Biscuit appears in the doorway, regarding me with the solemn judgment only a rescue mutt can deliver. His expression clearly saysyou're still here?
"Morning to you too, buddy," I whisper.
He huffs and disappears back down the hallway. I hear the click of dog nails on hardwood, then the jingle of tags as he settles into what I'm guessing is his bed in the living room.
At least one male in this house has standards.
Callie stirs against me, making a small sound that does unreasonable things to my chest. Her eyes flutter open, greenand sleep-soft, and for a second she just looks at me like she's trying to remember if last night was real.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi yourself."
"You're still here."
"That a problem?"
"Biscuit seems to think so."
"Biscuit has opinions about everything, I'm guessing."
"Strong ones." She stretches, and the sheet slips lower, and I make a heroic effort to maintain eye contact like a gentleman. "What time is it?"
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. "Seven-thirty."
She bolts upright. "What?"
"Seven-thirty?"
"I have appointments starting at eight." She's already out of bed, grabbing clothes from her dresser. "Why didn't you set an alarm?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to be your alarm clock. And you have appointments on a Sunday morning?"
"Yes. Special circumstances. You distracted me from my entire evening routine, Mercer. The least you could do is—" She stops, holding a bra in one hand and yesterday's jeans in the other, and looks at me. Really looks at me, still sprawled in her bed, blanket pooled around my waist, probably grinning like an idiot.
Her expression softens. "Hi."
"You already said hi."
"I'm saying it again."
"Hi, Doc."
She throws the jeans at me. "Get dressed. I'm making coffee and then you're leaving so I can function like a normal human being."
"I'm very distracting, huh?"
"Shut up."
But she's smiling when she disappears into the bathroom, and I count that as a win.
I find my jeans—somehow ended up on the floor near the closet—and pull on yesterday's henley. It smells like her now, which is doing things to my brain I'm not prepared to analyze. I briefly consider stealing one of her sweatshirts just to see what she'd do.
The bathroom door opens and she emerges in fresh clothes, hair pulled back, looking like she didn't just roll out of bed with me.
"How do you do that?" I ask.
"Do what?"
