“That depresses me,” Lydia lamented, as she gracefully rose from her chair. “I was convinced he really liked you.”

It depressed Marjorie, too, but it didn’t surprise her. Overall, she was grateful to have met Sam Bretton. He’d taught her several surprising lessons about herself—mainly, that she wasn’t as invincible as she would like to think. And second, as much as she strove to avoid relationships that were more than casual, her heart was vulnerable. He’d proved beyond a doubt that plenty of red-hot blood flowed through her veins.

Painful experience had taught her that most men liked their women soft and clinging. A woman who could change her own oil, balance a checkbook, and build a bookshelf seemed to intimidate them. That left the strong, independent types, like herself, out in the cold.

—

Sam Bretton sat in his office and chewed on the end of a pen. His thoughts were dark and heavy. He hadn’t seen Marjorie in more than two weeks, but still she kept popping into his mind when he least expected it. He had seen her smile on a new patient’s face as he entered the room to introduce himself. His coffee cup had made it halfway to his lips when he thought he heard Marjorie’s laugh. Last week he’d been convinced he’d seen her in the parking lot. Even his dreams had been affected. A couple times he’d caught himself staring into space, remembering something witty she’d said or the way her eyes narrowed when she was angry. Friends had begun to comment that he seemed preoccupied.

Preoccupied? That wasn’t the half of it. Forcefully, he opened his desk drawer and tossed the pen inside. He’d been thinking about her for days—all right, weeks—and still he wasn’t convinced anything between them would work. She was so proud, so headstrong, and he wasn’t entirely persuaded she was interested in him. Without being egotistical about it, Sam realized that there were plenty of women who found him attractive. Unfortunately, Marjorie didn’t appear to be one of them.

Well, he was a big boy; he could deal with that. What was difficult to handle was the fact that he wasn’t convinced that a future for them was out of the question. Her streak of independence was a mile wide; she didn’t want or need anyone. At least that was what she wanted to think. He wasn’t so sure, but so long as she stuck to her guns, he was stymied. He just wished he could put her out of his mind.

—

Marjorie looked at Lydia sitting across the table from her in the deli opposite Dixon Motors. She watched as her friend checked suspiciously between the thick slices of rye bread for the mustard she’d ordered with her pastrami sandwich. “I’ve been thinking,” Lydia muttered under her breath.