Too bad he shows no signs whatsoever of actually wanting it. My heart, that is.

Still, Paul—that’s his name; Jack’s older brother, I mean: Paul Slater—is pretty incredible. I mean, it isn’t just that he’s a hottie. Oh, no. Paul’s hot and funny. Every time I go to pick Jack up or drop him off at his family’s hotel suite, and his brother, Paul, happens to be there, he always has some flippant remark to make about the hotel or his parents or himself. Not mean or anything. Just funny.

And I think he’s smart, too, because whenever he isn’t on the golf course with his dad or playing tennis with his mom, he’s at the pool reading. And not your typical pool book, either. No Clancy or Crichton or King for Paul. Oh, no. We’re talking stuff by guys like Nietzsche, or Kierkegaard.

Seriously. It’s almost enough to make you think he’s not from California.

And of course it turns out, he’s not: The Slaters are visiting from Seattle.

So you see, it wasn’t just that Jack Slater is the whiniest kid I’ve ever met: There was also the fact that I wasn’t really all that enthused about his hottie brother seeing me, yet again, in shorts that make my butt look roughly the size of Montana.

But Caitlin was totally uninterested in my personal feelings on the matter.

“Suze,” Caitlin said, looking down at her clipboard again. “Nobody likes Jack. But the fact is, Dr. and Mrs. Slater like you. So you’re spending the day with Jack. Capisce?”

I sighed gustily, but what could I do? Aside from my pride, my tan was the only thing that was really going to suffer from spending yet another day with Jack. The kid doesn’t like swimming, or bike riding, or Rollerblading, or Frisbee tossing, or anything, really, to do with the great outdoors. His idea of a good time is to sit inside the hotel room and watch cartoons.

I’m not kidding, either. He is, without a doubt, the most boring kid I ever met. I find it hard to believe he and Paul came from the same gene pool.

“Besides,” Caitlin added, as I was standing there, fuming. “Today is Jack’s eighth birthday.”

I stared at her. “His birthday? It’s Jack’s birthday, and his parents are leaving him with a sitter all day?”

Caitlin shot me a severe look. “The Slaters say they’ll be back in time to take him to dinner at the Grill.”

The Grill. Whoopee. The Grill is the fanciest restaurant at the resort, maybe even on the entire peninsula. The cheapest thing they serve there costs about fifteen dollars, and that’s the house salad. The Grill is so not a fun place to take a kid on his eighth birthday. I mean, even Jack, the most boring child in the world, couldn’t have a fun time there.

I don’t get it. I really don’t. I mean, what’s wrong with these people? And how, seeing the way they treat their youngest child, had their other one managed to turn out so…

Well, hot?

At least, that was the word that flashed through my mind as Paul opened the door to his family’s suite in response to my knock, then stood there grinning down at me, one hand in the pocket of his cream-colored chinos, the other clutching a book by someone called Martin Heidegger.

Yeah, you know what the last book I read was? That’d be Clifford. That’s right. The big red dog. And okay, I was reading it to a five-year-old, but still. Heidegger. Jeez.

“All right. Who called Room Service and ordered the pretty girl?” Paul wanted to know.

Well, okay, that wasn’t funny. That was actually sort of sexually harassing, if you think about it. But the fact that the guy saying it was my age, about six feet tall, and olive-complected, with curly brown hair and eyes as blue as the ocean just beyond the Pebble Beach golf course, made it not so bad.

Not so bad. What am I talking about? The guy could sexually harass me anytime he wanted to. At least someone wanted to.

Just my luck it wasn’t the guy I wanted.

I didn’t admit this out loud, of course. What I said instead was, “Ha ha. I’m here for Jack.”

Paul winced. “Oh,” he said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “The little guy gets all the luck.”

He held the door open for me, and I stepped into the suite’s plush living room. Jack was where he usually was, sprawled on the floor in front of the TV. He did not acknowledge my presence, as was his custom.

His mother, on the other hand, did acknowledge me: “Oh, hi, Susan. Rick and Paul and I will be on the course all morning. And then the three of us are meeting for lunch at the Grotto, and then we’ve got appointments with our personal trainers. So if you could stay until we all get back, around seven, we’d appreciate it. Make sure Jack has a bath before changing for dinner. I’ve laid out a suit for him. It’s his birthday, you know. Okay, buh-bye, you two. Have fun, Jack.”

“How could he not?” Paul wanted to know, with a meaningful glance in my direction.

And then the Slaters left.

Jack remained where he was—in front of the TV, not speaking to me, not even looking at me. As this was typical Jack behavior, I was not alarmed.

I crossed the room—stepping over Jack on my way—and went to fling open the wide French doors that led out onto a terrace overlooking the sea. Rick and Nancy Slater were paying six hundred dollars a night for their view, which was one of the Monterey Bay, sparkling turquoise under a cloudless blue sky. From their suite you could see the yellow slice of beach upon which, were it not for my well-meaning but misguided stepfather, I would have been whiling away my summer.

It isn’t fair. It really isn’t.

“Okay, big guy,” I said, after taking in the view for a minute or two and listening to the soothing pulse of the waves. “Go put on your swim trunks. We’re hitting the pool. It’s too nice out to stay inside.”

Jack, as usual, looked as if I’d pinched him rather than suggested a fun day at the pool.

“But why?” he cried. “You know I can’t swim.”

“Which is exactly,” I said, “why we’re going. You’re eight years old today. An eight-year-old who can’t swim is nothing but a loser. You don’t want to be a loser, do you?”

Jack opined that he preferred being a loser to going outdoors, a fact with which I was only too well acquainted.

“Jack,” I said, slumping down onto a couch near where he lay. “What is your problem?”

Instead of responding, Jack rolled over onto his stomach and scowled at the carpet. I wasn’t going to let up on him, though. I knew what I was talking about, with the loser thing. Being different in the American public—or even private—educational system is not cool. How Paul had ever allowed this to happen—his little brother’s turning into a whiny little wimp you almost longed to slap—I couldn’t fathom, but I knew good and well Rick and Nancy weren’t doing anything to help rectify the matter. It was pretty much all up to me to save Jack Slater from becoming his school’s human punching bag.