another six years.

      Shoving a long swathe of her wavy brown hair off her shoulder, she bent to scoop up the grocery bags. Her boss at Maids by Mac, Mackenzie Walker—whom Tilda also counted as a friend—had passed over a list and the cash to pay for the items. She understood that Tilda didn’t have the extra to float the purchases until getting back to the office and handing over the receipt.

      She shut the back door of her car with her hip and gave a cursory glance at the upscale vehicle she’d parked beside. Only two things interested her about automobiles: Did they run or didn’t they? But it was hard not to admire the gleaming black finish and tinted, smoky windows of the luxury ride. By comparison, her dented two-door with its faded paint looked like something that had been abandoned in a weedy, empty lot for an untold number of years.

      Exactly what Roger Roper had claimed when he sold it to her, as a way to account for the astonishingly low mileage.

      Tilda had known he was lying—she figured he’d fooled with the odometer—but the price had been right, and so far it had been kind to her.

      Unlike the weather. As she moved toward the front door, big, cold drops shook out of the overhead clouds, leaving fat dots on her ragged jeans and on her faded green long-sleeved T-shirt. It read Blue Arrow Lake down one arm and the hem was unraveling, but it was good enough for her work as a maid.

      Sometimes, if the homeowner was present, or if she took on a side job for a local caterer, she wore black pants and a white blouse as a “uniform.” But her helping with food service was irregular and the places she cleaned for Mac were usually empty during the week and used only on the weekends. So most often when working, Tilda dressed just one stage above rags, to prevent an errant product spill or a particularly grungy task from ruining a choicer piece of her meager wardrobe.

      Now rain found the hole in her right sneaker, the one over her big toe.

      An expert at ignoring things that caused her discomfort—from mere nuisances to actual anguish—she continued on, not even wishing she’d selected her other pair of work shoes for the day.

      At the front door, she juggled the bags to free a finger and press the bell. It started up an intricate set of bonging notes, a classical tune, she supposed, that someone might learn to recognize in a college music appreciation class or even through the speakers in an elevator.

      But Tilda would never register for a course so impractical.

      And she’d never been in an elevator in her life.

      It was weird, that, but true. She tried not to think it was because she wasn’t born to rise above her station.

      Then the door swung open and her mind fogged.

      Her expectation was to find on the other side an old friend of Mac’s who also was a former flame. He was recovering from the flu, she’d said. His cupboards were nearly bare. Tilda’s job had been to do a bit of marketing and to deliver it to the man—whose name was Zan Elliott.

      But the person on the other side of the threshold wasn’t him.

      Ash Robbins, her inner voice spoke in an appalled whisper. You weren’t ever supposed to see him again.

      In her head, the fog cleared and playing cards—each an image of their one night together—were dealt across its surface. But she ruthlessly swept them away even as her skin flashed hot-cold-hot. It would be almost a relief to imagine she might be getting the flu, as well.

      But what she was really getting was another look at Ash Robbins. Oh, God. A tidal wave of shame washed over her.

      “Tilda!” He said her name and his handsome face split into a wide, white, perfect smile. As if he was happy to see her. How could he be happy to see her? “My God, this is amazing.”

      Amazing? It was awful.

      And so surprising that she stood like a stone, just staring.

      His smile died. A faint pink stain spread across his cheeks. “Uh...” He swallowed. “Remember me? From that night, um, last May? Ash Robbins.”

      Wow. She’d rattled golden-boy Ash Robbins, who was twenty-two and the apple of his filthy-rich parents’ eyes. They’d met right after his college graduation and the night before he left for an impressive summer internship in international banking.

      She bobbed her head and said, “Ash,” as if he were, like his name, nothing more than a smudge of gray dust on her memory banks. Then she glanced down at the groceries, back up at him. “Can I come in for a moment?”

      “Of course, of course. God, you must think I’m a moron.”

      No, only the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. That’s what had caught her attention at first, the night of her twenty-first birthday. His good looks. Only later, when he’d had the waitress deliver a drink and she’d smiled in return had he wandered to her table and introduced himself. His name had let loose her worst impulses.

      “Let me take those,” he said now, bending a bit at the knees so he could get his arms under hers. His wrists brushed the undersides of her breasts and an answering shiver rolled down her back.

      His gaze jumped to hers. “Sorry.”

      “About what?” she asked vaguely, releasing the bags. Let him think his touch was nothing she remembered. That it didn’t affect her in the least.

      Ash turned and she shut the door behind them, then followed him across gleaming floors to a state-of-the-art kitchen. Her apartment had a microwave and a single burner she and her roommates plugged into an electrical outlet. But thanks to the job that took her into many of the priciest homes in the area, she recognized the upmarket appliances and their functions.

      He set the bags on the island and peered into them. “Uh...”

      “I’ll put the things away,” she offered. His privilege probably meant he didn’t know if canned soup belonged in the pantry or the refrigerator. “I am at the correct house, right? This is Zan Elliott’s place?”

      “Yeah.” Ash ran his hand through his hair, rumpling the golden-blond waves. “He’s taking a shower. But he knows his friend—Mac, isn’t it?—was sending someone by with groceries.”

      “That’s me...not Mac, but the someone with the groceries.”

      He smiled, a dimple digging deep in his cheek. Outside, the rain began in earnest, coming down in sheets.

      Ash’s dimple. Heavy rain.

      It only needed a flat tire to cap out a really crappy