Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(7)

Just yesterday, while folding dryer-hot clothes in her building’s laundry room, she mentioned to her chatterbox neighbor Kristina that she’s ready to meet someone new.

“Yeah? Good luck with that.” Kristina, an aspiring Broadway actress, shook her mop of dark curly hair. “Do you know that it’s been almost six months since Ray and I broke up? Half a year. I figured I’d have replaced him by now—not to mention all the stuff he took when he moved out. But I’m not having any luck getting a new boyfriend, or a new espresso maker or CD player or—”

“Um,” Allison cut in, “it can’t be that hard to get a new CD player, can it?”

“It’s impossible when you’re flat broke. I can’t even afford a new Walkman. I haven’t had music in my apartment for months now, and it’s killing me. Meanwhile,” she went on, clearly following her own unique brand of logic, “I’ve figured out that the only available guys in this city are married.”

“Doesn’t that mean they’re unavailable?”

Kristina leveled a look at Allison. “Not necessarily.”

Allison didn’t know what to say to that. For all her eagerly embraced big-city sophistication, the Midwestern farm girl in her occasionally stirs with disapproval.

Anyway, Kristina certainly had a point about the scarcity of eligible men in New York. The fashion industry isn’t exactly crawling with straight guys, and where else—when—is Allison supposed to meet someone? She works too hard and late to have much of a weeknight social life, and on summer weekends, the city becomes a ghost town. Pretty much everyone who’s anyone leaves for the Hamptons—which she definitely can’t afford.

Probably because you know nothing about finance and investments, right?

Maybe it’s time to learn. People seem to keep talking about the flat economy, and here she is with no nest egg and very little to show for the fairly decent salary she’s finally making—other than the overflowing contents of the closet in her one-bedroom apartment, which, incidentally, is decorated with a lot of really great furniture.

Then again, is that so wrong? What else in this life—including a beach house share—can possibly guarantee the immediate gratification of an Alexander McQueen dress or Dolce & Gabbana bags?

Not even just immediate gratification. Unlike summer, or relationships, a good purse can last forever.

“So you’re coming from work?” Bill asks, and she steals a glance at his left hand. Aha! Ring finger bare. A good sign.

Marital status might not matter to Kristina. It might not matter to a lot of women.

Memories are good for nothin’. . .

Well, it matters to Allison. Single is essential.

“Actually, I was at the BCBG show.” At his blank look, she adds, “Max Azria.” Still blank. “The designer. It’s Fashion Week.”

“Oh.”

He might as well have said, Whatever.

“How about you?” she asks, to keep the conversation going. “Coming from work?”

He shakes his head. “My office is downtown. I had a client meeting up here after the market closed.”

“Oh.” Whatever.

So much for scintillating small talk.

Whatever . . .

Story of my life.

Allison leans her head back wearily, gazing through the rain-spattered windshield at lower Manhattan’s distant skyline, the twin towers shrouded in misty twilight gloom.

Stepping off the elevator on the fifth floor after a long, hard day of secretarial temp work, Kristina Haines immediately spots the large box sitting in front of her door.

What on earth . . . ?

Someone left her a gift. Wow.

A gift wrapped in white paper stamped with red hearts, topped by a big red bow.

Hearts. Kristina breaks into a smile. Her downstairs neighbor Mack finally made his move. It’s about time.

She unlocks the door, then holds it open with her foot as she contorts herself to lift the box. It’s heavy—but not too heavy.

The wrapping is clumsily assembled, to say the least. Uneven seams, and too much tape—almost as though a child wrapped it. Or a guy. Most guys probably aren’t very good at wrapping presents.

She wouldn’t know. The only thing her lousy ex-boyfriend ever gave her was an occasional bouquet of flowers from the Korean deli on the corner. Usually only when he guiltily came home late—from God-knows-where—and the flowers were half price and wilted.

Giddy, Kristina puts the gift-wrapped box on the table and tilts it around, checking all six sides for a card, but finds nothing. It must be inside.

She tears off the paper . . .

A CD player?

That’s what the box says.

She smiles. It’s so sweet. She’s mentioned a few times to Mack how much she misses having music in the house.

There’s a shrink-wrapped CD stuck to the top with Scotch tape: Songs in A Minor by that new R&B singer Alicia Keys.

Hmm. R&B is not really her style. She’s kind of surprised Mack didn’t give her a collection of show tunes or something—he knows, after all, about her musical theater aspirations.

Maybe he figures she has all the Broadway cast albums—which she pretty much does— and wants to introduce her to something new. He’s really into music—not that he’s ever mentioned this particular artist.