“Nay, I will wait until the morn.”
“Okay. I’ll show you how to pull out the bed. It’s earlier than I normally go to bed, but it’s been a rough week, so I’ll turn in as well. Things always look better in the morning.”
Callan took a step back when she pulled the cushions off the sofa and the next thing he knew, a bed arose out of the sofa. ’Twas magic.
“It’s very comfortable.” She bustled around, making the bed with fine sheets. Once she was done, Daisy stood there watching him. The moments stretched out, then he cleared his throat.
“I bid ye a good night, Daisy.”
She turned with a smile. “Don’t murder me in my sleep.”
“Nay, lass. Ye have nothing to fear from me. I would put my body in harm’s way to keep ye safe.”
He touched the bed. “’Tis so soft. And it smells like flowers and something else.” He sniffed.
“Oranges.”
As she turned to step into her chamber, Callan frowned, feeling a breeze.
“Where is the cold air coming from? The windows are closed.”
Daisy took her hair down, the locks tumbling around her shoulders as he stood there gaping at her like a lad stealing a glance at a beautiful lass.
“It’s air conditioning.” She held up a hand before he could ask. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m tired of talking.” She yawned. “I’ll explain it in the morning.”
She paused in the archway. “If you need anything, just call out.”
He nodded and climbed under the bedding. The bed was so soft, the sheets finer than even those at Blackford.
He looked out the window, unable to see more than a few stars. The noise from the street, along with the cars and motorcycles, mingled with the voices of people outside.
Frankie padded into Daisy’s chamber, jumped on the bed, turned around three times and went to sleep as Daisy floated down the hallway to the bathing chamber. Sounds of running water, the scent of apples wafted down the hall, and a while later she walked past him, dressed scandalously in a red shirt with no sleeves, just tiny straps. On the front, it saidBaking, because murder is wrong, making him frown.
Her legs were on display. The shorts, he remembered she’d called them shorts at the park, were even smaller than the ones she wore earlier. With a shake of his head, Callan snapped his mouth shut, trying not to gaze upon her form, but failing miserably.
CHAPTER 7
Bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, Daisy tripped over a mound of unwashed clothes, stubbing her toe against the edge of the nightstand, knocked over the painted screen that divided the sleeping area from the rest of the studio, and grabbed a bat, left behind by a pro baseball player she’d dated for a few months.
Frankie’s frantic barking was coming from the kitchen, where she’d left her phone on the counter last night to charge.
There was no way she’d reach it in time to call 911 if someone had broken in. As her mouth dropped open at the sight in the kitchen, the bat hit the floor with a clatter.
It was not a burglar.
It was her new house guest.
Callan stood in front of the counter near the stove, bare-chested, hair disheveled and eyes wild. He was swearing in what sounded like Gaelic, his voice rising in volume and intensity with each word, oblivious to Frankie, who was dancing around Callan’s legs, barking his head off.
And if she stared a little too long at that expanse of muscle, the multitude of scars, and those broad shoulders, well, who could blame her? But how did he get all those scars?
“Callan, what’s wrong?” Daisy rubbed her eyes, heart pounding in time with the throbbing in her head.
She called out again, but he didn’t hear her, his eyes wide as he continued to shout.
So she did what she did at the park when Frankie and the other dogs weren’t listening. Two fingers to her lips, Daisy let out a piercing whistle that finally got Callan’s attention. Frankie stopped barking, sat down, tail wagging, as if to say, what on earth is going on?
What on earth, indeed?
