“Hi.”

I hear a smooth, deep voice come from behind me. I turn the key in the lock and swivel around.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

I pull my bag’s strap higher up my shoulder, and then a sound forces my attention to the stairs. It’s the delivery guy, and I notice that he’s also got Jorgen’s attention now too. I watch as the boy-man in the George’s pizza shirt and hat meticulously positions himself onto the metal stair railing and then slides all the way down it. I watch him until his feet hit the concrete and he scurries back to an older sedan with a little, lit-up George’s sign stuck to the roof before I turn my attention back to Jorgen.

He’s already looking at me with a curious grin when I meet his eyes.

“He always does that,” I say, waving it off.

Jorgen laughs and glances down at the pizza box in his hand.

“Dinner?” I ask.

“Yeah. Dishes are still packed.”

I nod my head.

“You want some?” He extends the flat box a little toward me.

“Oh, no,” I say. “Thanks though. I’ve got to meet someone for an interview in a few minutes.”

I watch him nod his head now too. He really is intimidating somehow, and I think that’s maybe why I feel so flustered around him. I’m not sure if it’s his muscles and the fact that he could probably crush me with one hand if he really wanted to or if it’s his piercing blue eyes and the way they seem to laser straight through me. Whatever it is, I’ve really got to get over it if I’m going to be living two yards away from him from now on.

“Another people story?” he asks, stopping my train of thought.

“Yep,” I say.

I start my walk down the stairwell.

“A collector, strange addiction?”

I hear his voice trail behind me.

“I’m about to find out,” I call back up to him.

I pull back into a parking space after the interview. It went an hour longer than I had anticipated, but I guess you’ve got a lot of years — and a lot of stories — between parachuting out of your first plane in World War II and downloading your first Johnny Cash song onto your iPod. I grab my bag off the passenger’s seat and squeeze out of my door, being careful not to bang it against the car parked next to mine. These spaces are made for toys and Smart cars. I shimmy sideways and eventually make it out without a scratch — on me or the car — and head for the mailboxes in the breezeway.

“Hey,” I hear a voice say as soon as I make it under the stairwell.

I look up.

“Jorgen. Hey, again.”

He taps an envelope to his palm. “How’d the interview go?”

I think I seem unfazed on the outside, but on the inside, I’m secretly wondering if he somehow was able to stick a tracking device to me.

“It went well actually. Eighty-seven-year-old. Nice guy.”

I look down to make sure I don’t have any crumbs on my jeans from the granola bar I inhaled on the way back. When I look back up, Jorgen’s staring at me with a questioning smile.

It takes me a second, but I eventually catch on.

“Steam-powered tractors,” I say. “He has nine of them.”

He nods his head. “To each their own.”

I laugh in agreement and then find my tiny, metal box, stick my key into it and eventually pull out a newspaper from the next town over and a couple pieces of junk mail. But before I do that, I steal a glance at the name on the envelope in Jorgen’s hand and memorize it. Then, I shove my mail into my bag and start my walk up the stairs. Jorgen follows me.

“How was dinner?” I ask, angling back toward him.

“Good.” He’s nodding his head. “A little quiet, but good.”

I get to the top of the steps and stop in front of my door.

“Well, next time you get pizza, maybe you can bring it over,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “We could watch…the Food Network or something. Then it won’t be so quiet.”

I turn and push my key into the lock. What the hell did I just say? I swear there’s something wrong with me. I open the door and slowly spin back around. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s got a boyish grin hanging off his lips and a questioning look plastered to his face.

“Really?” he asks, finally.

I think about it for a second. I could take it all back. I should take it all back. He’s a stranger. And he might think I’m hitting on him. Am I hitting on him? No, I’m definitely not. Make up an excuse!

“Or I have some really girly movies,” I offer.

He laughs. “I love the Food Network.”

I could have taken it all back, but I didn’t. There is definitely something seriously wrong with me.

“But you’ll have to share,” I add.

He’s silent then — just long enough for me to realize that maybe I hate the quiet just as much as he does.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

I’m not sure what “sounds nice” exactly — sharing, the lack of quiet over pizza or watching the Food Network. Any way, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably regret this whole thing if it ever pans out later anyway.

“Well, have a good night,” I say, stepping into my apartment.

“Good-night,” I hear him say before I close the door behind me.

I quickly turn the lock on the dead bolt, then set my bag onto a barstool, bolt into the next room and plop down in front of my laptop. I’m on a mission.

I Google Jorgen Ryker—the name on the envelope — and then search the arrest records. After that, I search his name with his hometown and his name with the hospital he said he worked for. I search everything that might be connected to his name. And after an hour, all I’ve found is that he had a reserve champion steer at the state fair when he was thirteen and that his high school football team won the state championship his senior year. He was a running back, evidentially, and also not too shabby of an athlete, which is not that surprising judging by his arms and abs. But other than that, nothing — no arrests, no crazy or embarrassing photos on Facebook, no Twitter account. Nothing.

I rest my elbows onto the surface of my desk and stare into the screen and at an old, black and white newspaper photo of a gangly thirteen-year-old proudly standing next to a really, really big cow.

I take in a deep breath and then slowly force it out.

“Hmm. You’re either really good at hiding your crazy, Jorgen Ryker, or maybe you really are just…normal.”

I hear a knock at the door, and I make my way over to the peep hole.

After one glance through the tiny window, my heart is racing. It’s Jorgen, and he’s holding a box of pizza.

I kind of figured he’d take me up on my offer. I just didn’t expect it to be the next day. I run my fingers through my hair and look down at my outfit. I’m wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt. At least I have pants on this time. I push my lips to one side. There’s pepper spray in a drawer in the kitchen, but as long as my professional stalking skills are up to par, I shouldn’t be needing it. I count to three, and then I pull open the door.

“Hey,” I say.

My eyes travel to the box in his hands.

“Didn’t you just have pizza last night?” I ask, leaning up against the door.

He shrugs his shoulders. “The event tonight called for pizza.”

I lower my eyes and push out a soft laugh.

“Well, you’re just in time for a new episode of Chopped,” I say, stepping back from the door.

He smiles wide. “Perfect.”

I watch him step into my apartment and then hesitate a little before finally making his way to the couch.

“It looks nice in here,” he says, his gaze sweeping the room. “You want to come over and decorate for me?”

I laugh again as I close the door and walk back into the kitchen. My heart is still racing. I’m praying to God he doesn’t notice. Just play it cool, Ada.