The doorbell rang, sending Magnus skittering for a place to hide. Brick also felt the urge to hide. But he was a very large, very strong man, he reminded himself. Hiding from a tiny redhead was not an option. Besides, she always found him. On a sigh, he grabbed two boxes of the pasta, stuffed them into the bag, and went to answer the door.

“Hi,” Remi said.

The sun was hitting her from the back, making her long hair shimmer fire and gold. She was wearing another hat—a bright green knit he recognized from her high school days—purple leggings and a pair of stylish-looking boots with fur sticking out of the top. Clutching a travel mug in her mittened hands, she managed to look both tired and irresistible.

“Hi,” he said after a long moment.

She’d painted her lips today. A kind of deep pinky red. He should probably stop staring at her mouth. And he should definitely not picture those red lips wrapping around his—

“Can I come in or are you just going to stand there glaring at me?”

He hadn’t realized he was glaring. When had he lost control of his face? Oh, right. The second he’d heard her name yesterday morning.

“Come in,” he said woodenly and stepped back farther than necessary to let her pass.

She entered and took a deep breath, then sighed it out. “It smells different in here, but it looks the same.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did his house smell? Was it better or worse than how it smelled when his grandparents were alive?

Magnus dashed across the hall behind him.

“Was that a cat?” she asked.

“That’s Magnus. Pretend you didn’t see him. He thinks he’s invisible,” Brick said, finally finding his words.

Remi shrugged out of her parka, revealing a tight, white turtleneck that hugged full breasts. The woman was covered from neck to toes, and he was still uncomfortably turned on.

He would not get an erection talking to her, he decided. This was a test of his self-control. There was no reason why a casual conversation with a woman dressed for warmth should make his flag fly. He was a man. An adult. He could control his baser reactions, damn it.

She put her coffee down on the entryway table and then gripped his arm. He wasn’t expecting the contact and almost yanked it away until he realized she was using him for balance as she removed her boots. She was wearing fuzzy socks with red cherries on them. Socks were not erotic.

“So the room—” he began.

“Lead the way,” she said, looking up at him with a soft smile. Her hair fell away from her shoulder like a curtain, and his hand itched to stroke through it, fist in it. It distracted him from telling her he’d decided not to give her space in his house.

Socks and hair were not erotic, he reminded himself. Stay focused.

“Okay, I’ll lead the way,” she said, stepping around him when he made no move.