“Can I get you something to drink? I have water, diet soda, and coffee.” I also have vodka, tequila, and beer, but no how, no way, am I going to drink around a handsome man when I’m feeling this lonely and sorry for myself. I’ve made that mistake before.

“Why don’t I make the coffee while you put away the groceries?” he asks.

I nod, and we work side by side in companionable, if somewhat awkward silence until my groceries have been put in their places and the smell of coffee is filling my small apartment.

I pull a couple of mugs from the cabinet, then find the sugar and cream as he pours us each a cup. “Do you take anything in yours?” I ask.

He shakes his head and watches me as I doctor my coffee with a good quarter cup of sugar and matching amounts of cream. “I’m not sure what that is,” he says, a grin tugging on the corner of his mouth as he studies my cup, “but it’s no longer coffee.”

I wrap my cold hands around the mug. I won’t take more than a sip or two. My stomach can’t handle much coffee these days. Or food, for that matter. It’s too busy eating itself to let me eat anything else. I’ve lost seven pounds since Christmas.

Body by guilt and self-loathing.

“So, tell me about yourself, George.” I force a smile and place my coffee on the counter. A handsome man just carried up my groceries. The least I can do is make some polite conversation. “What do you do?”

“I work for an online magazine. Programming, mostly. If you’re avoiding that coffee because you’re worried the caffeine will keep you up, let me tell you about what I did at work last week. You’ll fall asleep in no time.”

That earns a giggle from me, and the sound feels so unnatural coming from my mouth that I wonder when I last laughed.

“What about you?” He holds up a hand. “No, let me guess. I’m good at this. You’re . . . a lion tamer?”

I grin. “How’d you guess?”

“Oh, you know, you just have that fierce but tenacious look about you. It’s pretty obvious, really.”

“Fierce but tenacious. Can’t say anyone’s ever described me that way before.” I attempt a sip and feel the smile fall from my face. Stop thinking about Sam. Nothing good down that road. I force myself to give my attention to the man in the room rather than the one who consumes my mind. “Truth be told,” I say, “I’m no longer a lion tamer. I retired young in favor of starting a second career.”

“Tricky,” he says. He narrows his eyes. “Law professor.”

I snort. “What about me says, ‘law professor’?” If only I were smart enough for something like that.

He grins. “Fierce but tenacious, remember? My mother’s a law professor, so I know the type well. But I can tell by your face you think that’s a terrible career choice—and my mother would probably agree—so let me guess again . . . If only your choice of wardrobe could provide me with a hint.”

I glance down at my “Guy for President” T-shirt. Under Guy’s logo, the shirt says, “Staffer.” I sigh. “I’m an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Or is it a mystery wrapped in an enigma?”

“I have a hunch you’re more than that. Would you join me for dinner some time, and let me find out?”

That question from a guy like this—cute and funny—should make my day. Instead, I realize I’m looking for an excuse to decline his offer. I feel nothing. Nothing but the ache that’s been eating me alive from the moment Sam punched his father and turned his tortured eyes on me.

“I can’t even look at you.”

I don’t know how to explain. I left New Hope five months ago and moved into this little apartment on the north side of Indy. After five months, I should be able to move on. I want to like him. I want to give him a chance, to fall in love and forget I ever lost my heart to a man who hates me. “George, you’re a really nice guy . . .”

George winces. “A nice guy? Ouch. If you were going to turn me down, I was hoping you’d do it with something more like, ‘You’re so dead sexy, I fear I couldn’t control myself around you.’ It’s not too late. Try that one.”

I laugh fully this time. “Oh, but now you won’t believe me.”

“I promise to forget I’m the one who suggested it.” He takes a sip of his coffee and sighs as he looks at me through thick, dark lashes. When I think he’s not going to say anything more, he asks, “Who is he?”

“What?”

“The guy who broke your heart. Was he a boyfriend? First love?” He drops his gaze to my left hand. “Husband?”

“He didn’t break . . .” I shake my head. “Boyfriend. And I’m not sure it’s fair to say he broke my heart. It was kind of my fault.”

“Ah, but your heart is broken, and he’s the reason.”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“Well, if you’re ever interested in trying to think about someone else for an evening, I’d love to help you out.”

“I’ll think about it.” But I won’t. Not really. Not when the invitation makes me realize just how badly I need to send Sam the letter in my purse. It’s been there for weeks, and tomorrow morning, I’m going to mail it. It’s time.

Chapter 2

Liz

“The twins are crawling everywhere and getting into everything,” Hanna says around a yawn. “I think they’re going to start walking soon too, and God help us all when that happens. I don’t know if I should do more baby proofing or buy those leash things people put on their children.”