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Plus, I think he’d cause swooning rather than cure it, with those steely eyes, broad shoulders, and deep, rumbly voice.

Even though he was, at best, dismissive and, at worst, downright rude to me, there was something commanding about his presence. Commandingandalluring. Like, he could bark out an order that would have me responding with a crisp salute and a quickyes, sir, but then I’d find myself swaying into his orbit rather than standing at attention.

Archer Gaines.

The new building owner. On whom I’ve made a horrible first impression.

“He thinks I’m either a cat burglar or a woman with narcolepsy. Or worse,” I tell the closet. Normally, I don’t speak to inanimate objects. But normal flew out the window thirty minutes ago. “He suggested I might have a brain tumor. And it’s all your fault.”

I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it. There were no voices at the time. No weird sounds, no flash of light. I just opened the door—I open the door now just as a test—stepped inside—I step inside—and started rummaging through the hanging clothes—I start to rummage. I remember blinking afew times, like I’d gotten dust in my eye or something, and then I was suddenly not in my very overfull closet but a very empty one in an apartment two floors up and on the other side of the building.

l blink now.

Open my eyes.

And … I’m still in my closet.

I shouldn’t be disappointed. Because this?Thisis normal. Closets should just be closets. Not teleportation devices or wormholes. Or whatever.

But now, I think I might be losing it. Or whateveritI had left to lose.

I sink down to the floor and sit cross-legged next to a pair of high heels I haven’t worn in at least a year. Not since I quit my office job. Work is the last thing I want to think about right now—even less than a magical closet that transported me into the apartment of a man who seemed to hate me on sight.

Not that I can blame him. I mean, if some stranger showed up in my closet saying they teleported there?

Ugh! What a way to make a first impression! Archer was right not to believe me. Though I’m loath to do so just because of his attitude, I have to agree with his assessment, which is that what I said happened couldn’t have happened.

Itcouldn’thave.

The problem is that itdid.

I throw my head back and laugh, the absurdity of it all hitting me anew. I’m honestly lucky the man didn’t call the cops.

The thought sobers me right up. Whydidn’the call the cops?

Maybe he’ll just evict me. Icy panic zips through me at the thought. But then, he didn’t seem eager to say anything about it to Bellamy either. This surprises me, though maybe the moment I left, they had a meeting about upping security measures and kicking me out of the building.

Grasping at possibly the final straw of my sanity, I stretch out my legs in the cramped space and click my heels together three times.

“There’s no place like home?”

Nope.

Now, I’m just a woman sitting in a dark closet.

Alone.

Possibly demented.

What other explanation is there for me having somehow moved through space and time? Oh, no … what if I time-traveled too? I scramble to my feet and stumble out of the closet to find my phone.

The screen lights up, showing today’s date on top of a photo of Sophie and me.

I’m not sure why I’m so relieved about the time. I guess if I have to handle an event so absurdly ridiculous, it needs to be one thing at a time.

Closet that transports me across the building? Not great, but somewhat manageable. Closet that transports me across the building and also makes me jump forward or backward in time? Too much.

Since the phone is already in my hand, I call Sophie.