The door swung open.
Blair stood in the frame with her hair dry now and her blouse steaming faintly at the shoulders, the fabric no longer transparent but still wrinkled from her improvised heat treatment. Her ice-blue eyes swept the room in one motion, caught on the pile of wet clothes by my feet, tracked up to Naomi's bare back, and then locked onto my face with an expression that could have flash-frozen the ocean outside.
"Monroe," Blair said. Her voice came out flat and cold and very, very controlled. "I need my scarf."
Naomi didn't move. She kept her arms wrapped around my head, her bare chest pressed against my face, and her hips settled warm and heavy in my lap. The only concession she made to Blair's presence was turning her head just enough to look over her shoulder, and even that motion was unhurried.
"Knock next time," Naomi said.
