Unsurprisingly, Reid didn’t own a wide variety of clothing. His closet was fairly small—much smaller than my closet back home, but not quite as small as my closet in New York. There was a low, dark wood dresser situated beneath the hanging clothes, with a few pairs of shoes tucked neatly underneath it.
I stood before the closet with my hands on my hips, acutely aware of Reid’s eyes watching my every move as he leaned against the wall near the French doors, arms crossed over his chest.
I folded my clothes—including a whopping two pairs of pants, two tops, one comfy T-shirt dress, and one jacket—and set them on top of Reid’s dresser. I resolved to address the issue of closet space later. I sifted through the remaining contents of my bag, just intimates and my toiletries, and left them the
