I’d slept in yoga pants and a T-shirt. Technically, I was dressed. I shuffled to the bathroom for some quick maintenance, which made little difference. I’d gone to bed with my hair wet, then slept the wrong way. I looked lopsided, and consoled myself with the fact that I still looked better than the day before, sweat covered in the basement.

Anyway, Bram might not recognize me if I didn’t look like a mountain troll who’d wandered into civilization and stuck her finger in a light socket.

“Hang on. I’m coming.”

I hurried barefoot down three flights of stairs, vague memories of a late-night internet search floating back. Bram had won all the top lawyer awards—none of which I could recall by name, but they sounded important. He and his grandfather did a massive amount of pro bono work. Their firm had given enough money to a local hospital, I couldn’t remember which one, so that they had something called the Dekker Pavilion, specializing in…blood clots?

Oh, and he’d been on the swim team in college. I might have spent more time than advisable on a picture of him, wide-shouldered, in a Speedo, holding up a gold medal that explained his impressive upper-body strength. No wonder carrying boxes up from the basement hadn’t winded him.

I yanked the door open. “Hi.”

To which I hallucinated him responding with “Bob’s the man.” He extended a steaming cup of coffee and a parchment paper sleeve that hugged a whole-wheat bagel. “Your shirt.”

Had one of us had a stroke overnight? Going strictly by genetics and appearance, it had to be me. He was as solid and crisply put together as ever, in another stellar charcoal-gray suit that whispered high-end.

I drew a breath of coffee-scented heaven, let him in, and caught my reflection in the hall mirror. Right. My SpongeBob SquarePants shirt. So not the worst of my problems.

Bra anyone?

Coffee and bagel notwithstanding, I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

Bram was watching my sleep-wrinkled face. “Rough night?”

“Ever try to sleep with the ghost of Raoul?”

Humor glinted in his eyes. “I can honestly say I’ve never slept with anyone named Raoul.” He didn’t catch the Phantom of the Opera reference. “Departed or otherwise.”

“Have you ever been inside my grandmother’s bedroom?”

“I haven’t slept with Violet either.” He held up a hand. “I swear. She was a hot ticket, but way out of my league.”

On another day, that would have made me smile. “Follow me.”

My feet were cold on the marble of the entryway. I had to find my slippers under Violet’s bed, and Bram’s paperwork was up there too.

I discreetly scarfed my bagel on the way. By the time we reached the third floor, I had a hand free to throw the bedroom door open. Take a load of this.