“Are you a lawyer like Bee?” he asked, trying again.

“No,” Vicki said flatly. “I’m an interior designer for a grocery store chain.”

“Sounds exciting,” Joe said, relieved that she’d responded.

“Does it?” Vicki answered, turning toward him. Intimidated by her sudden attention, he looked back at the road and clutched the wheel. He took a deep breath before speaking again.

“It sounds like a good, solid job,” Joe said, his eyes focused on the SUV in front of them. “Interior design sounds exciting to me. I know a few interior designers who do restaurants in Vegas. It’s an interesting business, although I don’t know what it’s like to design a grocery store. Do you work for a specific chain?”

“I work for Walton’s.”

Joe nodded. “We don’t have Walton’s out in Vegas, but I remember them from my East Coast days. So, what does an interior designer for a grocery store do? Do you decide where they put the milk? Or do you pick out the wallpaper?”

“Walton’s doesn’t use wallpaper, except for the wall behind the customer-service desk,” Vicki said, allowing herself to relax more comfortably in the passenger’s seat. “Really, there’s little creativity in the designing I do. Every Walton’s looks the same, with a few exceptions. The bakery signs are identical in every store. The majority of the walls have to be buttercream yellow. I’m basically just a project manager. I travel to all the stores in my region and make sure everything looks right. I order repaints when things chip.”

Vicki let out a sigh, drained by the explanation.

Joe’s eyes narrowed as he thought of a next move.

“You probably have a great apartment,” he said, peering to his right to see if she was still engaged in the conversation. “I mean, the walls in your apartment don’t have to be buttercream yellow, do they? I bet you get pretty creative at home.”

“I guess so,” Vicki said, nodding. “Actually, my place is pretty beautiful. The cost of living is so low up in Rochester that I was able to order some pretty high-end furniture, stuff I dreamed about in college. It’s just that nobody sees it. No one really wants to come to Rochester, and I don’t blame them.”

Joe grinned, picturing her lounging in silk pajamas on a velvet couch all alone. “I’m sure it’s beautiful,” he continued, now more confident that she was participating in the back-and-forth. “Is there anything redeeming about Rochester? Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t live in New York. I assumed you were a New Yorker when I saw you in that leather jacket in the lobby. And the guitar…”

Vicki shrugged again. “I’d hoped to move to New York with Hannah, my best friend, after college. I wanted to start a small decorating firm. I had this great idea that I’d hook up rich people with trendy artists. Like, instead of buying people furniture from high-end shops, I’d hire an independent woodworker to make something unique. I’d hire my art school friends to make one-of-a-kind wallpaper. Hannah loved the idea. But Walton’s headhunted me. They offered me a ridiculous salary, which is even more ridiculous up in Rochester. I probably save more than I spend. But that’s the price. I have to live far from friends and put up with those winters while everyone else is being a twentysomething in a cool place. And no fancy design firm. No cool apartment with Hannah in Brooklyn. Golden handcuffs. That’s what they call it, right? When you get paid too much to leave to do what would actually make you happy?”