slot of 114, "I'l wear whatever color shirt I damn wel

please."

I refused to think of it al the way up the four flights of

stairs to my apartment, then al the way down again as I hit

the basement for an hour's workout. I refused to think

about the note and its simple, one-sentence instruction as I

sweated and cursed at the television and its bounty of

buxom, slim-hipped beauties on their mission to make al

other women feel inferior. I refused to think of it in the

shower as I lathered my body and deep-conditioned my

hair and shaved my legs.

"Damn it!" I cried to my empty room as I stood in front of my closet.

I had no clean blue shirts.

I put on a soft pair of sleep pants patterned with grinning

monkeys wearing Santa hats and twisted my hair up high,

clipping it out of the way so it would be wavy when it

dried. I turned the TV on, then off. I picked up a book

and put it down.

and put it down.

"Shit."

I lay on my bed, arms crossed behind my head, and stared

at the ceiling. The plaster had been laid in smal, even

swirls. There was a medalion with a metal cap in the

middle in the ceiling's center. The former tenant had taken

the ceiling light and fan when he left, and though

maintenance was supposed to replace the original fixture,

they never had. The metal reflected light from my bedside

lamp and the window outside when the room was dark.

Sometimes when I woke in the night I imagined it was the

moon's bright eye somehow transported into my room.

Watching me.

Was someone else watching me? Playing some sort of

game? I got up on one elbow to look around my room and

at my closet, where rows of shirts hung in every color but

blue.

I got out of bed and riffled through my laundry basket to

see what I could find. Blue wasn't my favorite color. I

preferred white shirts for work, since any stains could be

bleached. I did have a blue shirt, though it wasn't one I

would've worn to work. The neckline dipped a little too

would've worn to work. The neckline dipped a little too

low and the cut was a little too close. I held it up in front of

my reflection and turned this way and that. Paired with a

pair of black dress slacks, it would probably be okay.

With a blazer over it. Sure.

And I needed to do laundry anyway, I told myself as I

tossed socks and panties and towels into the basket to

make a ful load. If I did it now, I wouldn't have to do it

later in the week. And there was nothing on the tube.

Yeah.

There was no getting around it. I was hooked on those

lists. For whatever reason. Even if nobody was watching

me. But if someone was, he'd know I hadn't obeyed.

Tomorrow, I would wear a blue shirt.

But first, I had to wash it.

Chapter 17

Riverview Manor had the highest line of efficiency washers

and dryers, but never enough of them. Just another of the

quirks of this supposedly high-end building, and one about

which the T.A. had sent around many memos. Some of the

units were supposed to have their own washers and

dryers, which explained why the laundry room had been

under-stocked. Whatever. Al I knew was when I walked

in with my laundry basket and found the room empty but

for the scent of fabric softener and the hum of rotating

dryer drums, it was a bonus.

I filed a washer with my clothes and the detergent, then

took my empty basket and my book, one I'd found in an

aisle I rarely browsed, to one of the hard wooden chairs

along the wal. I promptly let out a smal shriek as I

realized I was not alone, after al. The man sitting there had

his head bent, headphones on, so he hadn't heard my

scream but the way I jumped must have caught his

attention, because he looked up.

Eric looked up at me with a smile and slipped his

headphones from his ears. I heard the tinny, faraway chant

of a song I'd have known if I'd been able to pay attention

of a song I'd have known if I'd been able to pay attention

to it, rather than him. His eyes, specificaly, which were a

deep, dark liquid brown.

"Hi," he said. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

"I didn't see you behind the washers." I set down my

basket and put a hand over my rapidly beating heart.

"Yeah, the layout's not so great in here." He looked

around, then shifted the papers off the chair next to him.

"Sorry, though. You want to sit?"

I took the chair two spots away from his and pushed my

basket to the side with my foot. He stil smiled at me, so I

smiled back. "Thanks."

"Fancy meeting you here," he said.

"Here, there. Everywhere." I tapped a finger against my

chin, feigning thoughtfulness. "Are you stalking me?"

To my delight, his cheeks pinked. Just a little. But enough.

"It would seem like that, huh?"

I shook my head and bent to pul a handful of laundry from

I shook my head and bent to pul a handful of laundry from

my basket. "Missed you around the gym lately."

I looked up and caught a flash of something in his gaze.

Guilt, maybe, though why Eric should care if I kept track

of his workouts, I didn't know. He shrugged and ran a

hand over his shaggy hair.

I stuffed a load of whites into the nearest washer as we

spoke. I was conscious of my panties and bras among my

T-shirts and blouses, but I didn't draw attention to them by

blushing, even when I caught him looking.

Eric had a smile as slow and easy as honey dripping from

a spoon. I wanted to lick it the same way. "Did you?

Damn. I'm sorry."

We looked at each other, surrounded by the scent of

fabric softener and moist, hot air.

"Were you…looking for me?" Eric asked. "For any reason in particular, I mean?"

Heat flushed my cheeks, and I answered with laughter and

a duck of my head. Eric laughed, too, after a second. His

voice joined mine like a duet, and when I looked up at

voice joined mine like a duet, and when I looked up at

him, his deep brown eyes were shining with good humor

and undisguised interest.

"Were you?"

"Yes," I admitted. "It's not quite the same without you there."

"Sorry. Work's been insane."

I stuffed my quarters in the slot and dumped half a cup of

detergent, then started the cycle. "What do you do,

exactly?"

Eric leaned back in his chair. "I'm an E.R. doc."

Bing, bing, bing! We have a winner! Hot, funny and a doctor. My mother would be so proud.

"What's that like?"

He looked a little surprised. "Busy. But exciting."

"Saving lives and al that? Lots of pressure," I said,

watching his mouth form the words as he spoke.

"Yeah," Eric said after a second or two of silence. A

"Yeah," Eric said after a second or two of silence. A

shadow passed over his face, but only briefly. "Lots of

pressure. What do you do, Paige?"

I told him without making it sound as if I was at al

ashamed of not being a doctor. If Eric wasn't as impressed

with my career as I with his, his eyes didn't give it away.

Neither did his mouth, which held on to his smile.

The conversation flowed as we washed, dried and folded

our clothes.

"I bet that color looks great on you." He pointed at the

blue shirt I'd puled from the dryer.

I held it up in front of me. "You think so?"

"Yes. It matches your eyes."

I'm hardly ever at a loss for words, but this time I only

managed to swalow, hard, and say, "Thanks."

He scrubbed the back of his neck with a hand and looked

utterly endearing. "Too much?"

"No. I'd be a liar if I said I don't like compliments." To save myself from having to look at him just then, I bent to

save myself from having to look at him just then, I bent to

pul more laundry from the dryer.

"And you're not a liar?"

Over my shoulder, I said, "No. What about you?"

I'd meant it lightheartedly, the way the entire conversation

had been going. So when Eric didn't answer, I straightened

and turned to face him. The look on his face stopped me

from speaking.

"I know where it was." He snapped his fingers. "Where I saw you for the first time. It wasn't the gym."

I drew in a breath. My hands, ful of warm, soft laundry,

tightened. My tongue slid along my lips as I considered

what to say. "No. It was the Mocha."

"No. That's not it. Have we ever met in the Mocha?" He

laughed and covered his eyes with his hands for a second

before looking at me again. "I'm sorry. I meet so many

people, sometimes I forget where I met them. But believe

me, I wish I did remember seeing you there."

"We didn't actualy meet. I just saw you. You were sitting

"We didn't actualy meet. I just saw you. You were sitting

by the window, writing something. Very serious. You

wouldn't have noticed me, anyway. You were busy."

"I should've noticed you, Paige." His smile let me know

exactly what he meant by that.

I laughed again. "But you didn't. Because you meet

soooooo many people. So. If it wasn't the Mocha, or