From Scrubbing Floors to Faking Love in New Romance Book ‘Maid for Each Other’

The "fake dating to lovers" plot is my ultimate guilty pleasure—and I'm sure many other #BookTok girlies can agree. The sheer improbability of it all is exactly what makes it such a fun and swoon-worthy storyline. After all, isn't the whole point of diving into a romance book to escape into something kind of whimsical and far-fetched?

This is exactly how Lynn Painter, author of beloved rom-coms like Better Than the Movies and The Do-Over, has taken #BookTok by storm. Her playful and romantic tone continues in her upcoming release, Maid for Each Other, where she introduces an unlikely duo who agree to fake a relationship—and fool everyone into believing they're madly in love.

When professional cleaner Abi’s apartment becomes temporarily unlivable, she seizes a golden opportunity: staying at her client’s vacant penthouse while he’s out of town. But things take a turn when she wakes up to find his parents in the kitchen—and they assume she’s his girlfriend, or, well, the one he made up. When Abi finally meets her client, Dex, the two strike a deal: he’ll provide everything she needs during her stay, as long as she plays along with the dating charade. It’s just a simple business arrangement...right?

In Maid for Each Other, available July 15, Painter draws us in with Abi's bold personality, which tugs at Dex's stern, business-minded heartstrings. Read an exclusive excerpt shared with Well+Good here.

Do I knock?

I stood in front of the door—my door—and wasn’t sure what to do. Obviously I had a key, but was it impolite to the stranger who’d forced her way into my life to use it?

The rules of etiquette were unclear on how to arrive for a date that you’d been forced to arrange.

Screw it, I’m going in.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Abi?”

I said her name, fairly loudly, as I stepped inside.

“Abi, I’m here,” I said, closing the door behind me. “Are you ready to go?”

I’d been away in London for the past couple weeks, so the sight of my couch and TV made me instantly wish I could just change into shorts and play COD all night, or maybe destroy a plate of nachos in front of an old episode of Psych.

Either option sounded amazing.

But the tuxedo on my body said otherwise.

“Abi?”

Just as I thought where the hell is she?, I saw that the balcony door was open. I doubted she was out there, because it was raining, but she didn’t seem to be anywhere else, either, so I crossed the room, tension pounding in my temple as I wondered how the evening was going to play out. Abi seemed like she had the potential to be a real pain in the ass, although Johnny, the hair stylist, sent me texts throughout the afternoon that gave me a tiny bit of hope.

Johnny: Abi is pretty cool 

Johnny: Abi looks great

Johnny: The girl is smart and knows the material—you’ve got nothing to worry about

“Abi?” I stepped through the doorway, onto the balcony, and there she was.

She was sitting at the teak table in a black rain jacket with a towel wrapped around her head, writing in a notebook under the patio umbrella that I rarely opened. Her bare feet were propped up on the chair across from her, and when I said her name again, she held up a finger without looking up and said, “Hang on for a quick sec.”

Oh-kay. I stood there, getting sprinkled on, unsure of what the hell I was waiting for while her hand scribbled words frantically. I’d expected her to be ready and waiting by the door, not dressed like a freshly showered flasher who was immersed in gratitude journaling.

On my deck.

In the rain.

With her toes out.

Her behavior didn’t bode well for a calm, uneventful evening.

“What are you doing?” I asked, lifting my wrist to check my watch. “We—”

“Shhhh,” she said, her Bic flying over the paper. “I just don’t want to forget. One minute.”

My jaw hurt from how hard I was grinding my teeth together in an attempt not to sigh or curse as I waited.

“Okay,” she said, still writing. Her face was intense as she finished and muttered, “I . . . am . . . done.”

With that, she closed the notebook and looked up at me.

“Wow,” she said, her mouth sliding into a grin. “You look quite fancy, Declan Powell.”

“Thank you . . . ?” I said, for some reason irritated by how relaxed she was. Shouldn’t she be nervous about our situation, or at the very least subdued? It felt wildly overconfident for her to be shoeless and smiling at me that way. “Do you know how much time you’ll need to be ready? We should probably leave as soon as possible.”

“Oh. I’m ready,” she said, standing. She clutched the notebook and a can of Red Bull to her chest as she stepped around me and into my apartment.

Okay, then, I thought as I followed her inside, shutting the sliding door behind me.

“Give me two minutes,” she said, untying the jacket while she walked in the direction of the bedroom. “I just need to put on my shoes.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t for her to shed the jacket as she crossed the living room. She pulled it off without slowing her progress, exposing a black cocktail dress underneath that looked very nice from the back. It was fitted, elegant, stopping at the knee and showcasing legs that were—objectively speaking—very nice.

And as soon as she had the raincoat off and tossed onto a chair, that white towel followed suit, the flick of her wrist causing a waterfall of auburn curls to tumble down and settle just beneath her shoulders.

Honestly, I couldn’t look away from her fluid, nonchalant movements. It was so efficient and effortless that I was impressed as hell.

Even as it bugged me.

“Do you know if it’s supposed to keep raining?” she yelled as she left my line of sight and disappeared into my bedroom.

She seems very comfortable in my place.

“I think it’s finished,” I replied, checking email on my phone. “Except for a few sprinkles.”

“Good, because my feet will get soaked in these shoes if it doesn’t,” she said as she came back into the room.

I glanced up and—

Wow.

The words spilled out before I could stop them.

“You are stunning,” I said, my eyes drinking in a sight I hadn’t been prepared for.

I’d noticed she was a cute girl, but tonight she was a knockout. The dress was made to show off her curves, but on top of that she had long-lashed brown eyes, full red lips, and exposed shoulders that looked sinfully smooth.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes squinting as she looked at me with a shy smile.

“For a felon,” I added, unable to help myself. I needed to remind both of us of the reality of our situation.

“You’re a very irritating boyfriend, for the record,” she said, her smile disappearing as she grabbed her clutch from the counter. “No one likes when their significant other accuses them of criminal activity. Makes them very hard to love.”

“Noted,” I said, gesturing with an arm toward the door.

“Although maybe you’ve only ever had pretend girlfriends, so you probably don’t know that.”

“Good one,” I said, pulling open the door.

“Thank you,” she said as she exited. “And thank you for all of this.”

She gestured to herself with both hands and added, “For butterflying my caterpillar.”

I gave a nod instead of responding as I turned to lock the door behind us, because the last thing I needed was to be complimenting her again. We had to make it through the evening, and then she needed to disappear from my life entirely (after milking me for a weeklong stay, of course).

Nothing else mattered.

“How did you know my size, by the way?” she asked as we walked to the elevator, but before I had a chance to respond, she added, “I mean, even the shoes are the right size, which is mind-blowing since my feet are unusually small. Like weird little middle school feet. Is that your special skill, your circus-freak talent, that you can nail sizes at a glance?”

“I had nothing to do with it,” I said as we approached the elevator bank, wishing I hadn’t heard her say the words weird little middle school feet. “I told my team what I needed, and they took care of all the details.”

“What?” She looked up at me through narrowed eyes. “That’s not an explanation. Your team has never met me.”

She was right, but I pressed the down button and said, “Listen, do you really want to waste time disseminating the logistical details of how you came to your current appearance, or do you want to review the details of our ruse so the evening goes off without a hitch?”

“Um, definitely dissemination,” she muttered as the doors opened and we stepped into the elevator, “but I guess I’ll settle for ruse details.”

“Wonderful.” I pressed the P button, looked down at her—she was about a foot shorter than me—and said, “So tell me about yourself.”

She rolled her eyes like an irritated teenager. “Is this a quiz?”

“Abi.”

“Fine,” she said on a sigh. “I’m Abi Green and I work in marketing at a small company called Anderson Tech. They’re based out of Denver, so I have a hybrid schedule where I work remotely from Omaha for three weeks a month and in the Denver office for one. I grew up here, am an only child, I have no social media because I do so much of it with my job that I just cannot after five, and I run three miles with my dog every morning.”

I was torn between being glad she’d memorized the details and embarrassed that over the past few months, I’d been forced to divulge random details about my fake girlfriend. I hadn’t realized how many white lies I’d told about her until I started compiling the list for Abi to study.

The list made me feel like an idiot.

“Where did you go to college?” I asked as the elevator bell dinged at the underground garage.

“Okay, the assigned answer is UNO, but can we talk about this?” She stepped out into the vestibule when the doors opened, and I gestured in the direction of my parking spot. Her heels clicked as she walked over the cement floor and said, “Some of your answers are just too boring. I think there’s a way to make your girlfriend sound way more interesting without screwing up your story.”

“I don’t care if she sounds interesting or not.”

“Well, you don’t want these very important people to think she’s dullsville, do you? Just hear me out.”

I shot her a look that she must’ve read perfectly, because she held up a hand and said, “Humor me for a sec.”

I unlocked my car, making its headlights flash, and she headed in that direction as she spoke. “What if Abi Green went to Yale for a year before deciding to move back because her parents missed her too much? We should brain her up a little.”

“Her parents are dead,” I said, heading for the passenger door to open it for her just as she beat me to it. “Killed in an accident that she doesn’t like to talk about—you should know that.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” she said as we both climbed into my car. “I did my homework and I know that they’re dead, but we could tweak the timeline a little. If Abi goes away to Yale, that illuminates her intelligence. If she comes home for her parents, we’re showcasing what an angel she is. Then, when they pass, she is the most tragic and beloved of all characters.”

Okay, she obviously thought this was a Lifetime movie. I turned on the car and said, “No.”

“Also, why did you take out my parents? Why would you add that depressing detail to Abi’s backstory?”

I sighed and buckled my seat belt, offhandedly wondering what kind of perfume she wore. It was light and fresh and reminded me of summer. “My parents asked me about Abi’s parents. What does her dad do? My mind went blank so I . . .”

“Unalived them,” she said, but there was a little smile on her red lips. “Brutal.”

I gave her what I hoped was a severe look because I needed her to understand. “We aren’t changing anything, and this isn’t a game. Stick to the script and we’ll be fine.”

“But,” she said, her shiny lips reflecting the dash lights. “I need to understand her motivations if I’m going to nail my character.”

“You aren’t a damned actress, Abi.” I ground my teeth together for a second, trying to keep my cool. “Just say nice to meet you when I introduce you to someone, and that’s that. Don’t get cute.”

She stared at me for a long second, like a lot was going on in that head of hers, and then she just said, “Fine.”

Excerpted from MAID FOR EACH OTHER by Lynn Painter, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025