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Callie hugs her mug against her chest. “He bought me a mug.”

“I paid for the coffee.”

“And our mugs.”

“By accident.”

Beck stares at me.

I stare back. “Say whatever the fuck you're going to say.”

He looks around instead. His eyes move over the kitchen. Callie's purse is on the counter. Her laptop bag is beside the table where she moved it before we left. One of Alibi's toys is lying near the couch. Her shoes are by the door. The dog is still sitting on my foot.

Beck knows me. That's the problem.

He knows exactly what my places normally look like. Nothing personal. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing that can't be packed in minutes.

His gaze comes back to mine. “You know your house looks like someone lives here now.”

I glance around. “Someone does.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Callie and Beck both stare at me.

I realize what I just said. “Temporarily,” I hurriedly add.

Beck nods. “Right.”

“Fuck you.”

“I need to go change,” she says, then disappears upstairs.

Beck blinks at me. “She’s wearing jeans.”

“I think she means sweatpants. Or pajamas.”

His eyes are huge. “Lingerie.”

I punch him in the arm. “No, asshole. Those matching pajama shirts and pants. I think she calls them loungewear.”

His lips twitch again.

“Shut up, fucker.”

“You know the word loungewear.”

I give him the middle finger.

Beck looks toward the stairs, then back at me.

My eyes narrow. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Stop saying nothing when it's clearly fucking something.”

His expression loses some of its humor. “I've just never seen you like this.”

My shoulders stiffen. “Like what?”