Bette paused, the key in the ignition. Frowning slightly, she said, “You’re right.”

“See?”

“No, I mean, you’re right; it isn’t your place to say.”

Ugh.

At the club, I climbed out and leaned in through the open window to thank her for everything she’d done.

She shrugged. “Thanks for letting me make it up to you.”

“Listen.” I glanced behind me for a moment and then ducked my head back in. “Are you doing anything today?” I bit my lip.

She was examining her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, I have to work.”

“But it’s Saturday,” I blurted out. She glanced at me.

“So?”

“So, it’s the weekend. You’re supposed to relax, have fun.”

“Alice, this may be difficult for you to understand, but some people like their jobs.”

“Who?”

Bette chuckled. “Me.”

“Ugh, whatever.” I flicked my bangs out of my eyes. I could see me liking my job a whole lot more if I wasn’t scraping around for money, but I don’t know if I’d ever like it to the point of gladly working on a Saturday. I shudder to think.

“Why don’t I call you sometime?” Bette asked. I wish I could tell you that the mini-Alice that lives in my head wasn’t doing a little victory dance, but alas, I cannot.

“Okay.”

“Are you in the book?”

“Yeah. Pieszecki. P-I-E-S-”

She waved her hand. “I’ll never be able to remember that. You call me. Bette Porter.”

“Um…” In some ways, that was better, because it meant she couldn’t give me the brush-off. On the other hand, I had been the girl in the past who left several messages on answering machines and ended up sounding like a crazy, rabid stalker.

Oh, well. I’d take my chances.

“Sounds good.”

“All right.” Bette slid her sunglasses on and gave me another ***** glorious smile. “See you.”

And she drove off. Just like that.

I don’t know how I managed to get in my car and drive home because I was so lightheaded. And exhilarated. And euphoric.

And okay, maybe the tiniest bit infatuated with Bette Porter.