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his right, and another on his left, between him and the front door. The room on the left was a bathroom, he discovered as he passed it, while the first room on the right was a home office. The third room was filled with boxes and odd bits of furniture and miscellany that made him think whoever lived here had moved in fairly recently and hadn’t yet decided what the purpose of this room was to be.
    So where was the bedroom? he wondered.
    Turning around, he noticed a door at the other end of the hall that he’d overlooked before. Opening it, he saw stairs and understood there was more to the house than he’d initially realized. Although he’d noted a window above the wide front porch when he was outside, he’d thought it was for decoration or to offer some sparse illumination to the attic. As he climbed the stairs, twisted around a cramped landing, then climbed some more, he discovered that what was once an attic had been turned into a master bedroom. Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t so masterful, since, like the house, it was small and a little crowded, its ceiling low in the center and slanted on both sides. However, like the rest of the house, it made Cole feel comfortable and at ease.
    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