Even if I’m not exactly financially solvent.

But who is solvent these days? Economics are brutal. Everyone’s trying to keep ahead of the tax man and MasterCard.

At least I have a job. And an apartment (for now). Which makes me better off than 99.99 percent of the people in the world, and right now strong fresh-fruit-juice margaritas are creating a nice little buzz in my head.

Unlocking my apartment door, I hear footsteps descend the staircase above my head, and I try to shove myself into my apartment before I’m seen.

“Holly.”

I stop shoving myself. I turn, watch hiking boots appear. Jeans. A man’s muscled thighs. Hips. Chest. Indecently broad shoulders. It’s Drew, Cindy’s significant other, and he’s carrying a bike on his shoulder. The guy’s a sports freak. And so good-looking it makes my eyes hurt.

“Hi, Drew.” I wish I’d escaped. Cindy’s not tall, but she’s lean, mean, looks killer even in padded biking shorts, and I look nothing like Cindy. Besides, Cindy’s a savvy decision maker. She’s aggressive. She plays to win. I don’t know that game.

“How are you settling in?”

“Fine.” Drew and I have bumped into each other only a couple of times, but he’s always really nice, very friendly—not that Cindy appreciates the friendliness. She’s never rude to me, but she doesn’t invite conversation. She doesn’t want conversation. She’s made it clear on several occasions (like when two weeks after I first moved in, when I asked if I could borrow an egg since I’d dropped one) that I’m her tenant. I’m just business. Nothing more.

I look at the bike on his shoulder. “Going for a ride?”

“I did earlier. Heading home now.” He smiles, great smile, great teeth, little creases at his eyes from all the sun exposure. “The offer still stands. If you ever want to join me—”

“Right.” Right. Like I need to get evicted. “Thanks.” I tense, hearing footsteps on the stairs again. Cindy’s on her way down. I’m not in the mood to deal with her tonight.