The Wrong Place, Right Time (Part 1)
Some mistakes Amalia Vega could blame on exhaustion. Others, on heartbreak. But walking into the wrong apartment, dripping wet, to find a half-naked Greek god clutching a towel? That one was pure Murphy’s Law having a field day with her life.
The 6.5-hour flight from Boston to Seattle had carved itself into Amalia’s bones. Her fingers ached from death-gripping the armrests through turbulence so bad the drink cart had to be strapped down. The man next to her, oblivious, had spent the flight narrating his dissertation on cumulus clouds – in excruciating detail.
By the time they touched down, she wasn’t just ready to kiss solid ground—she was ready to propose. Seattle, however, greeted her with a downpour that seemed personally offended by her existence and a taxi driver who, despite GPS, somehow managed to drive in a circle for twenty minutes.
“New city, new job, new life,” she muttered, her week-old mantra sounding more like a plea for divine intervention. She’d repeated it so many times, it felt like a worn-out prayer. Please, let this be different.
Her apartment building loomed ahead, a slightly shabby brick affair with fire escapes clinging to its sides like metal vines. Her carefully straightened hair had long since surrendered to the Seattle rain, curling into defiant ringlets around her face. And because the universe clearly wasn’t done with her, a hand-written sign taped to the elevator doors proclaimed: “ELEVATOR TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER.”
Amalia stared at the sign, then at her oversized suitcase, then back at the sign. A dry laugh bubbled up. “Of course.”
Four flights of stairs later, she was questioning every life choice that had led her to this moment. Her suitcase, feeling suspiciously like it was filled with rocks instead of clothes, thudded behind her. “At least it can’t get worse,” she gasped, reaching what she hoped was her floor. Famous last words.
The hallway lights flickered ominously, casting long, dancing shadows. Amalia dragged her suitcase down the corridor, squinting at the apartment numbers. Her vision was blurring, exhaustion settling deep in her bones. All she wanted was to collapse into bed and maybe cry a little. Or a lot. The jury was still out.
She fumbled with her keys, finally managing to unlock… something. “New city, new job, new life,” she whispered, more for herself than anyone else.
The door swung open. Unlocked. Weird, but at this point, she was too tired to care.
“Whatever,” she muttered, dragging her suitcase inside and nudging the door shut with her foot.
The living room looked… different. Instead of the cheerful lilac she’d chosen from the online listing, the walls were a sterile, almost institutional eggshell white. “Ugh. They probably painted it while I was in transit,” she grumbled. Her tired brain churned slowly. “Figures. Can’t trust anyone to match a color swatch.”
Shrugging off her doubts along with her rain-soaked jacket, she began her haphazard attempt at unpacking—which mostly consisted of tossing clothes in the general direction of what she assumed was the bedroom.
Her eyes landed on a book on the sleek mahogany bookshelf: “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” She frowned. Had she packed that? Betty had been hounding her for months to read it, swearing it was the funniest book ever. A suspicion crept in. Knowing her best friend, it wouldn’t surprise her if she’d slipped it into her luggage as some kind of passive-aggressive literary intervention.
“Well, unpacking can wait,” she decided, sinking into the surprisingly plush leather couch. It was far too modern for her taste, but at the moment, she couldn’t have cared less. The book felt solid in her hands, a small, familiar comfort in the midst of the chaos. She opened it, and soon, she was lost in the absurd world of Arthur Dent, genuine laughter bubbling up for the first time in weeks.
The distant sound of running water barely registered. A door creaked open, and reality crashed back in—but not fast enough.
“Who the hell are you?” a deep voice demanded.
Amalia’s head snapped up. Standing in the doorway, clutching a towel with one hand and raking the other through his wet hair, was… well, “Greek god” was an understatement. His very shirtless, very solid chest was distracting, to say the least. Water droplets traced slow, lazy paths down his skin, and Amalia’s eyes definitely weren’t following their progress. Definitely not.
Her exhaustion-addled brain short-circuited. She leaped up, brandishing the book like a shield. “Who am I? Who are you, and why are you showering in my apartment, you… you… towel terrorist!”
His eyebrows shot up. “Your apartment? Lady, this is my apartment. 4B. And you’re trespassing.”
Amalia froze. “4B?” she squeaked.
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her gaze darted around the room – the sleek leather couch (definitely not hers), the minimalist décor (definitely not hers), a framed photo of… was that a golden retriever? (definitely, definitely not hers). And then there was him. All six-plus feet of dripping, tattooed irritation. Black and gray ink decorated his right arm and pectoral, and the towel… well, the towel was hanging precariously low on his hips.
Her cheeks burned. His hazel eyes locked onto hers, unreadable except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was that amusement? Or was he just trying not to laugh at her? She wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“But I’m supposed to be in…” Her voice faltered. Apartment 4C. The words died in her throat, along with any semblance of dignity.
“Oh. No.”
