Page 17 of Once Upon a Lie

“Oh, brother.” He sighs dramatically. “Not the fairy-tale spiel again.”

I suppose I’ve ranted about the prince getting glory to my friend one too many times, so I change the trajectory of my argument. “And I’m too busy for dating and boyfriends.”

“You’re never too busy to find love, dear,” he says around the cinnamon raisin bagel I brought him. Some weird part of me cherishes the fact that he’s comfortable enough with me to talk with his mouth full. The Alfred I met five years ago would never have committed such an obvious transgression.

My phone buzzes again and again and again, beckoning me to see what’s happening in the chat.

Callie (Unit: 1205): ​​What’s his first name? Anyone know?​​

Jillian (Unit: 510): ​​He hasn’t posted anything on the app yet.​​

Stanley (Unit: 1007): ​​He probably doesn’t know he’s required to.​​

I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for bulldog Rita to chime in with some kind of professional response about how all members need to introduce themselves within twenty-four hours of moving in when—

Shane (Unit: 1807): ​​New guy here.​​

I gasp. Oh shit.

“What?” Alfred asks. I hold up a finger.

The thread goes silent for thirty seconds before he adds another bomb to the mix.

Shane (Unit: 1807): ​​How about I answer all your questions on Saturday? I’m throwing a party at my condo in 1807. There will be drinks and apps. Everyone is welcome. Starts at 7pm.​​

Rita Fortune: ​​All events must be pre-approved, 1807.​​

I snort at Rita’s use of unit number to address him like he’s an inmate. That’s new.

Shane (Unit: 1807): ​​Mrs. Fortune, do you mind if I throw a party in my condo on Saturday?​​

Rita Fortune: ​​Yes, but all parties must end by 10pm because of the noise ordinance law (Section 32-4) in the Magnolia HOA handbook.​​

Shane (Unit: 1807): ​​Party at my place Saturday. 7pm–9:59pm. Everyone welcome.​​

I can almost picture Rita clutching her phone in outrage, and a snort bubbles from my nose.

“Please, dear, don’t keep me in suspense,” Alfred insists.

“The new guy just offered to host a party,” I say, scrolling through the chaos. “Rita might combust.”

“Maybe you should go,” Alfred offers.

“And why in the heck would I do that?”

He shrugs, all grandfatherly wisdom and cinnamon-raisin crumbs on his lips. “Because you never know what life will throw your way, Teeny Girl. Sometimes it tosses you something exciting, and you gotta be ready to catch it.”

“I hardly think a condo party with my quirky neighbors thrown by some random new guy I’ve never met qualifies as exciting.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe you’ll find that random new guy is nice.”

“And what if he’s terrible?”

“Then you’ll at least have a good story,” he says. “But you won’t know if you don’t put yourself out there.”

I roll my eyes, because he’s veering dangerously close to matchmaker mode, and I’m not in the market for that. I already have my very own Patti Stanger in the one and only Tommy Cordone.

He hums one of his old, slow tunes that reminds me of black-and-white movies, and I hate that my brain immediately jumps to the what-ifs.