My phone dings with a text.

Mom:

I bought you a rape whistle. There was a gangland slaying on your street last week.

“No, there wasn’t, Mom!” I yell, strangling the steering wheel with even more gusto. “There was no gangland slaying!”

“Hey. You okay, Charlie Sheen?” comes a voice, and I jump against my door, grappling instinctively for the handle to escape my would-be rapist or gangland murderer. A man is leaning down, peering at me through the passenger window.

“Uh...can I help you?” I squeak.

“You were screaming. You seem to be the one who needs help.” He looks pained, as if I’m the nineteenth crazy person he’s dealt with today.

“I— It was... I was talking to myself. I work alone for the most part. Occupational hazard. Anyway. Sorry.” I try to remember that I’m a fabulous and creative person with an impressive work history in a very competitive field. Nevertheless, I feel like an ass. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

His hair is flippin’ beautiful, chestnut-brown and curling. His eyes are blue. Blue-gray, really. Or maybe green-blue. Yes, he’s looking at me like I’m insane, but those are some very nice eyes.

“Keep it down next time,” he says. “There are children around.”

I feel my cheeks start a slow burn, which is generally what happens when I’m confronted with an attractive man under the age of ninety-five. I clear my throat and get out of the car, the cool, damp air making me wish I’d worn a sweater.

“I’m Jenny,” I say. “I’m moving in, but the super’s not around, and he has my keys.” See? All perfectly normal, pal.

“You’re moving in?”

“Yes. This house. Number 11. Do you live around here?”

“I do.” He doesn’t elaborate. Probably doesn’t want to point out his house to the crazy woman.

“Well, do you happen to know the super?”

He’s tall. And thin. Suddenly, I want to feed him. Also, that’s some seriously gorgeous hair, even better than at first glance. Married. Hair like that wouldn’t remain single. He’s wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a T-shirt, and while he looks like he just rolled out of bed, it kind of...works.

He brings me a bottle of wine and flowers to welcome me to the neighborhood. He’s a boatbuilder, and he invites me for a sail on the Hudson next weekend, and the stars wink and blaze overhead, and he’s never felt this way before; he always believed the universe would give him a sign, and what’s that, a comet? If that’s not a sign, then he doesn’t know—

“You eye-fucking me?” he asks.

“What? No! I’m just... I’m not, okay? I just need my key, but the stupid super isn’t here.”

“The stupid super is right in front of you.”

I close my eyes, sigh and then smile. “Hi. I’m Jenny. The new tenant.”

“Leo. Keep your eyes to yourself, for the record.”

“Can I please have my keys?”

“Sure.” He tosses them over the car roof, and I catch them. “So why the screeching?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t call it screeching, really,” I say.

“Oh, it was screeching. Let me guess. Man trouble?”

“Wrong.”

“Ex-husband?”

“No. I mean, yes, I have one, but no, he’s not the trouble.”

“Did he remarry yet?”

“Would you like to help me carry some stuff in?” I ask, forcing a smile.

“So yes, in other words. Is she younger? A trophy wife?”

I grit my teeth. “I have to unpack. And no. She’s fourteen months older than I am, thank you.” I yank a canvas bag from the backseat. I’m not the most organized person in the world—my sister holds that title—and I forgot to pack my underwear drawer in my suitcase, so it’s in with my drill and hammer and a pint of half-and-half. Leo the Super looks in but refrains from commenting.

“Feel free to help,” I say, grabbing a Boston fern with my free hand.

“I’m afraid you’ll read into it. I already feel a little dirty.”

“Great.” The guy seems to be a dick, his hair notwithstanding.

I lug my bags up the eight stairs to my front door, then fumble for the keys, nearly dropping my fern.

“Hey, Leo!” calls a feminine voice, and we both look down the street. A woman about my age—younger, let’s be honest—is dragging a small child with one hand, holding a pie in the other. “Happy weekend, you!”

“Same to you,” he calls. “Hi, Simon.”

“Your son?” I ask.

His eyes flicker back to mine. “My student. I teach piano.”

“Oh. Nice. I love piano music.” I mean, I guess I do. I’ve never thought about it much. I like Coldplay, and Chris Martin plays piano, so that counts, right?

“Classical piano?” His voice implies that an unstable woman such as myself has never heard classical piano. He’s almost right; aside from what I hear at weddings, I tend to veer toward things written in this century.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I lie. “I love classical piano. Beethoven, and uh...those other guys.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Name two pieces.”

“Um...‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel.”

“Oh, God.”

“And ‘Tiny Dancer’ by Elton John.”