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hope of that desperate sixteen-year-old speaking up once more.
    And, okay, for a minute there, I let hope out of its cage.
    Call it a moment of weakness.
    His eyes narrowed slightly, and suddenly I wondered how much he did see. Scary thought. I turned and fumbled with the key, cursing myself for forgetting how perceptive he was, for being dumb enough to let my guard down. I felt the heat of a blush from nipples to hairline.
    “Sorry, I can’t help,” I said quickly.
    And I ran.
    Well, not exactly ran. More like lunged (or perhaps tripped) across the threshold of my apartment, forced a smile, said goodnight and shut the door on that sharp gaze.
    Then I leaned back against the door, considered the crack in the ceiling that I’d been meaning to fix, and felt like an ass.
    Everything was jumbled up inside me, but at least I should have held the conviction that I had done the right thing.
    I didn’t have any such thing.
    I reviewed the bidding. Nick was trouble, everyone had always said so, and though
    I hadn’t believed it for the longest time, he’d proven the truth of it to me in the end. It doesn’t come more cheaply than a thank-you, but he hadn’t anted up. I was old enough to know better than to trust him again, old enough to not expect anything different from him, old enough to have learned from my mistakes. I certainly shouldn’t have been charmed by the brush of a warm fingertip.
    Which explained, of course, why I felt so mean .
    I took a deep breath and crossed to the kitchen. The answering machine light was flashing. Maybe I’d been too hard on ol’ Nick. Maybe he had picked up the phone earlier in the day.
    Did I just want to hear his voice again?
    Not wanting to go there, I stabbed at the reply button. I rolled my eyes as a familiar, slightly slurred voice filled my kitchen.
    It wasn’t Nick.
    “Philippa? If you’re there, pick up.” A long pause followed, then mom took a sip and I could guess of what. “Well, I certainly hope you’re not working late again. That’s no way to find a husband, Philippa, all cooped up in that terrible office of yours. And what an area it’s in. Surely you could have found something more posh, something with affluent neighbors where you might be seen... Oh! Maybe you’re on a date tonight.”
    Mom’s voice warmed in a most predictable way. I leaned against the counter and pinched the bridge of my nose. So maybe my life had two familiar theme songs, both of which grated on my nerves.
    “Now wouldn’t that be a wonderful surprise. Does he have money? Did he take you somewhere nice? I want to hear all the details. I certainly hope he comes from a good family, Philippa, for you do have less discrimination than any young woman I’ve ever known.”
    Mom’s voice rose slightly and she settled in for a rant. The woman could fill my tape from start to finish, just ruminating through my endless potential and considerable list of shortfalls.
    “Which is probably why you’re not on a date at all!” She exhaled indignantly. “You’re probably gallivanting around with that partner of yours.”
    I’ve always wanted to know how to gallivant. It sounds like fun. My mother would not seem to be the kind of person who would really know.
    She was right about Elaine, though. Elaine probably wrote the book on gallivanting. I’d have to ask for instruction.
    “That Elaine is a tart , Philippa, the worst kind of trash and you’ll never find a decent prospect while you consort with the likes of her...”
    I hit the stop button. “She’s my friend,” I firmly told the machine, which was just about as effective as telling that to my mother and a lot less stressful. I rewound the tape without listening to the rest of the lecture.
    Maybe my life was a bit thin in the romantic department. Maybe parting badly with Nick once didn’t mean we should part badly again.
    Maybe I’m the world’s heavyweight champion sucker.
    But maybe I owed him something, both for the years of