and Bailey heard only her low breathing, the rustle of some sort of plant, as though she was outside in the backyard of her rented Wilton Manors house.
“You know you have to get over this thing about men like Daddy,” Bette said.
“What about you and your thing about women like Mama?”
“I’m not even going to justify that with an answer.” For once, her sister sounded incredibly grown-up, coolly attempting to put Bailey in her place. “I’m not shutting a whole population of people out of my dating pool just because they don’t have the kind of job you find ideal.”
“I’m not going to compromise myself—”
“It’s not compromise when you’re making yourself miserable going after guys like Clive, who aren’t worth anything. I’m sure the guy you were lusting after is great if you’ll just give him a chance.”
“I don’t think so,” Bailey muttered.
On the beach, the man turned away from the water and began to pull on his clothes. He shoved his feet in sandals and threw something—probably a shirt—over his shoulder. A sixth sense must have warned him about her watching, because he looked up. And Bailey lost her breath. She was dimly aware of him raising a hand in acknowledgment. Then, instead of waiting on a response from her, the man walked up the sand away from the water, and away from her. Bailey blinked as she watched the dark figure disappear down a narrow side street.
It was Seven Carmichael.
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