I threw the covers back and stormed down the stairs, brushing past Gran in my fury. I charged into the kitchen, fully expecting to light into Nate about barging into my house—okay, well, not technically my house, but still—but when I saw him I slid to a halt, briefly wondering if I’d wandered into a parallel dimension.

            Nate had discarded his omnipresent suit jacket and fedora in exchange for one of Gran’s pink frilly aprons with a creepily cheery gingerbread man embroidered on the front. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing muscled forearms and intricately drawn tribal-style tattoos that were completely out of sorts with the girly cooking attire.

            When he heard me come in, he turned away from where he was scrambling eggs with peppers and onions and offered me a wide smile. “Good morning, sunshine,” he called over his shoulder.

            I intended to stun him with a witty comeback that started with Piss and ended with Off, but before I got the chance, he added, “Breakfast will be ready in a sec. I hope you like your eggs loaded. I didn’t figure you for a cinnamon roll kind of girl, but Gran insisted I whip some up when she heard my recipe.”

            I blinked at him, now certain about my alternate reality theory. “What the hell are you doing here?”

            Nate added some shredded cheese to his concoction and gently folded the eggs a couple of times before responding, “Thought we’d get an early start.”

            I hopped up onto one of the stools nestled around the kitchen bar and gave him a wary look. “Start on what exactly?”

            “I figured we’d drop in on Wolf,” he said. “Get it out of the way.”

I felt my stomach flop ominously. Probably just the hangover. “He’s nocturnal,” I muttered. “Maybe we should wait until later in the day.”

“Or we can catch him unawares so he doesn’t run,” he rejoined.

I bristled a little at his tone. “Seth won’t run.”

Nate shrugged. “Because he has a history of sticking it out when things get rough?”

“Fine,” I snapped, having to admit he had a point. “But he’s not the guy.”

“So you keep saying. As soon as he’s cleared, we’ll move on to Caliban.”

Nate scooped the eggs onto a plate and arranged a few slices of crisp bacon, perfectly toasted sourdough, and a sprig of parsley around them before setting the lot in front of me.

            I stared down at the beautifully arranged food before me and wondered if I should eat it or take a picture of it. My stomach grumbled in spite of its queasiness, which really left only one option. I shoveled a bite of eggs into my mouth and had to stop myself from moaning with delight as Nate set out a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

            “So what do you think?” he asked, studying me in that über-intense way of his.

            “I think Caliban can be an arrogant, foul-tempered asshole,” I mumbled around my eggs, “but I don’t think he’s your perp either.”

            Nate laughed. “Not what I meant. The breakfast—do you like it?”

            I swallowed, lifting my face from the trough—uh, plate—and meeting his gaze. “Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”

            He gave me a wink and went back to the stove, gathering up the frying pans and utensils and loading them into the dishwasher. Bemused by the decidedly surreal experience, I continued eating and was just polishing off the last of the most delicious cinnamon roll I’d ever consumed when Gran came bustling in.

            “Well, I’m off!” she cried cheerily, her cheeks aglow with excitement. “Wish me luck, my darlings!”

            Darlings? Plural?

            Nate hastily dried his hands on the edge of his apron and shook Gran’s hand warmly. “Best of luck, Tilly—”

            Tilly?

            “—I’m sure your interview will go swell.”

            Swell?

            Gran tittered like a schoolgirl, blushing at Nate’s encouragement, then good-naturedly batted at his shoulder. “Oh, Detective, if all my audience was as kind as you, I would never worry about ratings!”

Dear God, it was a morning person conspiracy.