She sighed as she looked up into the sky. Wonder who she’ll bring this weekend? She shook her head as the float bumped an edge and she shoved off with her foot, pushing her back into the middle. She didn’t profess to know Cassidy in the least. They’d only had a handful of conversations, after all. But still, she seemed nice. Normal. Attractive. Really attractive. Obviously wealthy enough to afford this huge ass house. She’d seen her car—a Mercedes. So yeah, she probably could get any date she wanted. Why then would she settle for these bimbos that she’d had over?

Oh, in all fairness, bimbo might be too strong a word. She’d not actually spoken to any of them. No, but she’d seen them through binoculars, seen enough to know that not a single one of them was a keeper. But even though those women weren’t her type, that didn’t mean they weren’t Cassidy’s type.

“The worst taste,” she murmured.

The ringing of her phone brought her around and she paddled as fast as she could to the side, sliding the towel toward her, the towel that her phone rested on. Her eyes widened when she saw who it was. Crap!

She cleared her throat before answering. “Hello.”

“Hey…it’s me. Cassidy.”

“Hi.” She looked around her guiltily, hoping Cassidy couldn’t hear the sound of the pool water lapping at her float.

“Am I calling at a bad time?”

“No, no. I’m just…just…actually, I’m over at your place. Scoping out possible flowerbeds,” she lied.

“Oh, that’s great. I was just thinking, it was presumptuous of me to expect you to pay for everything and get reimbursed later. I mean—”

“A couple of hundred bucks won’t break me,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t know. I assumed you didn’t have a job.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Independently wealthy?”

Laura snorted. “In my dreams. I’m…” What? A writer? “I’m taking a break from…from my job. My mother needed someone to stay with her after Frankie died. I got the short straw.”

“Oh, I see. Well, this weekend, if you could give me an idea of what you’re spending, then I’ll leave some cash for you to use. In fact, I should have done that anyway.”

“Cassidy, you don’t—”

“I’ll leave it in the pool closet,” she said, ignoring Laura’s protest. “Whatever you take out, put a receipt in. That’s fair, right?”

It would help, she acknowledged. Lately, if she kept more than five hundred dollars in her checking account, it was an anomaly. She had been milking her savings account for the last year, touching it as little as possible. Still, to be thirty-seven years old—thirty-eight in two days—and barely have ten thousand dollars in savings was a little scary.

“Okay. Deal.”