It wasn’t wearing only a robe that bothered her, or even that he checked out her figure. Men inevitably checked out her curves on first meeting, but few, very few, spent more time looking at her face. Regardless, fidgeting wasn’t her thing. Sensibly, Greer plopped back down on the step and picked up her fork and TV dinner.

“I take it you’re my neighbor-unless you regularly wander through strange apartment buildings finding halls to eat your dinner in?” There was an ultrapatient quality in his low-pitched voice, as if he’d already resigned himself to sharing the building with a kook.

“You should never sign a lease until you know the people you’re going to live across from,” Greer said gravely. “Anyway, it’s not the way it looks.”

“No?”

“No. It’s the crank calls. Not that my reaction to them is in any way rational. I admit that my behavior is ridiculous.” Greer forked in another, small mouthful of lasagna. “Can’t help it, though,” she admitted. “In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. Actually, I thought it was kind of funny. He was nice. Honestly. I mean, he never called in the middle of the night, and one time when I told him I had company, he laid off for three days-”

“Wait a minute.” Her stranger took a breath and then sank down on the top step, lazily stretching out long, denim-clad legs as if resting up for a siege. “Go on,” he said politely and cleared his throat. “I must have missed the transition. Like the whole relationship between eating dinner in a hallway and receiving crank calls. Never mind. You were telling me that your obscene caller didn’t phone for a few days?”

“He isn’t an obscene caller. He’s just a breather.”