The sound behind her made her jump, spin around.

“Hey!” was all Ryder managed before reflex had her jerking the spray of water up from his crotch. She hit him square in the face.

“Oh God.” She shot the spray to the side, fumbled it off.

Slowly, very slowly, he pulled off his sunglasses. He stood, hair and clothes dripping, eyes steaming.

D.A. obligingly lapped at the pool of water on the pavers.

“What the fuck?”

“Shh!” Instinctively, she glanced up at the porch. “I have guests. A lot of female guests.”

“So you’re hosing down any male who comes on the property?”

“I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry. So sorry. You startled me, and I just . . .”

“You think it’s funny?” he demanded as a choked laugh snuck out of her throat.

“No. Yes. Yes, it’s funny, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. Really sorry,” she added, whipping the hose behind her back as he stepped forward. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a woman with a loaded hose.”

“I wasn’t sneaking anywhere. I was walking.” He shoved the dripping hair out of his face. “Let me see that hose.”

“Absolutely not. It was an accident. What you’d do with it would be deliberate. If you wait here I’ll get you a towel.”

“I don’t want a towel. I want some damn coffee, which was why I was walking—like a normal person—from the job site there, to the kitchen there.”

“I’ll get you coffee, and a towel.” Wary, she gave him a wide berth—turned off the hose at the source—then dashed inside.

She giggled, snickered, chuckled her way to the laundry room, grabbed a towel from the shelf, hurried back to the kitchen to pour coffee into a go-cup. Added the two sugars she knew he used, fit on the top.

She put a chocolate chip muffin in a napkin to sweeten the deal, and dug out a dog biscuit from her supply.

She dashed back through The Lobby, but paused to look out, make certain he wasn’t armed. She had a brother, knew how it worked.

Composed, with her features in contrite lines, she stepped out.

And tried not to notice the man looked damn good wet.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you said.” Still watching her, he took the towel, scrubbed it roughly over his dark, wet, unruly hair.

Because she wanted, badly, to laugh again, she pumped a little more contrite into her voice. “I brought you a muffin.”

He eyed it, the towel slung over his shoulder. “What kind of muffin?”

“Chocolate chip.”

“Okay.” He took it, and the coffee while she gave the dog his treat. “Is there a reason you’re watering that stuff, and me, at seven thirty in the morning?”