Underneath It All. Nancy Warren

trash can. Sure enough, when she picked it up she saw the size label had been neatly snipped off. He’d thought of everything. Maybe he was trying to say he was sorry? She rubbed the soft fabric against her cheek and then noticed the note in the box.

      Dear Occupant of Apartment B,

      This is what women of taste have always worn.

      D. Edgar (Occupant of Apartment A)

      Kate felt a sharp pang of hurt. Women of taste. How classy that sounded.

      Women of taste didn’t grow up in her neighborhood fighting with four other siblings for a few minutes in the bathroom in the morning. Women of taste had hours to bathe and scent themselves before stepping into their silk lingerie. Kate was probably the only one in her family who owned lingerie—even if it was only polyester.

      And what did Occupant A know about women of taste? Him with his too-bright shirts and horrendous hair? In the week since he’d moved in, the only company he’d had was that computer of his.

      Who did he think he was to insult her like this?

      Kate had an Irish temper to match her auburn hair and green eyes, and it blazed into life in a sudden rage. A veil of red shimmered before her gaze as she snatched up the camisole and marched up the outside stairs.

      She was banging on the door of Apartment A in no time, ready to explode. She could hardly stand still; phrases she would say to him bubbled madly in her boiling anger.

      The door opened.

      Before Occupant A could say a word, Kate threw the silk camisole in his face.

      It snagged on his glasses, hanging like a tassel on a life-size loser lamp.

      “Who the hell do you think you are?” she shouted.

      His eyes widened.

      “How dare you…” she spluttered, looking at the badly dressed, slouching, bespectacled figure in front of her.

      “How dare you—you suggest I don’t have taste. When I need tips on how to dress from a surfer boy comic strip I’ll ask you!”

      He opened his mouth to speak but she kept on shouting.

      “I happen to work in a beauty salon. It contains the word beauty, which is something you don’t know the first thing about. I have plenty of taste and not…not…computer chips for brains.”

      “I—”

      Kate drew a shuddering breath and raised her hand to shake her forefinger in his face. “Furthermore, I hate your attitude and your rude behavior and your stupid notes and I think you owe me an apology because—”

      “You’re right.” The words were quiet and calm.

      She’d expected a shouting match and the quiet words caught her off guard.

      Occupant A had taken off his glasses in order to unsnag the camisole, which seemed to be caught in the hinge. He looked down, fiddling.

      “What?” she shrieked.

      A pair of clear gray eyes met hers ruefully. “I said, ‘You’re right.’ I was out of line.” He sighed, his face wrinkling as though in pain. “I apologize.”

      All Kate could think was what a shame it was that such beautiful eyes were wasted on a jerk who covered them up with glasses and stared at a computer monitor all day.

      With a nod that sent her dangling earrings swinging, she said, “Well, okay. No more nasty notes.”

      “It was a stupid thing to do,” he agreed.

      His voice was a surprise. Deep and rich, with an upper-crust East Coast accent.

      Kate drew a long breath. She’d expected a battle. Adrenaline pumped through her body. She’d been ready to rant and rave and throw things.

      His unexpected apology took the wind out of her sails, leaving her stalled on his doorstep, with no anger to push her on. Her rages were always over as suddenly as they began, and in the calm aftermath she felt a little foolish. She backed up a couple of steps and, taking another shaky breath, suddenly smiled.

      “I’m sorry, too, if my temper led me to say anything I shouldn’t have.”

      When she smiled at him she noticed his eyes widen in shock and he shoved the now-freed glasses back on his face.

      She turned to leave.

      “Wait.”

      She glanced back.

      He was holding out the camisole. “Please keep this.”

      “Oh, I couldn’t. It’s much too expensive.” It occurred to her that this man didn’t know you could buy inexpensive camisoles at any department store, as she had. He must think you had to go to a lingerie store, or one of those fancy catalogs. “You could return it.”

      He straightened from his careless slouch and looked down at her. He was surprisingly tall when he stood upright, over six feet. “I’m not going to take it back. If you accept it I’ll know you’re not still mad at me.”

      Something in his voice, a trace of command, made her reach out to take the wisp of silk from him. “All right,” she agreed softly. “It’s beautiful. Thanks.”

      Feeling even more foolish, she turned once again to leave.

      “Maybe we should set up a schedule?”

      Puzzled, she turned back. “A schedule?”

      “For the laundry. If each of us has assigned laundry days, we won’t have a problem in future.”

      Kate thought of Annie and her in the laundry room together chatting, throwing their jeans and socks together to make up a load. It used to be so much fun. She sighed. “Sure.”

      “I’ll put something together on my computer. Do you have a preference?”

      “I don’t know anything about computers.”

      He grinned. She was amazed to see he could grin. “I meant days of the week.”

      “Oh, of course. Well, I work different shifts. I’m busiest on the weekends and usually not so busy midweek.”

      “I can work with that.” He cleared his throat. “Um.” He seemed to be struggling. Finally he held out his hand. “My name’s Dean Edgar.”

      “Kate Monahan.” She grasped the outstretched hand, which clasped hers with warm strength. She glanced up in surprise.

      He pulled his hand back as though she’d given him an electric shock. Then suddenly he was gone, back into his apartment like a gopher diving down into its burrow.

      She shook her head as she walked slowly down the steps. He was a strange one, all right. But she didn’t think she’d have any more trouble with him, now she’d let him know she was not to be messed with.

      He was even kind of cute when you got past the hair and the wardrobe.

      And there was that odd tug of familiarity. It was surprising, but she worked on a lot of men in the salon. He probably looked like one of her clients.

      Not that any of her clients would ever leave her chair with their hair like that.