I guesstimated his age as just cresting thirty; hard to tell with the meterosexualizing of his appearance. Add to all this a body that reminded me of a cyclist or a runner—lean and well-maintained—and he was a well-groomed wolf in wolf’s clothing, and the females in Manhattan were helpless sheep.

After two seconds of stunned staring, I ripped my eyes from his amused half-lidded gaze and blinked around the mirrored space, trying to get my bearings.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry; in fact, I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh. “Sorry I scared you.”

I shook my head, my phone still clutched to my chest, and fixed my attention on the floor of the elevator.

“It’s fine. I was just startled,” I said, swallowing.

We were quiet for a beat, but I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced at the display above the floor buttons, trying to gauge how much longer I was going to have to share the elevator with Mr. Ambiguously Single.

To my dismay, he spoke again. “You’re Annie, right?”

I nodded, my eyes flickering to the side to glance at him and then back to the display.

“I’m your neighbor Kurt.” In my peripheral vision, I saw that he’d turned completely toward me and offered his hand.

I glanced at him again, at his friendly, easy smile and friendly, easy eyes. Then I glanced at the takeout bag in my right hand and the phone held to my chest. I seriously debated whether or not to shrug and say nothing.

See, the problem with being a really well-paid hermit is that you have no incentive to ascribe to social niceties and norms. My company loves me (most of the time); the clients love me—they love the magic I work. I seldom go into the office—only Wednesdays and Fridays. I have an office; I just prefer to work from home.

I’m not agoraphobic. I go out in public, I walk five miles in the park every day, I love the Natural History Museum and visit once a week; as well, I frequent places where celebrities are typically spotted, so I can get shots for the blog. Being a lurker doesn’t require social interaction. Yes, I often people-watch, but I’ve long since learned to bury the feelings of envy at seeing scenes of human connection, like clusters of women, close friends, sharing an afternoon of compassion and confidence, or a loving couple holding hands through the park.

Therefore, if I speak—in person—to more than ten people during any given week, then it’s been an above-average week.

Nevertheless, some part of me rebelled against being rude. I might contemplate becoming a wackadoodle recluse in my brain, but I could never fully commit to the role. Therefore, I shifted my belongings, placed my phone—with the crotch shot—in my bag, and accepted his hand for a quick shake.

But it wasn’t a quick shake. His fingers tightened around mine until I lifted my eyes to his and relaxed my hand. His gaze was expectant, interested, his smile soft and really very attractive. I was wary as to why he was wielding both in my direction.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Annie.” He sounded like he meant it.

I returned his smile as best as I could, felt my eyebrows lift on my forehead. “You, too, Kurt.”

“We should get together some time. Get to know each other.” He said these words in a rush, almost like he was afraid I might disappear before he finished speaking.

“Yeah.” I nodded, trying to mimic his intonation of sincerity. “Sure. We should do that.”

Thankfully, the doors opened. I took advantage of the distraction to pull my hand from his and dart out of the elevator. Of course, he was close behind since we both lived on the same floor.

“You know, we’ve lived next door for going on two years, and this is the first time we’ve spoken to each other?” He asked this conversationally with a lilt of humor in his voice.

“Hmm,” was all I said, placing my takeout on the floor and digging in my bag for my key.

I did know it. But I didn’t think it was all that remarkable. He was a good-looking playboy who likely spent more on one bottle of moisturizer than I did on all my hygiene products over the course of a year.

I did my best to be a mousy, low-maintenance eremite. The chances that we moved in similar social circles or had similar interests were not good. Not good at all. Why talk to a person if you had nothing in common with them? What would that accomplish, other than a painfully stunted conversation?

Successfully unlocking the door, I tossed the keys back in my bag and picked up the food. Kurt hovered at my side, leaning against the wall. Again I could feel his eyes on me. Rather than ignoring him and ducking into my apartment, I turned slightly and gave him a small wave.

“Well, I’m going to go inside now and eat this food.” I held the bag up as evidence. “See you around.”

“We should trade numbers,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his phone, “so we can arrange dinner.”

My smile morphed into a frown, and I stared at him, my next words slipping out before I could catch them. “Are you serious?”

Kurt’s eyes flickered to mine, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course I’m serious. I never joke about dinner.”

He said the words so smoothly, like words should be said, like an expert in banter and flirtation. My heart gave an uncomfortable twist then took off at a gallop. It was one thing to trade polite chitchat in the elevator with my beautiful neighbor when I was certain it would lead nowhere. It was quite another to give aforementioned beautiful neighbor my telephone number and, therefore, permission to contact me for a shared meal.