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I’ll deal with the fallout of this, but I can’t right now. It’s important,” she claimed again.
    â€œAn important date,” the landlord said dryly.
    â€œYes,” she whispered, then vacated the porch and literally ran up the stairs, as much to escape the ridiculous situation she’d created as to get ready for her “very important date.”
    And a part of her knew she should probably just throw in the towel at this point and accept that she couldn’t go out tonight, important or not—yet that desperate, determined part of her remained committed to saving the evening somehow. This can all be okay. I can save it. I can make it worth all the madness.
    Bounding into her bedroom, she began stripping down, tossing the day’s work clothes wherever they fell. She rifled through her small, tightly packed closet for the skirt she’d planned to wear. Yanking it from a hanger, she hurried into it. Then scoured the closet again—­this time in search of the cute top she’d planned to put with it. Crap. Where was it?
    From downstairs, noises. The mutterings of the landlord to Mrs. Hart. Then Mrs. Hart’s reply. “All I know is I heard a loud bang, came out, and found it this way. That’s when the fella across the street said he’d kicked it down.” Yes, great, let’s keep repeating the really crazy-­sounding part.
    Feeling downright frantic, she began yanking out handfuls of hangers, inspecting what hung on them, then throwing them on the bed. Where’s that top? She’d gotten it on clearance at work and she’d thought it was perfect for a romantic first date.
    All was quiet downstairs now, so hopefully that meant the landlord was gone. With any luck, Mrs. Hart had gone back inside, too. Then the plunk of metal against wood told her the neighbor had just lowered his toolbox to the porch. Where on earth can that top be?
    And how am I going to explain this door situation to my date?
    That’s when she stopped, took a deep breath. Maybe he’ll be late. Not a great attribute, but right now, she’d find it totally forgivable. She resumed looking for the feminine top.
    And then, from outside, amid the general muffled noise of the city, she heard the neat, clean slam of a car door and, despite that it could be anyone, she somehow knew . . . Jared wasn’t late. Crap. Okay, find something else to wear. And hurry.
    Surveying the pile of clothes now strewn across her bed, she grabbed up the first dressy-­enough top she saw—­actually a short-­sleeved sweater. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Oh Lord, I’m a disaster! Her hair was messy and her face far too shiny! Dropping the sweater, she reached for a tissue to blot her skin, and as for her hair—­she reached for a hairbrush, but this seemed more like a curling iron situation.
    â€œUm, Alice? I think your very important date is here.”
    She flinched. Her neighbor’s deep voice had come from just outside her open bedroom door, and here she stood in her bra only a few feet away! She hurriedly snatched up the sweater that now lay in a heap, struggled to straighten it out and throw it on, then marched into the living room to, indeed, find Mr. Hot-­and-­Scruffy had just walked right up the stairs into her apartment!
    â€œWhat are you doing up here?” she spat.
    He blinked, apparently not having expected her reprimand. “Well, I thought I should let you know he was here. Since there isn’t exactly a door for him to knock on.” He held up his hands in defense once again. “And I didn’t want to be the one to try to explain that.”
    Ugh, he was right. He was only trying to be helpful and she was snapping at him.
    That was when, from downstairs, a male voice called, “Um, hello? Is anyone here? I’m looking for Christy . . . but maybe I have the wrong place.”
    â€œCrap,” she