This was never going to work, not even for two weeks.
Michael was long gone when Mia woke up, but she could still smell him. Crisp laundered shirts and aftershave. Mesmerized, she stood in his huge closet and stared—no, gawked—no, more like marveled. It was the physical embodiment of how this guy’s mind worked. Everything was in its perfect place. Ties, suits, shirts, even his shoes were in color order. As she turned a full circle, she noticed that his business clothes way outnumbered his casual. It was as if he had no life outside of work at all. Not a single pair of blue jeans. The only casual shoes other than boat shoes and loafers were some serious looking running shoes.
She pulled her bathrobe tighter and shuffled barefooted into the bathroom. One by one, she opened his cabinets. She should have felt bad snooping, but she didn’t. He’d told her to make herself at home, and she was living there, after all. Again, everything was perfectly organized by type and then by size. Nothing unusual. Expensive cologne. Expensive nail tools… expensive everything.
His medicine cabinet was empty with the exception of multi-vitamins, one of those pencil things guys use when they cut themselves shaving, and a tiny tube of acne cream. A laugh more like a bark escaped her. Like a pimple would dare pop up on his perfect face.
The bedroom, though, was no laughing matter. Looking through his bathroom cabinets didn’t feel like snooping, but merely standing in his bedroom did.
Michael Anderson had the holy grail of bachelor beds. A huge, super-sleek thing that looked like it was floating above the floor. Her heart kicked up a beat as she moved further into the room. The black satin sheets lay twisted and heaped to one side, which surprised her. She figured his bed would be perfectly tidy, just like the rest of his life. She ran her fingers over the smooth, cool satin. Maybe his need for order didn’t extend to his bedroom. Perhaps this was the one place he could relax a little.
She eyed his nightstand and her fingers itched to open the drawers. No. That was too far. Too personal. Even with no impulse control to speak of, Mia had to draw a line somewhere. Rifling through a man’s bedroom was too much even for her and her kill-the-cat curiosity. Closing the door behind her, she returned to the living room to get to work on the last of her Life in the Sun series.
Dammit! She’d forgotten her tarps she’d thrown in the storage closet next door and had no way to get them. She’d locked the keys inside Ms. Braxton’s apartment as instructed.
Oh, well. Improvisation was what she did best. Surely she could find something that would work around there. She only needed to finish this one canvas. No biggy.
…
Michael opened the door and then shut it immediately without entering. The dog whimpered and stared up at him.
Surely he’d imagined it. There was no way that woman had covered his floor in garbage bags and flung paint around. No fucking way.
After composing himself, he opened the door and entered, keeping the dog leashed so it wouldn’t walk through the mess and leave Technicolor paw prints on his polished marble and bamboo. Fortunately, there was no sign of his…guest anywhere. He was glad, because although she teased him for having no emotions, he was certainly experiencing a full range at that moment.
The entire space by his television was draped in black garbage bags duct taped together. And leaning against a similarly trash-bag draped Corbusier chair was a huge canvas splattered in vibrant colors. Were it not for the fact it was still wet and in his living room, he might have appreciated the surprising composition and evocative color choice—but it was, so he didn’t.
“Mia?” His voice was so controlled, it was hardly audible. He tended to get quiet when angered, rather than raise his voice. Shouting gave the other party an advantage, in that it was a window into one’s state of mind.
No answer. He couldn’t let the dog loose in there and he’d be damned if he was going to leave his own home because of a one-woman paintball war. “Mia?” he said again as he wandered to the kitchen. A box containing a pizza with a couple of pieces missing sat open on the counter, crumbs scattered nearby. Well, she’d certainly taken him at his word and made herself at home. At least she’d followed his orders and had not cooked. After clearing out some paint brushes she’d left in his designated key bowl on the kitchen counter, he placed his keys, wallet, and phone in their proper spot.