Dorian paused with the pan in his hand. Naomi continued toward the kitchen without properly looking at him.
"You know you don’t live here anymore, right? Does your husband even know you are here?"
Dorian slowly turned. Apron around his waist. Spatula in one hand. Pan in the other. "Good morning..."
Naomi stopped. The sound of his voice wiped every trace of sleep from her brain. Her eyes flew open. "Oh my God."
Dorian Heathcliffe.
In her kitchen. At seven in the morning.
Making pancakes?
Her first reaction should probably have been fear, maybe outrage. Possibly a reasonable question about how the hell he had gotten into her apartment.
Instead, Naomi’s fingers flew straight to her hair. Oh dear God. She could feel it without even seeing it.
There were lumps. There were tangles. The left side was pointing toward heaven. With the kind of night she had endured, she was fairly certain she looked like a bird had nested on her head.
Dorian’s eyes moved over her. Naomi’s soul left her body.
No.
No, no, no.
The state of her bed alone should have warned her. She had tossed and turned half the night, alternating between Richard’s threats, the stupid news article and one infuriatingly handsome lawyer.
She had woken up diagonally across the mattress with one pillow on the floor and her blanket wrapped around one leg.
That was all the evidence necessary to conclude she currently looked like she had escaped from the wild.
There was also at least a thirty-five percent chance she had drool on her face. She wiped the corner of her mouth discreetly.
Then Naomi made the catastrophic mistake of looking down at herself. Her heart stopped.
Granny panties.
Above them was the tiny strapped sleep top she had thrown on the night before, loose against her body and barely decent enough for unexpected billionaire visitation.
Dorian’s gaze followed hers. His eyes dropped to her thighs. Her nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric.
Naomi’s cheeks caught fire.
Nope.
She spun around quickly doing a complete one-eighty.
"Naomi?"
"One second!" She practically ran back into her bedroom.
Dorian returned his attention to the pancakes. He had seen Naomi naked. Her bare legs should not have interested him.
And yet...
Inside the bedroom, Naomi stood with her back pressed against the door.
"What the hell?"
What was Dorian Heathcliffe doing in her apartment? More importantly, why was Dorian Heathcliffe making pancakes?
And why did he look like that while doing it? Naomi rushed to the mirror. She gasped.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Her hair looked like it had survived a natural disaster.
There was a faint pillow crease across one cheek. Thankfully, no visible drool. She grabbed the first decent clothes she could find, rushed into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, washed her face and attempted to tame her hair.
Then she stopped. Why was she trying this hard? This was her house. He had invaded it. She should be furious.
She should walk out there exactly as she was and demand an explanation. Naomi looked at herself again.
Absolutely not.
Dignity had limits. Fifteen minutes later, Naomi emerged again. She looked better. Dorian, naturally, looked perfect.
His jacket was draped casually over the back of her sofa. He had rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up his forearms.
This was stupid. An apron should not be sexy. He was serving breakfast when she came back out. Pancakes stacked neatly on plates.
Fresh strawberries beside them.
Coffee.
Now that she looked like a human being again, Naomi finally asked the question she should have asked the second she found Dorian Heathcliffe standing in her kitchen.
"What are you doing here?"
Dorian didn’t even look guilty. He turned from the counter. "Making breakfast for my wife."
"Uhn..."
That was all her brain could produce. She pulled out a chair and sat down slowly.
"I need coffee for this conversation."
"There you go." Dorian slid a mug toward her. "A dash of milk, a little sugar, and enough coffee to wake the dead."
Naomi frowned. She looked at the cup. "How did you... I..." She blinked. "What?"
"Go on. Try it."
The fact that he looked this comfortable in her kitchen was deeply offensive. Still, coffee was coffee.
Naomi lifted the mug carefully and took a sip. Her eyes narrowed.
Damn.
It was exactly right. She took another sip just to make sure.
"Adequate. How did you know?"
"Adrian told me."
"Ah." She nodded slowly. "The voice on the phone."
"Yes. That one."
Naomi took another sip.
Then froze.
Wait.
She lowered the mug. "What exactly did Adrian tell you?"
Dorian picked up his own coffee. "I had him look into you. And his report was that detailed." He pointed toward her mug.
"You investigated my coffee?"
"I investigated you."
"You had someone investigate me?"
"Yes."
"Like... investigate investigate?"
"Is there another kind?" Dorian glanced around her kitchen. "You do need some groceries."
"Stop!"
He looked at her. Naomi put the mug down.
"What... what’s this?" She gestured around wildly. "This! You are in my apartment. You apparently know the contents of my refrigerator."
"There wasn’t much content to know."
Naomi’s eyes flashed. "Why are you playing house with me?"
Dorian leaned one hip against the counter. "Because, my dearest wife, we are going to stay married."
"You are fucking with me."
"We could throw that in too if you want." Dorian said it so casually that Naomi nearly inhaled her own tongue.
He slid a plate of pancakes toward her.
"I don’t want to stay married!"
Dorian folded his arms. "Why?"
"You cannot just decide that."
"I just did."
"That isn’t how marriage works."
"Considering neither of us remembers getting married, I think we have already established that our marriage does not operate conventionally."
"I need a divorce."
Dorian picked up his fork. Naomi watched him calmly cut into a pancake. Her frustration rose.
"I’m serious."
"So am I."
"You don’t even know me!"
"That can be corrected."