Page 29 of The Beach Trap

But then his mouth twists and he furrows his eyebrows, and I watch as my last whisper of hope vanishes into thin air.

“I feel for your predicament,” Steve says, “but without a steady source of income or any equity, I’m afraid the math just isn’t in your favor.”

The math or anything else.I sink back in the chair, and Steve’s face softens. Normally, I hate anyone feeling sorry for me—I like to portray an image that’s strong and powerful, not weak and weepy—but I’m running out of options.

“Do you have anyone who could cosign the loan?” Steve asks.

My father’s face comes into focus in my mind—and he’s scowling, disappointed in me like always. It’s hard to believe it was only a few months ago we had a conversation about financial stability. I’d just reached seventy thousand followers on Instagram, and I’d hoped he’d finally be impressed. I even looked up the stats so I could tell him the number in baseball terms—which was almost twice as many people as could fit in the Braves’ stadium.

I remember the way his eyebrows lifted momentarily beforehe scowled again. “What would you get if you took those numbers to the bank?” he’d asked.

Clearly, nothing.

I shiver, wondering if my dad’s response was a prophecy or self-fulfilled curse. Either way, I’m broke and have nowhere else to turn.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I tell Steve as I stand to leave.

“I really am sorry for your loss,” he says.

I nod and wonder if he’s talking about my father, the beach house, or both. They’re tied together in my mind, but there’s only one I have a fighting chance to keep.

A sob rises in my throat, but I swallow it down and slip my sunglasses on, grateful for the cover to hide the tears welling in my eyes. I may not have money or equity or enough credit, but I still have my pride.

Taking a deep breath, I hold my head high, push my shoulders back, and #KatWalk out of his office. Like I tell my followers, if you walk like you’re confident, that’s how the world will see you.

Outside, the heat is oppressive and the warm air instantly fogs my lenses. I rip them off, annoyed that even my sunglasses are letting me down. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man stopped in middle of the sidewalk. He doesn’t even pretend not to be staring as I walk past.

Attention from men comes with the #KatWalk territory. Normally I don’t mind; sometimes I even flirt back—but I’m not in Destin to have fun. I’m here to save my family’s beach house.

My lower lip trembles with the sense of my impending failure, and I pick up the pace. I’m almost to my car when I hear the man’s voice.

“Kitty?”

The once familiar name stops me in my tracks. I started going by Kat at summer camp because I thought it sounded more“sophisticated” and continued it when I got home, but for a different reason.

At the time, my mom thought I’d abandoned the nickname because my bat mitzvah was approaching and according to Jewish law, I would be a woman soon. No longer a little girl. Of course, in reality, it wasn’t a religious ceremony that ended my childhood.

The weight of the secret I carried for my dad changed me, along with the knowledge that my family could fall apart if I said or did the wrong thing. The old nickname didn’t fit me anymore. Kitty was gone. I was Kat.

I turn and glare at the man, who’s still unabashedly staring. I squint to get a better look, but the sun is shining directly behind him. I lift my hand to shield my eyes and walk toward him, propelled by curiosity.

The man is tall and broad shouldered, with wavy brown hair that’s on the long side, tucked behind his ears. It’s not on trend, but he pulls it off. His outfit is even less on trend, unless “Construction Chic” is a new style. He’s wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans that look naturally worn, not like they were bought that way.

I can’t put my finger on why he seems so familiar. He looks like he works with his hands—maybe he’s one of the guys who used to work at the Rooneys’ house, although then he’d know me as Kat, not Kitty.

“Henry Alexander,” the man says with a half wave.

At the sound of his name, the past and present versions of my childhood friend merge into one. “The boy with two first names,” I say, as if I’m solving a puzzle onWheel of Fortune.

Henry pushes a lock of hair away from his face and smiles. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. With those deep green eyes and the single dimple on his cheek, the man standing infront of me is so clearly a grown-up version of the boy I used to spend summers and spring breaks with.

The two of us and the Rooneys—CoCo and Junior—had been inseparable when we were kids. I don’t remember when or why we stopped hanging out, but I know it’s been years. More than a decade.

“I can’t believe you recognized me,” I say.

“I’d know that smile anywhere,” he says.

“I wasn’t smiling.”

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