Afterward, he stepped out onto the cushy bath mat and dried himself with an equally cushy towel, not even minding, for once, that the damn thing was pink.

Every towel he owned these days was some shade of pastel—lavender, mint green, baby blue, pale yellow.

It was embarrassing.

Jenna had basically cleaned the place out when she left, so why the hell hadn’t she taken the girly towels and fussy bed linens?

Probably because she knew he hated them.

He swore, glaring at his steamed-over reflection in the three-acre mirror.

Any thought of his ex-wife was a trap he could generally sidestep by running a few lines of one of his grandfather’s all-time favorite tunes, “Thank God and Greyhound,” through his head, but tonight, he’d fallen right into the pit.

He was definitely off his game.

Resigned to human fallibility, including his own, Cord brushed his teeth, wiped some steam off the mirror and took in his reflection.

He looked slightly derelict, definitely needed a shave.

It could wait until morning since he’d have to do it again anyhow. And it wasn’t as if he’d be subjecting some woman to a beard-burn.

Leaving the bathroom, Cord was confronted by the bed, as he was every night.

As decadent as any piece on display at Versailles, the head- and footboards were ornately carved with fat baby angels and blooming roses, every inch covered in gilt, and the damn thing was big enough to hold half of Marie Antoinette’s court, powdered wigs and all.

Jenna had left the monstrosity behind simply because she’d tired of it, and was ready to buy something new. Plus, like the towels, she’d surely guessed he hated that bed.

Revenge by household goods. Trust her to find a new twist.

Once again, Cord considered bunking in his old room, now more of a junk depository, at the opposite end of the hall. The drawback where that idea was concerned? The bed was too short and too narrow and, besides, he didn’t want to give Jenna the satisfaction of running him out of the master bedroom, even if she’d never know she’d scored a point.

He knew the solution, of course—get rid of the stupid bed in his current room, the matching dresser and bureau, the massive end tables, the Easter-egg-colored towels, the whole kit and caboodle.

But it wasn’t all bad.

Cord kind of liked the fireplace, even if it was a touch too fancy; he could clean up the old rocking chairs and bring them back in. It would be nice, if he ever met and married the right woman, to sit there on a chilly evening, side by side, talking or not, reading maybe, or just being together.