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through his dark hair and shot me a sexy grin. A small scar on his upper lip gave his smile a slightly crooked tilt, and I had the strongest urge to reach out and touch his mouth, trace the scar with my fingertips.
    I stood transfixed, not knowing what to say next, when he said, “Well, gotta run. It was nice to officially meet you, Victoria. See you later.” As he spoke, I noticed the faintest trace of an accent, but I couldn’t quite place it.
    A waft of his aftershave lingered behind when he left, beckoning me to follow him like lemmings followed the Pied Piper off a cliff. “Down, girl! Get a grip,” I scolded myself under my breath. “You don’t know a thing about this guy, and something is definitely up with him. There’s an intensity about him; something indefinable. Possibly dangerous.” My Spidey sense never lies. I shook it off and carried the flowers into my condo.
    As I closed my door, I looked around the room and shook my head. It seriously needed some housecleaning. But that would have to wait. I walked with difficulty into my living room, set the gorgeous arrangement down on my coffee table and sat back to admire the perfect, long-stemmed bouquet.
    I elevated my throbbing tootsies on a couple of green velvet throw pillows, lazed back on my sofa, and prepared to settle in for the night. Thank heavens for remote controls. It’s the little things in life that make you happy: a remote control, a comfy couch, a DVR . . . I could even appreciate the positive aspects of a broken toe. It was an excellent excuse for doing nothing. Doctor’s orders. You don’t have to feel guilty; you get to just be. Sometimes it seems like we are human doings, not human beings. Like we need a good excuse to relax and regroup.
    About half way through one of my all-time favorite movies, Laura , with Gene Tierney, hunger got the best of me, so I put the movie on pause and hobbled into the kitchen to scrounge up a bite to eat. The sky was black outside my garden window so I flipped on the bright recessed ceiling lights on my way to the refrigerator. The blinking red message light on my answering machine caught my attention as I passed by, so I pressed the play button, then opened the fridge and leaned in to see what I could find.
    The machine ’s peculiar mechanical voice informed me haltingly, “Two, New, Messages.” I listened as I pulled out some leftover Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza and set it on the counter. The recorded message began to play back:
    Vic, it’s Steve from downstairs. Just wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday. My friend, Ron, can be kind of a jerk sometimes. You really shut him up. I owe you one.
    Aha. That explains it, I thought as I peeled the plastic wrap from the pizza and licked a tangy blob of tomato sauce off my finger. Steve must have sent the flowers. I smiled and grabbed a plate out of the cupboard as the second message began. It was a man’s voice, but I didn’t recognize it:
    Did you like the roses , Victoria? I know red ones are your favorite.
    The words were spoken slowly, tauntingly. His voice had an unattractive, raspy quality, like someone who chain-smoked or drank too much, or both. I froze. This had to be a joke. One of my nitwit friends was trying to be funny. I returned to the answering machine, hit the replay button, and listened carefully. The message repeated, but I still couldn’t identify the voice.
    “ Well isn’t this nice, Victoria,” I said out loud to myself. “Looks like your phone-breather just graduated to stalker.” My heart thumped heavily in my chest as I inspected my condo, methodically ensuring that all doors and windows were locked, all shades were drawn. Once I felt satisfied that I was fully bunkered in, I went back to the kitchen, grabbed my cold pizza and a glass of wine, and returned to the sofa. I sat down, lit a white protection candle—a gift from Laini when I briefly worked for a psychotic tax attorney—and reflected on the