Steve stood before his cologne cabinet like a general surveying fallen comrades—thirty-seven bottles, each with a story, none with a clear alibi. The vetiver reminded him of that ill-fated camping trip where a raccoon stole his pants. The citru...

They said it was a joke. A cologne bottled like a toilet and christened Pinnace, as if a perfume could escape ridicule by sailing under a name better suited for a sinking ship. But the first man who wore it—Frankie Dobbins, a retired m...

No one remembered when the decree came down, but it was signed in gold ink and smelled faintly of bergamot—official enough. From that day forward, every citizen could only own five colognes. Not six. Not a sampler set. Just five. Myke and Steve...

He stood in the doorway of their now-too-quiet walk-in closet, surrounded by the ghosts of her shampoo scents and a thousand sarcastic echoes. The duffel bag on the floor glared up at him like it, too, was disappointed. The rules were simple: o...