“Why call me Red? If you haven’t noticed, my hair is dark.”
My eyelids felt heavy, and I was about to close them when I noticed her toenails. She’d painted them a sexy red. And she wondered why I called her Red.
“You were wearing that hot red dress last night. And your lips. Your lips made me think of… I don’t think you’d care to hear my thoughts about that.”
Ignoring my comment, she got up from the floor.
“It’s late. Do you need help getting to your room?” It sounded like she wanted me to say no.
“You know I’m naked, right?” I looked up at her. She was glaring at me. “This towel you covered my ass with isn’t big enough to cover what’s on my front.”
What the hell did I just say? I expected her to stomp off, but she surprised me by laughing instead. It was a big, bold laugh so unguarded that it made me smile. I wanted her to keep laughing, but I was too exhausted to think of anything else to say.
“I can always get you a body bag,” she offered. I could hear the smile in her voice.
“You’re so creepy.” I chuckled.
“Not as creepy as you.”
I closed my eyes, grinning like a fool. “Are you flirting with me now, Red?”
* * *
If she replied, I missed it because the next thing I knew, I was waking up to the smell of bacon. I was still on the floor
, but she had placed a pillow under my head and a blanket over me.
Groggy, I sat up and noticed my clothes weren’t scattered on the floor anymore. She must have picked them up while I was asleep. My body still ached. Sleeping on the floor probably didn’t help. I stood up and wrapped the blanket around my waist—for her sake—and headed to the kitchen. I stopped short in the hallway when I spotted her in front of the stove.
Warmth filled my chest. She was cooking breakfast.
For me.
I had to remind myself that she was just holding up her end of the bargain. Still, it made me happy.
I leaned against the wall, enjoying the view. There was something sweet and cozy about watching a girl cook breakfast for me. The smells, the sounds…the girl.
She’d tied her hair in a messy knot on top of her head, and a few tendrils had escaped, curling at the delicate line of her neck. The grace and fluidity of her movements reminded me that she was a fantastic dancer.
“Hey there, stranger,” I greeted her as she turned around.
She squealed in surprise and almost dropped the plate.
“Are you always so jumpy in the morning?” I asked.
She gave me a halfhearted smile. I figured there was more to it than she was letting on—she had attacked me with a baseball bat last night—but I let it go. For now.
“Why don’t you get dressed? Then you can eat your breakfast,” she suggested.
Tongue tucked firmly in my cheek, I said, “You mean get undressed and eat you for breakfast?”
Sometimes I wondered if my mother had dropped me when I was a child. Even I thought my mouth needed to be soaped because of the things that came out of it. Red must have been getting used to me because she only shook her head.
I padded to my bedroom, brushed my teeth, and put on jeans. By the time I headed back to the kitchen, she had a plate of bacon and another of eggs balanced on one arm. How the hell did she do that?
Watching her expertly put the plates on the counter, I took a seat.
“Three out of four shelves in your fridge are stocked with cartons of orange juice,” she observed, her brows raised, curious.