“And, what? He just asked for my number?”
“He said he saw you sneaking glances at your phone all the way through history class. I can’t believe you haven’t gotten busted for that yet. You know the school’s zero-tolerance policy.”
“Can you please skip the lecture? I seriously need every detail.”
“There’s no detail to give. He said he saw you fiddling in class and wanted to text you. He said you were cute.”
“He said I was cute?”
“Oh, Jesus. Who swapped my friend with Hannah Montana?”
It hadn’t been easy, but Becca had finally gotten Sophie to admit that Dan did have a special spark. And his texts were so … not what she’d expected. Cool. Almost kind of deep.
And it hadn’t just been the messages. They’d been meeting. First behind the mall. Once at his house when his parents were out of town. There’d been a few times at the baseball field, kissing and whatever. But then three nights ago, it had been an invitation to meet him in the city. And his friends had been there. Friends from the team. Even a couple of cheerleaders. Becca had been nervous at first. She couldn’t possibly fit in. But they’d been pretty cool with her. Dan was already talking about going to the city with her again.
And now Dan was asking her for more: C’mon. Just a little peek. I won’t tell anyone. She found herself tempted. Liked the idea of being the kind of girl who could titillate a guy like Dan Hunter. Just a little peek.
She could slip into the ladies’ room. Make sure to reveal the background. Make it a little raunchy.
A new message popped up on the screen. You know you want to.
He was right. She did.
No. It was better to make him work for it a little longer. Play hard to get. Make sure this was for real before giving him what he wanted.
She typed a response: Very tempting. And very soon.
That should serve its purpose. Buy her a little time.
In the meantime, she had someone else to meet. She saw the minivan pull up in front of the train station. Her ride was here. She had two secrets. Dan Hunter and the man whom she’d been meeting here nearly once a week for the last two months. They both made her feel special in ways she’d never known before.
CHAPTER THREE
Four days after Alice first met Drew Campbell at the Fuller Building, the conversation that once held life-changing promise now seemed like nothing but heady party talk.
“I hate to say I told you so.” Lily’s dark green eyes smiled at her over the rim of the Bloody Mary she was sipping on the other side of the tiny bistro table.
“Oh, yes. I know how much it pains you to be right. I mean, as pain goes, having to say you told me so is way up there: hot tar, waterboarding, the iron maiden.”
Lily had skipped out of work early to meet her for a late lunch at Balthazar. Unfortunately, they weren’t the only New Yorkers with fantasies of a leisurely afternoon spent lounging at a Parisian-style brasserie, authentically re-created in SoHo. Even at three o’clock, they’d had to wait thirty minutes for their postcard-sized table. Still, as Alice broke off another chunk of baguette, she had no regrets.
“What is an iron maiden anyway?” she asked.
“No clue,” Lily said, tucking a loose strand of her pixie cut tightly behind her left ear before reaching for another moule. “At the very least it inspired years of big-hair, leather-pants metal music. Torture enough as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thanks for kicking out of work early. You sure you won’t earn the Gorilla’s wrath?”
Lily was an editor for a travel magazine where her boss was so notorious for picking at her every move that he’d earned a special nickname. “Are you shitting me? There’s no such thing as a wrathless half day. When he saw me walking out with my coat, he made sure to tell me he needed that piece on Florence tomorrow morning when it wasn’t supposed to be due until Friday. Good thing for me it’s pretty much done already.”
Alice had met Lily in a spin class at her gym last summer. Their friendship had started with occasional groans about their shared discomfort as they grew accustomed to all that time spent bouncing on a bicycle seat. Then they’d moved on to casual conversations in the locker room after class. Once they realized they were both single and lived within a few blocks of the gym, they exchanged cell phone numbers with a promise of meeting in the neighborhood for a spontaneous drink.
Usually those “sometime we should” occasions were nothing but idle talk—imagined time people might spend if their lives weren’t already cluttered and prescheduled—but Lily had actually called. About three drinks in that first night, they figured out that they’d spent their lives only a few degrees of separation from each other. Lily was three years older than Alice and was raised in Westchester, but had traveled in the same rebellious circles as Alice’s older brother.
Now, six months into their friendship, Alice felt like she’d known Lily for years. And it was a comfortable kind of friendship. Unlike a lot of her other friends, Lily took Alice’s last name in stride. She never asked for screening videos, for an autograph, or that annoying question that made Alice want to throw something: “What was it like to grow up with your father?” And unlike Alice’s friends with similarly privileged upbringings, she had never once told Alice to run back to her parents for financial support. Most importantly of all, Lily Harper was honest. She was one of those rare friends who would tell someone what she needed to hear, not what she wanted. And when Alice had first called her after leaving the Fuller Building that night, Lily had told Alice that Drew Campbell was full of shit. Now, four days later, they were rehashing the case against him once again.
“I mean, you just happen to be unemployed, and he just happens to have the perfect job for you? A wealthy anonymous benefactor who will pay for the studio but allow you to run it? The kept young artist who has captured the closeted old man’s heart?”
“I know, I know. You told me so. It was too good to be true.”
“Well, I do hate to say it. The guy was just trying to get in your pants.”
“Black pencil skirt actually. With tights.”
“Fine, then—up your skirt and down your Spanxie pants. I swear, Alice. I might have to take away your Sisters in Cynicism membership card for this one. You can’t tell when a guy’s running a line on you?”
“You had to be there. He seemed legit.”
“The good ones always do. How many women on the Sunday-morning walk of shame are saying the same thing? Tell it to the nurse at the STD clinic.”
With the cacophony of the brasserie in full effect, Alice would not have known about the incoming call had she not felt the subtle vibration of her cell phone from her handbag against her thigh. She was about to ignore it but knew that if she didn’t at least check the screen—as she had every twenty minutes for the last four days—she’d spend the rest of her lunch with Lily wondering maybe, just maybe.
She felt a tiny glimmer of hope when she read “Blocked” on the caller ID. Any of her usual callers—mom, brother, Jeff (who escaped all meaningful labels)—would have popped up in her directory. Lily nodded at her to take the call.
“Hello?” She used her index finger to plug her unoccupied ear and ignored the irritated stares of her fellow diners as she made her way to the front entrance.
By the time Alice returned to her table ten minutes later, Lily had finished her Bloody Mary and was playing a game on her phone. Alice’s other friends would have either scolded her for disappearing so long or dropped some passive-aggressive comment about the boredom during the wait.
Not