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 The
music sounded like something from outer space.
Julia Maria Borelli crammed her head under
the pillow, but the howling barely dimmed. Root canal would
have been less painful.
She lifted one corner of the pillowcase and
peered at the clock. Great. Just great. Six A.M.,
and the tenant in the upstairs apartment was blasting Yoko
Ono loud enough to produce permanent hearing damage.
If there were a place for Jewel in hell,
it would sound like this.
Yoko’s voice careened up an octave,
heedless of innocent bystanders. Jewel sucked in a breath.
She hadn’t seen her new neighbor, but a rusty U-haul
had been blocking the alley when she’d left for work
last night. Just her luck, she now shared her South Philly
rowhouse with a tone-deaf jerk.
She rolled out of bed and staggered into
her miniature kitchen. If anything, the screeching was louder
there, and the high-pitched accompaniment did nothing to improve
Jewel’s mood. She grabbed a broom, climbed on top of
the breakfast bar and pounded on the ceiling with the blunt
end.
The effort was futile, given the volume of
the music, but it felt good. She slammed the broom into the
ceiling again. This time it stuck.
“Oh, hell.” She tugged it out,
releasing a shower of plaster. Apparently, the one-hundred-year-old
ceiling was no match for an angry woman wielding janitorial
equipment. Now she’d end up paying for repairs.
Out of her travel fund.
A blinding surge of anger propelled her into
the hallway and up the stairs. She pummeled the door to the
cretin’s apartment.
 It
opened while her fist was in mid-swing. Unable to stop her
forward motion, she fell over the threshold, into something--no,
make that somebody--hard.
A strong hand grasped her arm and held her
steady. Jewel regained her balance and looked up, into the
darkest eyes she’d ever seen.
They were so black that she couldn’t
tell where the pupil and iris met. They were the sky in the
hour before dawn: clear, brilliant, and lit with the sparkle
of a thousand stars. Black diamonds set in a face of harsh
angles.
High cheekbones and a long, patrician nose.
A jutting chin touched with about three days’ worth of
stubble. Long, dark hair falling over a proud forehead and
brushing ever-so-slightly against a firm jaw. Her gaze traveled
lower.
Jewel caught her breath. Despite the fact
that last night’s frost had put a damper on spring, her
new neighbor wasn’t wearing much at all.
And he was ripped. The man must
have been working out forever. His incredible pecs and washboard
abs were dusted with the most interesting sprinkle of black,
curly hair, which disappeared into the low-slung waistband
of his Sponge Bob boxers.
Jewel swallowed hard and tried not to stare
at the bulge rounding out Mr. Squarepants.
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