I saw the dining room again, running my hand over the antique chairs at the large table that sat beneath a crystal chandelier my mother would’ve loved, but I found pretentious. The living room was inviting, with its hardwood floors and blessedly modern furniture, two overstuffed sofas and two leather chairs the color of whiskey. Two bedrooms on the bottom floor were used for storage, and a large laundry room flanked the kitchen. From photos of this supposed wedding to the familiar decor, there were touches of me everywhere, and it was completely unnerving. I was a Lifetime movie gone very, very wrong. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep, I’d rise in the morning and be back in my very own bed, in my very own world.
“This is the master bedroom.” Holden’s voice echoed in the upstairs hallway, where framed pictures of his family hung in alignment. These people looked happy, content. Like they didn’t wake up in someone else’s life during the holiday season.
Stepping inside the large room, I found a king-sized bed covered in a fluffy, white duvet. A chunky gray throw rested at the foot of the bed, coordinating with an ensemble of pillows on the opposite end.
It looked exactly like my bedding at home.
“I’m not a fan of all the pillows,” Holden said from behind me, “but I’ve learned it’s a losing battle.”
“They anchor the room in color and—”
“Add texture. Yeah, so you’ve said. Over there we have your closet, not to be confused with mine next to it, which is the size of a steamer trunk.”
I caught the amusement in his voice and opened my closet door. A small gasp escaped my lips as I stepped inside and saw the clothes hanging there were identical to the ones in my own closet at my house. There was the soft cardigan I’d bought two weeks ago on sale in a boutique, the smart navy blazer that tucked at the waist with the large gold buttons I couldn’t resist. I ran my hand over the collection of white silk camisoles that were practically part of my uniform at the museum. “All my clothes are here.”
“Yeah, makes it handy to get dressed in the morning since you live here.”
When would I wake up from this? “Where are my work boots? My jeans for the farm?”
“You’re not really into the farm.”
“And that’s okay with you?”
“I guess your being happy is okay with me.”
Leaving Holden trailing behind me, I moved on to the bathroom, a well-lit room that he must’ve totally gutted. White granite countertops, pale gray marbled tiles beneath my feet, an ivory clawfoot tub on the far wall. There were double sinks that held down each end of the gleaming vanity, and I got an instant vision of the two of us standing there in the mornings getting ready for work, him shaving his face, while I applied makeup. How odd and intimate that would be to look at Holden in the mirror every day.
Not that his appearance was any hardship on the eyes. It wasn’t in college, and his features had only gotten better with time. His hair, still the color of dark maple syrup, no longer cropped short, but longer and flirting with the edges of his collar. His skin was tan, no doubt from all his work outside, and those eyes so dark brown they could be black, still quietly assessing and missing nothing.
On the counter, a tube of lipstick rested at an angle next to a powder compact. A bottle of Joie de Vivre, the perfume I’d worn when not around Zachary, sat next to a soap dispenser as if I didn’t have time to put it away. Opening the cabinet drawers below, I found more things that belonged to me. Lotions, moisturizers, hairspray.
This was insane.
“Anything nudging your memory?” Holden asked behind me. His presence filled the bathroom and crowded the space to the point I wanted to slip by him and scurry out.
“No nudge yet.” There was nothing wrong with my memory.
We finished the tour of the house. I saw two more unfinished bedrooms, an office we apparently shared, a sitting room that did not invite sitting, and a back porch decorated with newer wicker furniture and an old metal glider the color of a lime.
At eleven p.m., I waved the white flag and surrendered. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.” I’d been dumped, my future plans had been dipped in lighter fluid and torched, then Mrs. Claus waved her invisible magic wand and played the world’s cruelest joke. It took it out of a girl. “I’m going up to bed.”
Holden moved to kiss me, but my hands slapped out in self-defense. “Sorry.” His face reddened as he took a step in retreat. “Um, right. Okay. Good night.”
Yeah, he was sorry. Do not touch the fake wife.
Making myself at home upstairs, I took a quick bath, soaking my tired muscles. On a whim, I dunked my entire body beneath the warm water, hoping when I broke the surface again, I would have miraculously returned to my version of home.
But when I came up all I’d gained was water up my nose and hair that would need to be dried.
Brushing my teeth (I made the low-risk assumption the pink toothbrush was mine), I inspected the bruise on my forehead and felt the sore bump at the back of my skull. I really did take a tumble. What if I reinjured myself? Would I wake up back in my old life? With a gargle and a sigh, I decided tomorrow was another day—to attempt another head trauma.
Now. Where would pajamas be? I hoped this version of me believed in them.
Wearing nothing but a towel clutched to me like a second-skin, I tiptoed across the bedroom and approached a large chest-of-drawers. The top left drawer contained men’s socks, neatly folded into pairs and sandwiched together tightly. I flung open the drawer beneath that, only to be offered a collection of underwear—Holden’s. With a quick peek over my shoulder, I allowed myself a brief interlude to inspect his unmentionables.
Mr. Holden was a boxer man it seemed. And judging by the high number of pairs that involved animated patterns, he must possess a bit of quirk. There was a pair dotted with trout, one that revealed a love of dogs, one with the NPR logo, and my personal favorite, the boxers emblazoned with the face of Rocky Balboa that said, “The ultimate boxer.” Classy.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Oh!” I jumped at the voice, giving the Rocky underpants a reflexive toss. I watched in horror as they sailed across the room in a perfect arc…and landed at Holden’s bare feet.
“If you wanted to borrow my clothes, all you had to do was ask.” He bent at the waist and retrieved the cotton missile, his lips twisted in a suppressed smile.
“I…um…” Now my own faced was fully engulfed, my cheeks a five-alarm blaze. “I was trying to find my pajamas.”
His capable hands folded the boxers as he approached, his eyes roaming my barely covered form. “Try the middle drawer on the far right. You prefer the lacy stuff.”
I clutched the towel tighter. “Pretty sure I do not.”
He shrugged and returned Rocky Balboa to his rightful home. “Worth a try.”
I opened the correct drawer and was relieved to find my usual collection of soft cotton pajamas—cute tops with matching shorts, my preference. But next to them was a neatly folded stack of oversized T-shirts. I held one up, the length unfurling as I caught a hint of scent whispering from the fabric. I reflexively inhaled, closing my eyes at the comforting mix of fabric softener and…a fragrance that was not me. These were Holden’s shirts. Did I sleep in these? My fingers slid across an old one from the University of Northwest Arkansas, our undergrad alma mater. It was decadently soft against my skin.