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She’s the brownies-and-casseroles type. And the cute, slightly awkward note type.

And the hot pink thong type.

Apparently.

Except, she’s not.

Yes, she did give me a hot pink thong, but it doesn’t seem like her.

And considering I have no idea who she is, have never seen her, have never exchanged even a word with her, why the hell do I think I know that?

Unlike the panties that Beckett got, the hot pink thong that was left at my house yesterday still had the tags on. It was also left in a little gift bag on the table with a plate of brownies and a note that said, now you can touch mine, too.

It’s in reference to the fact that one day while at my house, she folded my laundry. This included my underwear.

She then apologized the next time in a note that said she realized she shouldn’t have done that and that touching a man’s underwear is something that should happen only by invitation.

I have to admit I chuckled.

She is awkward. But somehow cute at the same time.

And after I realized that she could have poisoned me, but hasn’t—so far anyway—I also realized that someone who buys a thong as an apology and then forgets to take the tags off isn’t someone who’s homicidal.

I’m tempted to leave her a note pointing out the fact that my touching a brand-new pair of underwear she’s never worn is not exactly the same, nor does it make up for her touching my very well-worn underwear. But I’m not sure I should encourage this.

“I don’t need skimpy panties,” I say. “Things don’t need to be like that.” I give Beckett a look. “I can handle subtle flirtation.”

Beckett grins. “If the opposite of subtle is nude photos, I definitely need things very straightforward.”

“You’re getting nudes?” Wes asks.

My eyes are wide too.

“So far she’s teasing,” he says. “It was just bare skin. I think maybe a knee. Or an elbow? It wasn’t obvious. But I liked it.”

“That is a pretty fast escalation,” I say with a frown. “They’ve only been doing this for a couple of weeks.”

Beckett chuckles. “I don’t mind.”

“But they don’t need to feel like they need to do things like that,” I say. “I thought this was…cute. Just flirtatious.”

It’s completely stupid that I feel a ripple of worry. I have no idea who these women are. I don’t need to be concerned about what they’re doing. They don’t need me to feel protective.

For fuck’s sake, one of them has been breaking into my house.

Fine, the back door is always unlocked, no matter how many times I ask Brewser to lock it, but she’s still been coming inside without being invited.

“Well, yours is being kind of cute,” Nora says, lifting a shoulder. “The casseroles and baking are very…domestic. Honestly, if I didn’t know that you’re totally healthy, I would worry that you’d had surgery or been diagnosed with some terrible terminal illness.”

My gut clutches. After I realized that Brewser was not the one cooking the meals I found in the refrigerator with reheating instructions attached, for a moment I assumed he had told someone else about his recent diagnosis, and they had jumped in to help exactly the way Nora is suggesting. But Brewser had assured me the food was not coming from any of his friends. He confided in me right away, and I was honored to be trusted with his secret. But I haven’t told anyone, nor will I. That’s Brewser’s news to share when he’s ready.

Besides that, after about the third meal delivery, the notes started.

While the first three casseroles had come with simple heating instructions, casseroles four and five had included a note. And an extra gift.

They were not for Brewser.

“I think she’s applying for a wife position while Beckett’s is clearly cool with being just an overnight guest,” Astrid says. “Good for her. Go straight for the end goal.”