Hindsight nearly always proved to be twenty-twenty, but she should have known not to trust a man who preferred mild salsa on his enchiladas. If he couldn’t eat a jalapeño straight from the jar, he wasn’t her type. She liked her food and her men spicy and pungent. Sam was too…too wonderful. That was it, much too wonderful.

Depression settled over her shoulders like a dark mantle, and she rubbed her forearms to ward off a late-evening chill that had little to do with the mild Puget Sound weather. Sam and she were simply too different. Sam no doubt liked moonlight walks and a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, and she liked…moonlight walks and a glass of wine in front of the fireplace. Well, going over every detail a hundred times wasn’t going to settle anything. He didn’t want to see her again, and that was that.

She was an adult; she should be able to handle disappointments. Obviously Sam was interested in meek, mild women who knew their place. She was neither, and it was far easier to face that truth now than later, when her heart was completely infected and the prognosis for recovery would be against her.

Once Marjorie had sorted through her myriad thoughts, she felt better, even good enough to put this unpleasantness behind her and think about fixing herself something to eat. She left the television on and wandered into the kitchen. The freezer contained a wide assortment of prepackaged meals, but none of them appealed to her. Popcorn suited her mood—something crunchy and salty would help to vent her frustration. Microwave popcorn, naturally. What she’d told Sam about her lack of expertise in the kitchen had been true. She could manage spreadsheets and calculators in her sleep, but recipes baffled her. Having her anywhere in the vicinity of hot grease was like putting a submachine gun in the hands of a raw recruit. In fact, she didn’t even own a complete set of cookware. The less she involved herself with a stovetop, the better.

Marjorie inserted the popcorn bag, set the timer, and waited. Soon the sounds and smells of the butter-flavored kernels filled the small apartment.

She had just opened the bag and munched down the first handful when the doorbell chimed. A glance at the wall clock told her it was after nine. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. The hope that it might be Sam caused her to hurry. It wouldn’t be him, of course—she knew that—but she so wanted to see him again that her mind tormented her with the possibility.

With an eagerness that was difficult to explain, she opened her front door. Sam was standing on the other side. It was as though her wishful thinking had conjured him up.

“Hello, Sam.” She greeted him as though she’d been expecting him all along, revealing no surprise.