Until he topped the final step and banged his head on the ceiling. Wow, it was even lower than he’d thought.
He blew out an exasperated breath as he hunched down enough to keep it from happening again. Another indication that the owner of the house was a woman. Or a jockey. Or a troll. Or all of the above. At six feet three, Cole knew he was taller than the average man. He’d always kind of liked the fact, had even taken advantage of his size from time to time to intimidate some unfortunate slob who tried to challenge him. It had never occurred to him that his size could be a detriment. But the ceiling in this room clearly wasn’t six-three. More like six-two. Which meant he was going to have to remember to duck every time he stood up here. Or else be beaten senseless by the end of his first week in residence. The house would probably enjoy that immensely.
Carefully crouching, he made his way to the bed and tossed his garment bag atop it, settling his carry-on beside that. As he unpacked, he took in his surroundings, noting how this room was darker than the rest of the house, due to its lack of windows, but how the owner had managed to brighten it up by painting it a sandy color and eschewing curtains on the one small window. The rugs, too, were lighter than in the rest of the house, wool dhurries with buff pastel geometrics. The bed was an antique white wrought-iron number of a size Cole had never seen before, not quite single, but not quite double, with a dresser and writing desk of mottled bird’s-eye maple.
He switched on a lamp to combat the dusky darkness, sending a rush of pale pink light into the room. Everything was tidy and well-maintained, right down to the computer on the desk that bore only one small Post-it note. Cole was impressed. His computer at home was covered with reminders to himself, and his desk was constantly obscured by dozens of documents and letters that needed attention.
It wasn’t until he opened his suitcase and began to unpack that he realized the note on the computer wasn’t the only one in the room. Moving toward the closet—and taking care not to straighten up as he did so—he saw one there, as well, on the right side of the set of double doors. In sturdy block letters that were in no way feminine, someone, presumably the owner, had written, “Left is traditionally the route of nonconformists. Right is the route of the traditional. Enjoy the right side of the closet.”
He grinned. So his hostess was a nonconformist, was she? Opening the right-hand door, he found the inside cleared for his belongings, including the shelf above the hangers and the floor below. The narrow space offered just enough room for the suits, shirts, and shoes he’d brought with him, and the shelf offered space for his carry-on. A perfect fit. It was nice when things worked out that way. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad little house after all.
He started to turn away from the closet, then, for some reason, opened the left-hand door, too. It wasn’t an invasion of privacy, he told himself. The door wasn’t locked, and there was no note saying he couldn’t. He was just curious to see what the clothing of a nonconformist looked like.
Vivid, he immediately saw. Literally every color of the rainbow, and then some, met his eyes as he scanned the interior of the closet, which was crowded to capacity, doubtless because his hostess had condensed two closets into one to make room for her guest. But where he had anticipated suits and business wear—since what else would anyone have in their closet?—what he found instead were garments that were gauzy, sparkly, and velvety, and in no way suitable for business attire. The floor below them was completely obscured by shoes—all of which, he noted right away, fell into three categories: functional, quirky, and comfortable. The shelf above was filled with hatboxes in a million colors and textures. The interior of the closet was such a stark contrast to the pale furnishings of the room, as if someone had exploded a color bomb inside it whose power they had greatly underestimated.
There was no telling what was in those boxes, Cole thought as he pushed the door closed again. What was strange was that he actually felt a twinge of curiosity about what their contents might be. What difference did that make? he asked himself. Who cared? The only thing he should be curious about at the moment was where he was going to stow his underwear.
As he clicked the closet door shut, his gaze lit on the dresser, and he was surprised to realize he was looking for another note. He smiled when he saw it, on the bottom right-hand drawer, and immediately went to see what it said.
“Right makes might,” it read in the same angular lettering as the one on the closet. Then, in parentheses below, “It also makes room.”
Pulling the drawer open, Cole found it empty—and perfectly sized for the rest of his belongings, including his underwear. Naturally, that made him think that at least one of the other drawers contained her underwear. But that, he thought, would be a violation of privacy. So he refrained from prying. Nevertheless, he felt another surprising flutter of curiosity about what her underwear might look like. Probably like the things in her closet, full of rich color and lush textures. He was already forming an impression of his hostess as something of a hedonist.
As he stood again—forgetting about the ceiling and bonking his head again—he noted a framed photograph on the dresser. Five women stood ankle-deep in water a fair distance from the camera, water that was
