“You don’t even know what time it is, do you?”

Warner scratched the back of his neck and then pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He winced. “Eww, sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late.” He tapped his finger on the screen of his phone and scrolled through the list of missed calls. “I didn’t even know you called me.”

“Obviously.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “You need a shower.”

He looked down at himself. “God, I am a slob. But my apartment is clean.” A line crept between his brows. “But all my clothes are dirty and in the back of my truck. I forgot to go to the Laundromat.”

Clara covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. This certainly was going to take some getting used to. The creative mind, she’d learned, was very disorganized.

“You have your laundry with you?”

He nodded.

“Go get it. I have a washer and dryer.”

“Right. Thanks.” He propped the guitar up against the couch, set his phone on the table, and fished his keys from his pocket. A folded up piece of yellow paper came with the keys and he set it on the table. Obviously it had been what he’d written the song on.

Clara watched him as he hurried out to his truck.

Oh, they had pegged her—her brothers and Darcy. Warner Wright was just her type.

As Warner carried in his laundry Clara buzzed around the kitchen.

“That’s the last one. I’ll pay you back for the use of the washer.”

She set a plate down on the table with a sandwich on it. “Eat. I’ll bet you haven’t done that all day either.”

His stomach growled as if on cue. “You’re right. I cleaned my apartment and wrote. As productive as I was—I wasn’t very productive at all.”

“Sit. I’m going to start that laundry and you’re going to relax.”

Warner sat down and picked up the sandwich. Bologna? Did people in real houses really eat that? He’d never been one for the strange meat, but it was cheap enough for him.

He bit into the sandwich and began to feel the drain of the day settle into his muscles.

The noise from the other room of Clara loading the wash machine twisted guilt in his belly. But the realization of the moment kicked in. Never in his life had a woman taken care of him. Clara had known him a week and there she was making him sandwiches, listening to his songs, washing his clothes.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. His grandmother never even washed his clothes. That had been his job.

No woman had ever listened to his songs with that same spark in their eye either.

Clara hadn’t been mad that he hadn’t answered her. It was as if she understood that he’d completely lost track of time—of everything.

She walked around the wall from the laundry room with one of his shirts. “You’re not going to actually wear this shirt again are you?”

She held up a T-shirt he’d had since—well he wasn’t sure since when. “Of course.”

Clara shook her head. “I assume it used to be black. It is a green-gray color now and full of holes. I’m throwing this away.”

Warner bit into his sandwich again. And just like that, the woman of his dreams was throwing away his bachelorhood.

The bite of his bologna lodged in his throat with his thought. He coughed to clear the blockage.

She was taking over his life and his clothes. Already she’d taken over his mind which was leading to his heart.

As she walked away with the shirt wadded up in her hand, he cleared his throat. He’d officially tumbled in love with her. Damn—that was fast.

When Warner was finished with his sandwich he walked his plate to the sink. There were no other dishes in the sink. Clara’s bedroom, her most intimate space was cluttered with her individuality, but her home was tidy.

The dishwasher was running a load of dishes already. Now what?

He let out a chuckle. You wash the damn thing, he thought.

Warner opened the cupboard under the sink and took out the bottle of dish soap and a sponge. When the plate was clean, he held it over the sink and looked around for a towel. One hung from the handle of the oven. Sunday was stitched on it.

As he pulled it down and dried his dish he had to think hard. It wasn’t really Sunday was it? No…no he knew that for a fact.

Clara walked into the kitchen and stopped. She smiled easily and he liked that.

“Did you wash that plate? You could have just set it in the sink.”

“That didn’t seem right. I’ve been cleaning all day. Maybe I’m still in the cleaning mood.”

“If you say so.” She pulled out a chair from around the kitchen table and sat down. “I have a show tomorrow night.”

Warner tucked the towel back over the handle of the oven and looked at Clara for direction as where to put the plate. She pointed to a cupboard.

He had to admit there was a bit of alarm in his chest when he noticed a pink handled pistol sitting there.

Hoping he was discreet enough, he put the plate on the stack, closed the door quickly, and sat down across from Clara.

“Last four shows, right?”

“Yeah. Friday night. Matinee on Saturday. Saturday night and Sunday night.”

Warner nodded. “And the gig on Sunday.”

“I won’t be there.”

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I’m trying to still wrap my head around that.”

She leaned in over her arms which rested on the table. “I want you to come and see me. My family is coming tomorrow night. I’d like you to be there.”

Heat rose in his body. The feeling was uncomfortable enough, but when he hadn’t showered all day it wasn’t good either. “And when you say your whole family you don’t just mean your mom and dad.”

“You catch on quick.” She laughed and sat back in her chair. “In fact, I think Darcy’s dad is here from Florida with a lady friend and he’s coming too.”

“Of course, because the Keller family isn’t big enough.”

That made her laugh hard. “Right.”

Was this a test? Would he pass if he refused? What was he thinking? He didn’t want to refuse. He wanted to be there.

“I’d love to come. Where do I buy a ticket?”

Clara’s eyes softened and so did her body. “God you are cute.” She stood up and walked to him. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “One will be at the box office waiting for you.”