Dear Diary, I lucked out this morning in a BIG way. Dr. Hawthorne left his apartment just as the elevator was about to leave our floor. Bonus fantasy points for the fact that he was talking on his phone as he sprinted toward me. Technically, he was racing to catch the elevator, but I was standing front and center in it. Whenever I hear him speak it’s like liquid pleasure in the middle of an orgasm drought. The velvety rasp in his voice was the cherry on top of the visual delight I was witness to. Dr. H was on his way out for a run, so it was no shirt, muscles for days, tattoos, and my imagination running circles around his half-naked body. As always, he didn’t even glance in my direction, but a virgin can dream, right? -F.U. That’s just one of the many entries in the diary I found last night. It belongs to the woman who lives across the hall from me. Faith Upton. The pink-haired beauty has no idea that I’ve read every single word she wrote about me in that diary. The right thing to do is to forget what I read, slam the diary shut, and return it. But, there’s no way in hell I’m doing the right thing.