Thorne.”
“Oh. I look forward to meeting him.”
She crossed her arms. “You won’t see him. You’re going to lock this door from the inside. I’ve laid out his clothes on his bed, so he has no reason to come in here. Do not make a peep, and do not let him know you’re in here.” She gave me a meaningful look. What exactly she meant, I had no idea, but surely it was meaningful. And serious. “Do you understand?”
“Don’t come out of the closet,” I said, nodding. “Got it.”
“Not even if there’s a fire,” she said.
“We may have to charge extra if there’s a fire,” I joked.
She pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “If you can get this entire closet organized today, and then two more jobs done over the next two days, there’s a bonus in it for you. Cash, no report to your employer. But on one condition. You must complete the job without being seen, heard, or smelled, by Mr. Thorne.”
“Smelled?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “He has keen senses.”
I bit my lower lip. That was a lot of money. Professional organizing paid well, when you could get the work. Truth was, I stuck to vintage furniture in my condo because it looked great and I knew a few places I could get great deals. I wasn’t exactly flush with cash, especially not after investing in so much wardrobe. The month and the money usually ran out at the same time. With that much cash, I could have a safety net. I could even set up my own business and quit being pimped out by Suzanne, as much fun as she was.
“I aim to satisfy,” I said.
Her eyes twinkled. “I bet you do. Let’s be sure none of it happens with Mr. Thorne. Only with his wardrobe.”
A door opened and closed nearby. Grace cocked her head.
I whispered, “Is that him?”
A man’s voice floated out like a bass string on a cello. He said, “Grace, I don’t think it’s turtleneck weather.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, then grabbed a summer sweater from nearby. I whispered, “Silly Grace, it’s not turtleneck weather for another month.”
She snatched the green sweater from my hands and backed away. “Not a peep, remember?” She deftly twisted the handle of the door to lock it from the inside and pulled it shut.
Alone in the room, I had a good look around. The clothes were not unusual—the typical well-made but low-key wardrobes you see on business leaders and movie stars. By comparison, my gray tweed suit, which wasn’t cheap, looked like a dust rag.
Where was Mr. Thorne? I’d lost all sense of direction after being led through the long hallway, and the room had no windows for reference.
Mr. Thorne. What a hot name. I didn’t see any clothes that might belong to a Mrs. Thorne.
The room had three doors, and he had to be on the other side of one of them, getting dressed, fresh from a hot shower.
I listened at the door Grace had left through, but heard nothing.
I started working, mentally mapping out where I’d put the ties and socks, when my thoughts were interrupted by the low murmur of a man, singing. Singing?
My Bitch Boots were too noisy on the hardwood floor. They’d be a dead giveaway if he was nearby, so I zipped them off and ran barefoot to one of the other doors, listening for the man’s voice. He wasn’t behind door number two, but he wasn’t far away, behind door number three. On the other side of the wall.
I put my ear to the door and breathed deeply as he hummed the wordless melody of a familiar song.
One of my hands moved down to the hem of my skirt and stroked the inside of my thigh. I shivered. That touch felt good, the cool hand on my thigh. Not as good as a man’s hand, but nice.
He kept singing, louder now, with that deep voice. Was it opera? There were words, but they sounded Italian, not English.
Both hands darted between my legs, rubbing and pinching the sensitive skin. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him. If he was the man all these suits belonged to, that meant he was tall, with broad
“Oh. I look forward to meeting him.”
She crossed her arms. “You won’t see him. You’re going to lock this door from the inside. I’ve laid out his clothes on his bed, so he has no reason to come in here. Do not make a peep, and do not let him know you’re in here.” She gave me a meaningful look. What exactly she meant, I had no idea, but surely it was meaningful. And serious. “Do you understand?”
“Don’t come out of the closet,” I said, nodding. “Got it.”
“Not even if there’s a fire,” she said.
“We may have to charge extra if there’s a fire,” I joked.
She pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “If you can get this entire closet organized today, and then two more jobs done over the next two days, there’s a bonus in it for you. Cash, no report to your employer. But on one condition. You must complete the job without being seen, heard, or smelled, by Mr. Thorne.”
“Smelled?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “He has keen senses.”
I bit my lower lip. That was a lot of money. Professional organizing paid well, when you could get the work. Truth was, I stuck to vintage furniture in my condo because it looked great and I knew a few places I could get great deals. I wasn’t exactly flush with cash, especially not after investing in so much wardrobe. The month and the money usually ran out at the same time. With that much cash, I could have a safety net. I could even set up my own business and quit being pimped out by Suzanne, as much fun as she was.
“I aim to satisfy,” I said.
Her eyes twinkled. “I bet you do. Let’s be sure none of it happens with Mr. Thorne. Only with his wardrobe.”
A door opened and closed nearby. Grace cocked her head.
I whispered, “Is that him?”
A man’s voice floated out like a bass string on a cello. He said, “Grace, I don’t think it’s turtleneck weather.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, then grabbed a summer sweater from nearby. I whispered, “Silly Grace, it’s not turtleneck weather for another month.”
She snatched the green sweater from my hands and backed away. “Not a peep, remember?” She deftly twisted the handle of the door to lock it from the inside and pulled it shut.
Alone in the room, I had a good look around. The clothes were not unusual—the typical well-made but low-key wardrobes you see on business leaders and movie stars. By comparison, my gray tweed suit, which wasn’t cheap, looked like a dust rag.
Where was Mr. Thorne? I’d lost all sense of direction after being led through the long hallway, and the room had no windows for reference.
Mr. Thorne. What a hot name. I didn’t see any clothes that might belong to a Mrs. Thorne.
The room had three doors, and he had to be on the other side of one of them, getting dressed, fresh from a hot shower.
I listened at the door Grace had left through, but heard nothing.
I started working, mentally mapping out where I’d put the ties and socks, when my thoughts were interrupted by the low murmur of a man, singing. Singing?
My Bitch Boots were too noisy on the hardwood floor. They’d be a dead giveaway if he was nearby, so I zipped them off and ran barefoot to one of the other doors, listening for the man’s voice. He wasn’t behind door number two, but he wasn’t far away, behind door number three. On the other side of the wall.
I put my ear to the door and breathed deeply as he hummed the wordless melody of a familiar song.
One of my hands moved down to the hem of my skirt and stroked the inside of my thigh. I shivered. That touch felt good, the cool hand on my thigh. Not as good as a man’s hand, but nice.
He kept singing, louder now, with that deep voice. Was it opera? There were words, but they sounded Italian, not English.
Both hands darted between my legs, rubbing and pinching the sensitive skin. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him. If he was the man all these suits belonged to, that meant he was tall, with broad
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