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.
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?
It took her a moment to realize what had set Callan off. It was the coffeemaker, which she’d set last night before she’d gone to bed, but apparently she’d forgotten to put the coffee in as the machine was beeping incessantly, the sound shrill in the quiet apartment.
Thank goodness her neighbors were already at work, otherwise, they’d be complaining about the noise.
Mr. Brown, who lived downstairs, liked to pound on the ceiling when she was being loud.
The grouchy middle-aged guy also loved to type up long letters detailing the noise coming from her apartment and tack it to her door, along with whatever other complaints he leveled at her.
He worked from home, some kind of tech job, but luckily he wasn’t home today.
Careful not to startle him, she put a hand on his arm, muscles tensing under her touch. “It’s okay. It’s just the coffeemaker.”
With a shake of his head, he reached out, then snatched his hand back as if burned when the coffee maker let out another piercing beep.
It wasn’t funny. The guy obviously had some kind of issues around coffee makers or beeping noises, but before she could stop it, a giggle burst from her lips.
The sight of him, wearing a pair of Shawn’s sweatpants and no shirt, sent her over the edge. The navy sweatpants were more like capri leggings, hugging every inch of him, and there were a lot of inches.
Daisy took another minute or two to drink in the sight. He had a six-pack on top of a six-pack, his hair was loose around his shoulders, he was tall, and looked like a statue of an ancient warrior carved from marble and come to life.
This huge warrior, because it was really the only word that fit him, was afraid of a coffeemaker. Before he decided to toss the offending machine across the room, she stepped over and quickly pressed a button. Silence filled the room.
The quiet finally broke through to him. Callan whirled around to face her, his face drawn and pale.
“What manner of witchcraft is this?” he demanded, gesturing at the coffeemaker. “It shrieked at me when I touched it.”
Another giggle escaped. “No witchcraft, though I wish it was magic, then I wouldn’t have to remember to fill it with water.”
She filled the machine, pressed a button and the scent of delicious, life-giving coffee filled the air.
“Sorry about the noise.”
He was still eyeing the machine as he ran a hand through his hair, his posture relaxing slightly.
“Aye, ’tis an odd world you live in, lass. I fear I may never grow accustomed to it.”
Then, like Frankie when catching a delicious scent, Callan tipped his head up, sniffing. “It smells good.”
On that, they could agree. “The only way to start the day.” She patted his arm.
Seeming to realize he was bare-chested, he strode over to the sofa, grabbed Shawn’s old heather gray tee and pulled it over his head.
“That’s—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. The tee looked like a painted on crop top. “That is not going to work.” At least this time, she didn’t burst out laughing.
The coffee ready, she poured them both a mug, hers in a mug that proclaimed one cup to rule them all, while Callan’s cup had a duck on the front and said, no one knows what the duck they’re doing.
Reaching for her phone, she absently tapped the screen, intending to check the weather. Instead, music blared from the wireless speakers she had set up in the kitchen and living area, filling the space with a Fleetwood Mac song.
The sudden noise startled Callan, who had just taken a sip of his coffee. He jumped, the mug slipping from his grasp and shattering on the floor. Frankie, who had finally settled down, started barking again, adding to the cacophony.
“Sorry!” Daisy yelped, quickly turning off the music. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Callan stared at the phone in her hand, his eyes wide. “How did you conjure singing from that tiny box?”
“The phone? It has a music app which sends the music to the speakers.”
She gestured around the room, a pit in her stomach.
The guy wasn’t acting, he was seriously confused.
So if he wasn’t acting, had he hit his head while practicing at the Faire and now he thought he was a medieval highlander?
Could the Faire be the cause of all those scars?
No way, they used blunted swords. So what was going on?
And if he hadn’t hit his head, what other explanation could there be for the outrageous claims?
“Remember, we talked about phones last night?”
She decided to treat him like Mr. Havers. He had dementia and asked her the same questions over and over when she sat with him on days his son had to be in the office instead of working at home. Not the tech bro jerk, but a nice guy who was polite and liked girls who wore glasses.
For a couple of months Daisy thought about getting a pair with clear lenses, but given her track record, when things ended badly, which they always did, she’d still have to see him in the building, and there was no way she was giving up her fabulous studio apartment.
“It allows me to make calls, to talk to people anywhere, at any time. The phone plays music and movies, it does all kinds of things. A phone really has become indispensable in this day and age.”
With a nod, he eyed the phone, then bent to pick up the largest pieces of the broken mug.
“Forgive me, lass. I dinna know why I acted like a scared lad.”
Dressed in a pair of pale pink shorts and a tee that she’d slept in, Daisy grabbed a towel from a basket on the floor and mopped up the coffee.
Callan knelt to help her, carefully picking up the rest of the pieces.
“I am verra sorry about the mess, lass.”
Daisy waved off his apology. “Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.”
She tossed the towel in the sink and turned on the faucet to rinse it out.
“I never cared for that mug, anyway.”
The volley of questions about music, phones, and how electricity and water worked made her mumble under her breath, “It’s too early in the morning for so many questions.”
With a fresh towel on the counter, Daisy made a note to do laundry.
It wasn’t like she had an excuse. After all, she had the luxury of a stackable washer and dryer in a tiny closet in the hallway.
No, it was just always an afterthought to do laundry, meaning that she usually only got around to it when she was down to her last bra.
Not that she really needed to wear one, being a member of the small boob society and all, but running out of them was the sign to run a load of laundry.
Turning off the water, she moved to the fridge and pulled out a half full carton of eggs. “How about some breakfast? Do you like eggs?”
At Callan’s nod, she grabbed a pan and set it on the stove, along with a generous tablespoon of butter. Callan watched, fascinated, as she cracked the eggs into the pan.
“There’s no fire,” he murmured, leaning in to inspect the stove.
“I don’t know how the stove works, only that it does, and that’s good enough for me,” she said, forestalling any more questions.
There wasn’t any bacon, but there was bread, so she popped two slices in the toaster oven, then set the table while Callan stared at the eggs and toast cooking, mumbling to himself.
By the time they’d finished breakfast and had another cup of coffee, Daisy was ready to face the day. She let Callan shower first, promising to find him something more suitable to wear.
Daisy rummaged through her closet, eyes landing on a pair of grey sweatpants and a white tee shirt, remnants from a pro hockey player she’d dated for a while.
For being accused of being smothering, the guys she dated typically left behind clothes or other stuff.
Usually she shoved it in the closet and forgot about it until about once a year she undertook a major deep cleaning and donated everything left behind.
“Callan?” she called out. “I’m putting a stack of clothes for you to wear outside the door. These should work until we go shopping today.”
The tiny studio apartment looked more cluttered than ever, between the clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, and Callan taking up so much space. While he was in the shower, she decided to see how much she could accomplish in the next fifteen minutes or so.
Had she done the right thing by giving him a razor? The way he’d looked at the pink blade made her pause, but he said he liked to be clean-shaven and the guy had a serious case of five o’clock shadow.
By the time he finished, she’d washed Frankie’s bowls, finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher, wiped down the counters, and started a load of laundry.
The clean clothes piled on her now made bed, she’d gathered up all the ghosts of boyfriends past and tossed them into two large trash bags to drop off at a donation place on the way to the store.
There wasn’t anything else that would fit him, so they’d have to go shopping today.
Then maybe he’d tell her what was really going on.
Daisy only hoped he wasn’t an escaped convict or something far worse.
Callan watched her move a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer and before he could ask, she explained as best she could how the appliances worked.
“Ye live in a marvelous time.” He ran his hands up and down the tee and sweats, missing her frown.
What did he mean? It was almost like … no, she shook her head, not going there.
“The cloth is so fine and soft.”
“It’s cotton.”
She turned on the dryer, put another load in the washer, and turned.
“Ow.” She rubbed her nose. He was standing so close she’d slammed into him. It was like running into a wall.
He caught her and set her on her feet. “Apologies, lass.”
A frown crossed his face. “What became of your man? The one who left his clothes here?”
At his tone, she stiffened, then opened the linen closet to grab two towels and a washcloth to hide her discomfort. “It didn’t work out. We wanted different things.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat, but refrained from saying anything else.
“What of my plaid?”
Daisy wrinkled her nose. “That needs to be cleaned before you can wear it again. It’s covered in grime and it smells like something died in it.”
“Will ye put it in the wash?”
“No. It feels like wool, so I think we need to take it to a dry cleaner. We’ll drop it off today.”
He nodded. “As ye say, lass.”
Unwilling to touch the stinky kilt, she pointed to the kitchen.
“There are bags in the cabinet under the sink. Put it in a bag and we’ll take it with us.”
She stopped at the bathroom door. “I’m going to shower and then we’ll be on our way. Try not to break anything.”
But she said it with a smile and he grinned at her.
“Nay, I canna promise ye that, lass.”