My requirements for a man are simple. Must love books. Must NOT love hockey. Which is why I will never be interested in my neighbor, the aloof and mysterious Felix Jamison, no matter how many books I see him hauling into his apartment. Unless he loses his pro hockey skates, I’m out. But then he shows up at my symphony concert. And I catch the sweet strains of Bach floating across the hall. Have I mentioned how incredible he looks in his game day suit? Still, my history with hockey is complicated. My older brother played, and let’s just say he stole enough limelight to land a plane at midnight. I was forced to be a part of that world for so long, now that I have a choice, it’s the last thing I want.