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I stop at a drugstore on the way home and buy a tube of cortisone cream, knowing it’s the only thing that has a chance of helping. I don’t have any health insurance at the moment, so I better hope the nonprescription strength does the trick.

The itching is as intense as ever by the time I get back to the brownstone. I can barely stand it, and I’m definitely not in the mood when Mr. Zimmerly’s front door swings open and he comes clomping down the steps in his slippers. He brushes a tuft of white hair off his forehead as he glares at me.

“Porter!” he barks. “Your garbage cans are on the curb!”

He’s right. My empty garbage cans are on the curb, and trash pickup was this morning. I’m almost certain I dragged the cans off the curb before I left for work. I can clearly remember hauling them across the sidewalk while trying not to get any garbage juice on my dress shirt. I definitely did it.

Didn’t I?

Yet the bins are clearly still on the curb. Zimmerly isn’t making it up. And I can’t imagine why anyone would haul my empty garbage bins back onto the sidewalk between this morning and now. I must be thinking of last week.

The last thing I feel like doing after the day I’ve had is dealing with garbage. But if I don’t, I’m in danger of not only my neighbor’s wrath but also a ticket.

“Also,” he adds, “your steps are still dirty!”

The itching on my chest intensifies several notches. I want to rip my skin off. I also want to pick up this trash bin and smash it against Zimmerly’s head until he shuts the hell up. I’d say after about three good hits, he won’t have much to complain about anymore.

“Well?” he says.

I glare at him. Without saying a word, I grab the opening of my shirt and yank hard, feeling the buttons strain and finally give. A second later, my shirt is open. I rip it off and throw it down on the sidewalk in disgust while Zimmerly stares at me, his jaw hanging open. The October air sends a chill over my bare torso, which feels pretty good, given how raw and red my skin has become.

“Look!” I grab the trash bin and start wheeling it back to the side of the stairs to lock it up. “I’m doing it! Happy?”

For once, that curmudgeonly old bastard is at a loss for words.

I retrieve my shirt from the sidewalk before going back into the house, crumpling it into a little ball. Much like Zimmerly, I stomp up the steps and let myself inside. The house is quiet, but Whitney’s sneakers are on the shoe rack by the door, which means she’s home.

Good.

Although I’m dying to slather myself in the cortisone cream, I instead head for the washer and dryer. My special hypoallergenic detergent is on the floor next to it, and I don’t see any bottles of detergent. But she’s using something with limonene. She’s got to be.

Without even stopping by my own bedroom, I climb up the second set of stairs, going straight for her room, and I rap my fist against her door. Loudly.

She doesn’t answer right away, so I knock again. And again. After another few seconds, the door swings open, and Whitney is standing there in her jeans and T-shirt. Her eyes widen at the sight of me without my shirt on, and for a moment, I regret not grabbing a T-shirt before coming to her room.

“Blake?” she says.

“You need to stop using fragranced laundry detergent,” I blurt out. “Look at me!”

Her gaze rakes over my bare chest, where the rash is just as red and angry as it was when I stripped at work. My skin feels burning hot. Amusement flickers in her eyes. “I see…”

“I’m extremely allergic to limonene.” I gesture emphatically at my chest. “It’s a fragrance in a lot of detergents. Even if it’s not in my own load, it still gets on my clothes. I mean, does this look comfortable?”

“No.” A smile plays on her lips. “It certainly doesn’t. But if I don’t use fragranced detergent, how am I supposed to get my clothes smelling fresh and clean?”

“I really don’t care,” I spit at her. “You can go to the laundromat next door. Whatever you want. But no fragrances in the washing machine from now on. Got it?”

She smirks at me. “I hear you loud and clear.”

She doesn’t seem to be taking this seriously. I don’t get it. Whitney seemed so nice when we first met her. How did she manage to hide this side of herself so well?

“Listen,” I say, “if I see or smell limonene in the washing machine again, you’re out of here. We have no signed lease or agreement. It’s my right to kick you out whenever I want.”

The smile immediately drops from her face. “That’s not true, actually. In New York, even without a lease, you can’t just kick me out. Read the law, asshole.”

Of course, she is absolutely right. I did look it up, and in New York State, even without a lease, she has rights as my tenant. The best I could do is give her a thirty-day eviction notice, but I can’t forcibly make her leave if she chooses to stay, even after those thirty days. The law is on her side with this one. The last thing I want right now is a lawsuit.

I was hoping maybe she didn’t know that. No such luck.

With those words, Whitney shuts the door in my face. I flinch, taking a step back. I don’t know if she’s going to keep using scented detergent in the wash or not, but I have definitely not made the situation any better. If I do have to live with this woman for at least another few months, I need to learn to get along with her. And the truth is we still need her rent money. The salary for my temp job is laughable.

I turn around, clutching my balled-up dress shirt, and that’s when I realize that Krista is standing midway up the stairs, frozen, peering up at me. I don’t think she has been there long, which is a bad thing, because she probably didn’t hear us fighting. But based on the look on her face, she did see Whitney closing the door to her bedroom and then me, with my shirt off.

Shit.

“Krista,” I manage as I hurry after her back to the second floor. “This…this isn’t how it looks.”

“Oh really?”

The hurt expression on her face almost breaks me in two. How could she think I’d cheat on her with Whitney though? She knows how I feel about Whitney.

“We were just talking,” I say. “Arguing, actually. She slammed the door in my face.”

“And your shirt is off because…”

I look down at my right hand clutching the offending shirt. This could not possibly look worse. “I took it off when I got into the house because there’s something irritating my skin. I mean, look at me, Krista.”

The hallway is dim, because for some reason, the bulbs just don’t seem to work very well in the overhead light fixtures—probably some electrical issue—but it’s bright enough for her to see the rash all over my chest and arms. Her eyes widen as she takes it in.

“My God, Blake,” she gasps. “That looks terrible. How did that happen?”

I make a face. “Whitney is obviously using limonene in the wash. It’s got to be that. She won’t admit it, but it’s the only thing that would make me break out like this.” I look over at the washer and dryer. “I’ve got to scrub down the washing machine and run all my clothes again.”

Her expression softens. “Do you need help?”

“No, I can handle it.” I scrape my nails over my chest. With all the drama, I had forgotten about the itch, but now that things are settling down, it’s come back full force. “But I could definitely use some help putting the cortisone cream on my back.”

She winks at me. “You got it.”

Thank God Krista believes me. It’s bad enough that practically everything in my life has fallen apart, but if I lost Krista, I don’t know what I would do. I would completely lose it.