CHAPTER ONE #2
Katie’s cheeks flush pink. “No thanks. I’m here to see art and architecture, not hook up with some wannabe Casanova who’s got a different tourist warming his sheets in every city.”
“That just means he’s had plenty of practice. Experience is never a bad thing when it comes to orgasms.”
“Oh my God, Petra!”
Cam’s face pops up on screen, splitting our call into thirds. Her rich chestnut hair is yanked back in a messy ponytail, secured with one of her signature scrunchies. Behind her… Is that a palm tree? Indoors? And why are there vines all over the ceiling?
“?Ay, Dios mío! I am so sorry I totally lost track of time filming,” she says.
“Um… Cam?” I blink. “Are you calling us from inside a sex-themed Rainforest Cafe? ”
She exhales like a woman who’s aged ten years in two days. “Yeah. No. Kinda. This room has no walls. None. What it does have is ambient jungle sounds, a spinning bed, and a scent that makes me feel like I’m being seduced by a pina colada.”
Katie squints. “Wait—is that a sex swing ?”
“Don’t ask,” Cam mutters. “If I had known fake-dating my boss included sharing a bed in the Love Den, I never would’ve gotten on the plane to Hawaii.”
Poor Cam. Two years as the videographer for Reece Dare, the internet’s favorite daredevil-turned-lifestyle-brand, and all she has to show for it is an impressive collection of stress headaches.
The guy is YouTube-famous for jumping off buildings and eating ghost peppers, but from what Cam tells us, he’s a brooding asshole with control issues and no amount of washboard abs can make up for his personality.
“Catch me up! Have you handed out any well-deserved smackdowns at work yet?” Cam asks.
“There’s been violence, but not the kind I prefer.
Monday, I drenched the quarterly reports in coffee.
Tuesday, I broke the printer twice and caused a system meltdown trying to hide it.
Wednesday, I called a board member Dick instead of Ronald .
Thursday, I answered my brother’s phone with, Broken Bottle.
Drink responsibly, tip recklessly, because my brain was stuck in bartending mode. ”
Cam is cry-laughing. Katie looks like she’s buffering.
“You’re both thinking it, so I’ll just say it. I am thriving.” I wink.
Katie takes a steadying breath. “I could make you a binder to keep your tasks more organized. Step-by-step procedures—”
“No thanks,” I say, cutting her off. “I’m sticking with my proven strategy of not writing shit down and seeing what happens. The deal I made with my brother is to work for him this summer to get my college money. He never said I had to be good at it.”
“So you’re still working the bartending gig?” Cam asks.
“I’m broke AF, so yeah, but only weekends now. Gotta make rent on my shithole apartment.” I flash them a devilish grin. “Unless I wanna take my landlord up on his oh-so-generous offer to swap sex for rent.”
“You’re joking, right?” Katie asks. “Please be joking.”
“Relax, I’m kidding. The guy’s a fossil who reeks of mothballs and Fritos. But seriously, the stack of unpaid bills on my counter is starting to resemble a freaking Jenga tower.”
Cam’s eyes flicker with concern, and I can already tell what’s coming before she opens her mouth. “Sooo… can we ask about the Bryce situation? Have you seen him?”
There it is. The B-word. The name that makes my stomach do this annoying flip-flop .
Bryce Sterling.
He’s the reason I dropped out of UCLA senior year.
Why I didn’t graduate with my friends.
And he’s why I bought a one-way ticket to Europe and tried to eat, hike, and slut my way into forgetting him.
Spoiler: didn’t work.
“Haven’t seen him. He’s been in New York all week on business.”
Both of their faces soften immediately, and I hate it. They’re the only two people on this planet who know the truth about Bryce Sterling—my brother’s best friend. Co-CEO of the company I now work for.
They’re painfully aware that I’ve been obsessed with him since I was fifteen years old .
Fifteen. That brutal age where hormones take over your brain and you think any guy who looks your way is your soulmate. But with Bryce, it wasn’t just another teenage crush… it was an all-consuming romantic freefall.
Guys like Bryce don’t choose girls like me. He comes from old money, and I’m counting quarters to avoid parking tickets.
My heart’s been stuck on him for a decade, and he’s clueless. Or maybe he knows and only plays dumb to save me the humiliation. That night at my high school graduation party—when I kissed him and he fled—it’s in the past.
“I’ve moved on. Grown up. End of story.”
My besties’ faces are unconvinced.
“No, I’m dead serious. This summer I’m getting my shit in gear, not crushing on a guy who sees me as his best friend’s chaotic little sister.”
And reality check: Bryce is taken. He’s been living with his girlfriend for two years—a blonde socialite, exactly the type you’d expect.
He’ll be putting a ring on it any day now, just like my brother did with his fiancée Fiona.
Soon they’ll all be hanging out in the Hamptons, chatting about stock portfolios and Ivy League preschools.
Whereas my bankrupt ass had to swallow my pride and beg my brother for cash to return to college.
I’m sick of mixing drinks and making bad decisions.
Gavin is always trying to play the dad role, and this time he came up with a plan to prove to my family—and myself—that for once, I can actually finish something I start.
Translation: prove I’m not a screw-up.
My phone buzzes like a pissed-off hornet, lighting up with a text from my Bossy McBrotherface .
Gavin: They moved up the Public Relations IPO strategy meeting. It’s in 30 minutes. I need that slide deck NOW!
Shit. That’s on my laptop…. in pieces. I don’t want to say “corporate espionage,” but I may have lost interest halfway through figuring out how PowerPoint animations work. And then, I may or may not have accidentally deleted half the transitions.
More vibrations from my phone.
Gavin: PETRA. SLIDES. WHERE ARE THEY?
I’m typing some BS about the slides being “almost done” when the hot bartender arrives with a heavenly BBQ chicken pizza. The tangy sauce and melted cheese make my stomach growl loud enough to turn heads.
“Can I get it to go?” I say, already grabbing my stuff. “And the bill. It’s a corporate emergency, which apparently is a real thing and not just something people say to sound important.”
I turn back to my phone, where Katie and Cam are still waiting.
“Bro dropped another all-caps text, and in Gavin-speak, that means someone’s about to get canned or killed or both. Miss you, love you, bye.”
“Good luck!” they chorus as I end the call.
With incredible speed, both a pizza box and the bill materialize. I tap my card to the reader and pray to the Bank Account Gods. BEEP! Transaction approved. A fucking miracle.
Quickly, I check my banking app balance. $35.62.
Great. I’m one splurge away from selling my kidney in some shady back alley.
I grab my pizza box, back away from the bar, and I see it: his number scrawled on the side in black Sharpie, complete with a little smiley face .
“Has that ever worked?” I ask.
He leans against the bar, muscles flexing casually. “Call me later, and I’ll let you know.”
“Fair warning—I’m the red flag people warn their friends about .”
I hip-check CPK’s door open, pizza box in one hand and phone in the other.
I’m ready to dash to my car when I see a familiar figure sitting on a nearby bench.
His faded Army jacket and worn boots clash with the perfectly manicured shrubs around him.
Wispy silver hair catches the sunlight—longer since the last time I saw him.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite sidewalk philosopher,” I say, changing course toward him. “I haven’t seen you in the neighborhood lately.”
Between his calloused fingers, I spot the worn-out cover of The Great Gatsby —because Jim might be homeless, but his taste in literature is top-notch.
“Thought I’d come see how the other half lives. Maybe absorb some wealth through proximity.”
“Careful—these people don’t do outsiders. Linger too long, and they’ll call security on you for blinking too loud.”
I study him.
“You eaten yet?”
“Nah. Just feasting on the ambiance.”
Before I can stop myself, I’m thrusting the pizza box at him. “Here.”
“That’s your lunch, kid. I may not have a roof, but I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity if it’s friendship.”
His fingers curl around the box. “You spoil me.”
“So… you go to Legal Aid yet?” I ask, not staring at him. That’s the trick. Don’t look too hard, or he’ll shut down .
“Not yet. But I will.”
“I’m holding you to that, Jim. They owe you. And not the ‘thanks for your service’ bumper sticker bullshit kind of owe. The actual benefits kind.”
Jim cracks the faintest smile. “When you’re a big-shot lawyer, I expect you to sue the pants off every last one of them. Pro bono, of course.”
“Obviously.”
His words are a shot of adrenaline to my heart.
Everyone thinks I’m crawling back to finish my art degree.
But Jim knows the truth. That my dream, which low-key terrifies me, is to go to law school.
I wanna fight for the little guys, the ones who get stepped on, ignored, and shoved aside.
Everyday people who need a voice and a good lawyer.
But for now, I’m tucking that little secret away, safe and sound, in case I crash and burn.
My phone buzzes another screaming text from my brother. “Oh shit! I gotta go. The rat race owns me now.”
“Give ’em hell.”
“I will!”
I rush toward my car, mentally calculating how many traffic laws I can violate and still maintain plausible deniability. And then, lo and behold, “Let’s Fuck With Petra Day” kicks into high gear.
A parking enforcement officer.
Standing by my car.
Writing a ticket.
“No, no, no—I’m here! It’s fine!”
The officer—built like a garden gnome—doesn’t even look up, tapping away on his little ticket-spitting machine.