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“What do you mean by that?” asks Ginny. “Of course you’re staying!”

I struggle to craft an excuse, and when I do it’s a poor one. “Well, the bar probably doesn’t even need people at this point. We’re already weeks into summer.” The truth is that I technically don’t need a job at all. The unspoken agreement I’ve had with my parents is a sizable allowance and an Amex they pay off in exchange for me keeping my head down and doing what I’m supposed to do. And aside from the fact that they disliked Ryan, my ex, I’ve done just that. Although they do seem to be holding the Edward thing against me a bit, so I guess I can tack that onto the list too.

Kristy laughs. “Our manager is kind of a perv. He’ll make room for someone who looks like you.”

Internally I despair. I’ve already had my fill of bosses with ulterior motives. “He’s not going to, uh, expect anything, is he?”

“Nah,” she says. “But the uniform is ridiculously skimpy, so just brace yourself for a fair amount of eye-fucking.”

“I can’t believe James is okay with that,” I tell Ginny. He was always very protective of her. Of both of us, actually. I can’t imagine him putting up with any guy, especially a boss, checking her out.

Kristy laughs. “Ginny is the only one he doesn’t do that to. James must have scared the shit out of him.”

“Same way he did to every guy within the city limits,” sighs Ginny.

“You have a boyfriend,” I remind her. Ginny’s boyfriend of three years is in Spain for the summer, but they’ve been inseparable since the day they met back in high school. They’ve already named their children and discussed who will take leave when they have them.

“It’s just ridiculous,” she gripes. “I mean, he acts like they’re in their 40s and I’m 10.”

“You have a boyfriend,” I say again. ”And it’s kind of sweet, in a way.”

“Says the girl who can sleep with anyone she wants,” says Ginny.

Not anyone, apparently. But I keep this to myself.

I’m sitting on the couch when Max, the roommate I met earlier, plops down beside me. He’s attractive but in a very different way from James — lean and rangy, with dark hair that continually falls into his eyes. And a sly smile that I’m guessing gets him a lot of action.

“So you’re Andrew Grayson’s daughter, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say reluctantly. James and Ginny weren’t supposed to tell anyone who I was, but if he and James have been friends for a long time I guess maybe he already knew. I’m not convinced it’s going to work anyway. My name isn’t out and the photo of me and Edward only showed my back, but how long will that last?

“And your mom was that model, right?”

I nod. Also reluctantly, though for different reasons. No one would even know who my mother was, since she quit modeling when she got pregnant with me, aside for one thing: the bathing suit calendar. One photo in particular, my mother in a white bikini with her arms over her head, every element of her anatomy visible. The poster has apparently been pinned on thousands of bedroom walls. I still see it occasionally. And not a week goes by that I don’t hear the following from a guy I’ve just met:

1. That my mother is the first person he ever jerked off to (most guys imply this subtly, but not subtly enough).

And

2. That I look just like her.

Often I hear both things simultaneously, which is a particularly creepy combination.

“I had her poster on my wall in high school,” Max says. I have a strong feeling that he’s about to tell me more about this, but he’s cut off by James, who stands in front of us with a brow raised at Max before turning to me.

“Do you have stuff to carry in?” he asks.

“Oh,” I say, jumping up from the couch. “I totally forgot. But I can get it.”

“I’ll get it,” he says. He walks outside, stopping to hold the door for me. Chivalry is so engrained in him that the action is immediate, almost unconscious.

I could barely hear myself talk inside, but in front of the house it’s almost as if we’re the only people still awake. I hear the crickets chirping, notice the moon breaking through the pines, feel the soft needles crunch beneath my feet as I walk. I pop my trunk and he goes to the back of the car.

“You didn’t bring much,” he comments.

“I left in kind of a hurry,” I say.

“It was that bad?” he asks.