The Apartment Across the Hall

Chapter One The Man in 4B

THE APARTMENT ACROSS THE HALL

Chapter One

The Man in 4B

NORA

The first thing I learned about my new neighbor was that he had terrible timing.

The second was that he was ridiculously good-looking.

The third, unfortunately, was that he knew it.

I discovered all three at 9:17 on a Thursday night, standing barefoot in my apartment doorway with a slice of cold pizza in one hand and a man I'd never seen before dripping water onto the hallway floor.

He held my blue coffee mug beneath a leak in the ceiling.

My favorite mug.

The one I'd bought at a flea market in Brooklyn three years ago, back when I was still dating a man who thought remembering my birthday was an unreasonable expectation.

I pointed at it.

"Is that mine?"

The stranger glanced down. "Depends. Do you own a blue mug with a chip in the handle?"

"I do."

"Then probably."

"Why is it full of ceiling water?"

He looked at the mug, then at the dark stain spreading across the ceiling above him.

"Because your building is trying to drown me."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, to my great annoyance, he smiled.

It wasn't a big smile. Just a slight pull at the corner of his mouth, as though he'd found something amusing and hadn't quite decided whether to share it. He had dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, a strong jaw, and the kind of eyes that made you feel as if he'd noticed more than you intended to show.

He wore a charcoal T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have made me suddenly aware that my own sweatshirt had a hole near the cuff.

I tightened my grip on the pizza.

"You're the new tenant."

"Julian Hayes." He nodded toward the door behind him. "Apartment 4B."

"Nora Bennett. 4A."

"I know."

I glanced at the brass nameplate beside my door.

"Right. The nameplate. I was hoping you'd developed a mysterious interest in me, but I suppose that's too much to ask from a man stealing my kitchenware."

"Borrowing," he corrected. "I knocked, but nobody answered."

"I was in the shower."

"Then I apologize for the timing."

Water dripped onto his shoulder.

He looked up.

I looked up.

Another drop landed directly on his forehead.

He closed his eyes for a second.

I laughed.

I tried not to. I genuinely did. But there was something about watching a grown man stand helplessly beneath a leaking ceiling, holding a coffee mug as if it were a sacred offering, that broke through the exhaustion I'd been carrying all week.

He opened his eyes.

"Glad somebody's enjoying this."

"Sorry." I wasn't sorry at all. "Did you call the super?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He says he'll come tomorrow."

I laughed again, this time without bothering to hide it.

"Of course he does. Mr. Alvarez once took four days to fix a broken lock."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you enjoy having a ceiling."

Julian glanced at the mug. "I was starting to get attached to this one."

"Give it back."

He held it out immediately.

I took it, careful not to touch his fingers.

That was deliberate. I knew it was deliberate because I noticed myself doing it.

I'd become very good at noticing the small ways I protected myself. The extra step backward. The joke that ended a conversation before it could become personal. The habit of leaving first, emotionally or otherwise.

Three years ago, I'd mistaken attention for affection and promises for plans. I wasn't interested in repeating the experiment.

Especially not with a stranger who looked like he belonged in a luxury watch advertisement.

"Wait here," I told him.

I went inside and returned with a bucket and two old towels.

He took the bucket from me. "You keep emergency plumbing equipment?"

"I restore old buildings for a living. I've learned that if you wait for someone else to fix a problem, you'll be waiting a long time."

"Architectural restoration?"

I paused.

"How did you know that?"

He nodded toward the rolled drawings visible inside my apartment.

"Educated guess."

"You're observant."

"It's occasionally useful."

I handed him a towel. "Try not to make a habit of observing me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He said it so smoothly that I narrowed my eyes.

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"You're standing in a puddle."

"I'm trying to find the bright side."

"Find it somewhere else."

His laugh was low and unexpectedly warm.

I hated that I liked it.

Together, we moved the bucket beneath the leak. I showed him where the floorboards dipped, and he shifted the container until the water fell neatly into the center.

For a few minutes, we worked without speaking.

It should have been awkward. Instead, there was something comfortable about the silence, something I didn't entirely trust.

When we finished, Julian leaned against the wall and studied the ceiling.

"Well," he said. "At least the apartment has character."

"That's what landlords call a problem when they don't want to pay for it."

"You're cynical."

"I'm experienced."

His expression changed slightly.

Not pity. I would have hated pity.

Recognition, perhaps.

"Fair enough," he said.

I liked him a little more for not asking what I meant.