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Even the baseboards were free of dust.

And he’s not the kind of man to hoard junk that needs to be tossed or donated.

I’ve read until my eyes hurt, swam laps in his pool, used the gym on the ground floor. And while I might be stronger than I’ve been in years—even stronger than when I played a gun-slinging cowgirl a few films back—I’m slowly going insane.

Hudson has work, and while I know he would do it here—would be here—if I asked, he has a life and a business and clients to look after.

And I have…

Well, my safety. Time to get my head together, to let Hudson and Atlas and Madeline and Kate work their magic on my behalf, and while I’m beyond grateful, while I know how lucky I am to have it…

I’m slowly going insane.

I don’t have a script to memorize. I don’t have reshoots. I don’t have meetings to discuss future projects.

I’ve worked since I was a child.

Yes, I’ve taken breaks, but those breaks were always punctuated with what I would be doing next.

Even in my darkest days, there was always the next party, the next drama, the next high.

This peaceful existence—no matter how wonderfully safe—is beginning to make my skin itch.

I need to do something.

Today, that’s make a fancy three-course meal for a four-year-old and my boyfriend.

(And the third course is positively decadent—a four-layer chocolate cake filled with hazelnut mousse, salted caramel, and covered with a whipped ganache frosting.)

Tomorrow…

Well, I’ll figure it out.

Because if there’s anything I’ve learned about myself, that I’ve learned to trust over these last weeks, it’s that I will figure it out.

Maybe not alone.

But that’s okay too.

My phone rings again and I set the dough onto the floured board, reach over and swipe a dirty finger across the screen.

Unfortunately, I do this without looking at the caller ID because I’m focused on the bread. It needs its final rise before cooking can fully commence and the call has interrupted the transfer of my carefully formed loaf to the pan where it can complete that rise.

“Hello?” I say as I scoop the dough back up and gingerly settle it in the pan.

There’s silence.

Long enough for my annoyance to grow and my scowl to deepen. If I’ve lost the air bubbles I’ve laboriously…well, labored to keep and my bread is heavy, there will be hell to pay.

“Hello?” I repeat as I cover the loaf with a towel, reach for my phone to disconnect what is obviously a spam call?—

But my finger doesn’t make it.

Because I freeze when the voice comes through the phone.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Thank God, the dough is safe.