I want to ask what his chest looks like. What his arms look like. But really, this isn’t something I should be indulging. He might be my father’s vice president. Do I want to be that girl, ogling the man in charge? So much for making it on my own; everyone would assume I was angling for something if they caught me drooling.

“Anyway, yeah, I know him. Ha.” And that’s when I remember that this started as a challenge, with me positing that Phoebe didn’t know everyone after all.

The moment pops like a balloon. She’s moved on, now stirring three packets of sugar into her coffee. She drank half of it black, and now wants it sweet. But not just sweet — diabetes sweet.

I laugh. I look around a little, spotting the servers one by one. I let a minute pass, ready to talk if Phoebe tries to start a new topic. But she doesn’t, so I choose my time then casually speak.

“So I should hit that,” I say, quoting Phoebe, trying to make it sound like I think the idea is ridiculous. But it’s the very idea of my finding it ridiculous that’s crazy, seeing as I was eighteen the last time Phoebe and I hung out. I did tend to drool over guys a lot back then. I still kind of want to, honestly. But that’s exactly what Dad expects me to do, and drooling over his up-and-comer isn’t the best way to prove myself as a pro.

“You said he’s moving up in the company, right? So, yeah. Hit it. You’ve got access.”

“I don’t hook up with guys because I have ‘access.’”

Phoebe makes a little pfft sound.

“Besides, I just got out of a relationship. It’s time to just be me.”

“You don’t have to be him,” Phoebe says. “Just hit it.”

But that’s not me, and Phoebe knows it. I want to ask more, but that’ll make this more obvious. I’ve said enough. I’ve shown my interest. I’m not here to be boy crazy. I’m not here to be a flighty little girl. I’m here to be a professional.

If my father thinks he knows who I am, it’s my job, right now, to convince him I’ve become someone else. Someone capable of being responsible and level-headed. The kind of person who doesn’t change her walking path every morning in search of bare-chested men to ogle.

But before saying anything else, I look down into my cream-colored coffee, stirring slowly, and seem to see Brandon Grant in its depths. Stripping off his vice-presidential, powerful, ambitious shirt and picking up a hammer, a saw, anything that makes his muscles flex and his skin gleam with perspiration.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brandon

GIVING BRIDGET THE MONEY SHE needed hurts more than I’d have thought. Not only does it empty my bank account and dip into the cash I have on hand, it also reminds me just how thin I’ve stretched myself.

If I’d had real parents, I suppose they’d have taught me the value of money from both ends. I hear this is how it works from guys like Grady and Shaun, both of whom grew up with allowances and curfews. I’d have learned that money shouldn’t be spent frivolously because it comes from hard work, not privilege. No worries on that lesson; I got that one in spades. But I’d also have learned to spend within my means and not buy anything I can’t afford. I did less well with this one. One company offered me a credit card at age twenty, and I used it to buy stuff that I couldn’t always afford but needed — like food, toothpaste, and clothes. Then someone else offered me a card, and I bought more, drifting further from necessary. Credit lines were always small, and I never lived far above the poverty line, but I still managed to rack up some hefty balances.

After depleting my account and wallet, I stopped by a convenience store for a gallon of milk and accidentally tried to pay with my maxed-out card.

When I realized my mistake, I pulled out my second maxed-out card.

I got it right on the third try, but the two incorrect attempts made me think to check my balance when I got home. What I found made me pull out a calculator. Yes, I think I can make it to payday, but only just. And then I’ll still have to watch my ass for a while if I expect to fill my account in time to empty it again for rent. So much for at least having the safety of credit cards.

Giving Bridget that money didn’t just cost me $800. It cost a lot of dignity.

I slouch down on the couch anyway, trying to make my body casual. If someone were to barge in here, what position of arms and legs and torso would make the newcomer decide in an instant, “Now here’s a man who doesn’t give a shit”? What would make them know, just by looking, that I’m above it all, without a care in the world?  I try to form that shape, hoping to convince myself.

It’s cool. Even if I have to be late on rent, I can be late, right? They won’t kick me out if there’s a two-week delay — just long enough to get my next paycheck?

And if that fails, I have friends. I don’t want to ask anyone for money, but if I had to, I could. And if they didn’t have money to give me — because, really, it’s not like I know Caspian White — I could always, if I got kicked out somehow, crash on Shaun’s couch, couldn’t I?

Of course I could.

I try to pretend that these thoughts are comforting. I try to pretend I’ve analyzed my situation to its logical worst-case scenario and found it not terrible, or irredeemable. I don’t owe thousands to loan sharks coming to break my legs. I’m in debt to the credit card companies, but that’s normal in the Western world. I’m fine. Yes, it had occurred to me more than once lately that I was living redline, and that was before Bridget’s loan. But I’ll be okay. I make a decent wage, and now that I’ve paid some shit off, I can start letting it pile up. Small piles, but piles nonetheless.

I look around, sighing.

I don’t want to keep living in a place like this. Yes, I could save a few bucks here and there if there weren’t any more emergencies and if I stayed at the Regency. But do I really want to live on the edge of Little Amsterdam? Do I really want to feel one step above a flophouse? Do I really not want more?

I build nice houses in Cherry Hill all day long — originally as a carpenter, and now as a team leader. I watch the walls of large floor plans go up board by board. I watch my crew set trusses that span wide rooms, create vaulted ceilings and two-story great rooms with skylights. I survey the work of electricians who’ve wired five bedrooms. When a home is nearly finished, I inspect the tile work in spacious kitchens and multiple-head showers floored in slate.

I spend all day with my mind inside houses of my dreams then come home to this.

I don’t want to, but I find my thoughts moving to our model homes. To our options packages. To our price sheets.

I ignore the truth that I’d have trouble qualifying for a mortgage and ballpark the down payment it would take to move into one of my many work homes, plus the monthly mortgage. That’s enough to depress me. It makes me want to go to a bar. To see if I can find some company. It’s not hard to find women. It’s hard that none stick, and I don’t want them to. The way I feel now, I won’t drink lightly or make smart decisions. I’ll find a girl who’s like junk food — good for a moment, but nothing more. We’d both leave satisfied … but we’d leave, for sure.

I want to do it anyway. I want to forget for a while then deal with feeling bad in the morning.