“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to right her top. It was now right side out, but backwards.
“No reason for you to walk home, shower, and walk back to Liza’s. Not when there’s a perfectly good shower here.”
“I can’t go to breakfast in my uniform,” she said in exasperation. “Doing the walk of shame to family breakfast is not happening.”
“Fine. Give me a list.”
She looked as if I had just spoken to her in Swahili. “A list of what?”
“What do you need to get through breakfast without shame. You shower. I’ll get your stuff.”
She stared at me. “You’re working awfully hard for just a hook-up.”
I couldn’t say why, but that statement pissed me off. Standing up, I picked a pair of jeans off the floor. “Gimmie a list.” I dragged on the jeans.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “Has anyone told you you’re a grump in the mornings?”
“Yeah. Every single person who’s had the misfortune of seeing me before ten a.m. Tell me what you want from your place, then get your cute ass in the shower.”
Four minutes later, I was headed out the door with an obscenely long list for a Saturday morning breakfast that my grandmother would preside over in her camo pajamas.
I jogged through my backyard to hers and came up on the cottage’s back porch. The hide-a-key had been in the same place since I could remember. In a fake rock in one of the flower boxes on the railing. I snagged the key, fit it into the lock, and found the door was already unlocked.
Great, now I was going to have to lecture her on security.
The cottage smelled like fresh air, baked goods, and lemons.
The kitchen was sparkling clean except for the opened mail on the counter. Naomi kept it in a small upright organizer, probably alphabetized, but now all the envelopes were fanned out in a sloppy stack.
The rolltop desk in the nook off the living room was open, revealing a mostly tidy workspace with Naomi’s laptop, a cup of colorful pens, and a stack of notebooks. The bottom drawer was open a few inches.
Though it was no mountain of underwear and t-shirts, I was glad to see a little disarray. I’d noticed the more stressed Naomi got, the cleaner she became. A little mess was a good sign.
I took the stairs two at a time and swung into the bathroom first to collect the toiletries and hair dryer. Then I hit Naomi’s room and grabbed shorts and—because I was a man—a lacy, girly blouse with buttons.
Haul secured, I locked the back door and headed back to my place.
When I walked into the bedroom, I found Naomi standing in the steamy bathroom with wet hair wearing nothing but a towel.
The view brought me to a sudden halt. I liked seeing her like this. Liked having an undressed, freshly showered Naomi in my space.
I liked it so much that I went on the offensive. “You gotta lock your doors, Daisy. I know this isn’t the big city, but shit still happens out here. Like my brother getting shot.”
She blinked at me, then snatched the bag of girl stuff from my hands. “I always lock the doors. I’m not an incompetent adult.”
“Back door was unlocked,” I reported.
She dug through the bag and laid the toiletries out in a neat line around my sink. I’d brought extra since I didn’t give a shit about the difference between eyeliner and eyebrow pencil.
“I lock the doors every time I leave and every night,” she argued, picking up the brush and running it through her damp hair.
I leaned casually against the door frame and enjoyed the show as she methodically worked her way through her cosmetics. “What is all that shit, anyway?”
“Haven’t you ever watched a woman get ready?” she asked, aiming a look of suspicion at me as she penciled an outline around her lips.
“It’s just breakfast,” I pointed out.
“But I don’t want to look like I just rolled out of bed with you.” The stare she gave me was pointed. I glanced in the mirror and noted that my hair was standing up in all directions. My beard was flat on one side. And I had a pillow crease under my left eye.