I filled a glass from the sink and then took her by the hand and led the way toward the stairs. “If you leave, I have to walk your ass home in the dark, then walk my ass back here. Which puts me hittin’ the sack back by another fifteen minutes at least and, Daze, I’m really fucking tired.”
“My stuff is at my house,” she said, biting her lip in hesitation.
“What stuff do you need in the next three hours, Daisy?”
“A toothbrush.”
“Got an extra upstairs.”
“My face wash and lotion.”
“Got water and soap,” I said, tugging her up the stairs.
“I still don’t—”
I stopped and faced her. “Baby, I don’t want to think about it or wonder what it all means. I just want to put my head on a pillow and know that you’re safe and asleep. I promise you, we can nitpick this mess to death tomorrow. But right now, I just need to close my eyes and not think about shit.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But we’re definitely nitpicking this mess to death tomorrow and reconfirming the ground rules.”
“Great. Can’t wait.” Before she could change her mind, I pulled her the rest of the way up the stairs and into my bedroom.
“Wow,” she yawned, blinking at my bed.
A man’s bed and his couch were the most important pieces of furniture in the house. I’d gone for a big-ass king-sized sleigh bed stained dark.
It was unmade, as always. I never saw the point in making a bed if you were just going to have to unmake it to use it. It was a good thing Naomi was nearly dead on her feet, because if the rumpled sheets didn’t send her packing, the short stack of underwear and t-shirts next to my nightstand would have.
I nudged her in the direction of the bathroom and riffled under the sink until I came up with a spare toothbrush still in its dusty, original package.
“I take it you don’t have many overnight guests?” she asked, wiping the dust off the plastic.
I shrugged. I’d never spent the night with a woman in this house. I was already crossing the invisible boundaries of our agreement by having her spend the night. There was no fucking way I was going to hash out what it meant with her.
She was the one who was used to sharing a life, a sink, a bed with someone. She was the one coming out of a relationship.
Great. Now I was tired and annoyed.
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, brushing our teeth. For some reason, the companionable routine reminded me of my childhood. Every evening when we were kids, Nash and I hung out on our parents’ bed, waiting for them to finish brushing their teeth so they could read us the next chapter in whatever book we were in the middle of.
I shook off the memory and glanced at Naomi. She had a faraway look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Everyone’s talking about us,” she said, rinsing her toothbrush.
“Who’s everyone?”
“The entire town. Everyone is saying we’re dating.”
“I doubt that. Most of them are just saying we’re fucking.”
She flung a hand towel at me that I caught one-handed.
“Fine. My parents and Waylay’s caseworker think we’re in a relationship, and the rest of town thinks we’re just having sex.”
“So?”
She looked exasperated. “So? It makes me look like a…well, like my sister. I’ve only known you three weeks. Don’t you care what people think about you? What they say about you?”
“Why would I do that? They can whisper all they want behind my back. As long as none of them are dumb enough to say it to my face, I don’t give a shit what they say.”
Naomi shook her head. “I wish I could be more like you.”
“What? A selfish asshole?”
“No. Whatever the opposite of a people-pleaser is.”
“A people-displeaser?” I supplied.
“You have no idea how exhausting it is worrying about everyone else all the time, feeling responsible for them, wanting them to be happy and like you.”
She was right. I had no idea what it was like. “Then stop caring.”
“Of course you would say that,” she said, sounding disgruntled. She took the hand towel, wiped down her toothbrush, and then the counter. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is that easy,” I argued. “Don’t like something? Stop doing it.”
“The life philosophy of Knox Morgan, ladies and gentlemen,” she said with an eye-roll.
“Bed,” I ordered. “It’s too late for philosophy.”