“I feel bad about not being able to offer you anything more appetizing than microwave popcorn.”

“I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.”

Marjorie was sure that couldn’t be true. No doubt there were a thousand nurses out there who longed to lure him into their arms with warm chocolate-chip cookies straight from the oven. Her microwave couldn’t hope to compete with all the talented, domestically inclined women who wanted him.

“Are you free tonight?” he asked, thinking about taking her to the waterfront for a lobster dinner. He wanted to wine and dine her, and give her an evening she would remember for the rest of her life. He thought about bringing her to his home and showing her his view of Commencement Bay. He wanted to sit by the fireplace with her and watch the flickering light dance over her face.

“Tonight?” she asked, confused by the unexpected invitation.

Sooner, if possible, Sam thought, but he knew his schedule wouldn’t allow it.

“Actually, I’m working late, so maybe—”

“What time do you get off?”

She wished he wasn’t so insistent. With Bud’s decision hanging over her head, she needed some time alone to clear her thoughts. When she was with Sam, she wanted to look and feel her best. “Would it be all right if I called you next week sometime?”

Sam’s breath caught at the implication. There wasn’t a woman alive who threw him off course with as much ease as Marjorie. Just when he was prepared to overlook her flaws and lay his heart at her feet, she made it sound as though going to dinner with him was an inconvenience.

“Sure,” he returned flippantly. “You call me. That won’t be any problem.”

But it was, and Marjorie recognized it from his stiff tone. She had just opened her mouth to explain when he spoke again.

“Listen, I’ve got to get back to my patients. We’ll talk soon.” He was eager to get off the phone. The entire conversation had left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d read Marjorie wrong, read everything wrong. It wasn’t the first time she’d led him astray. The stock market was more predictable than Marjorie Majors.

“Right.” But her voice was barely audible. “Good-bye, Sam. Thanks for calling.”

He didn’t answer, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from shouting that she would love to see him any night, any time, if only she didn’t have this mess with Al to settle first. The phone went dead, and Marjorie felt physically ill. She’d ruined everything.

The polite knock outside her office lifted her from the pit of despair.

“It’s only me,” Lydia said, opening the door and peeking inside. “Hey, you look like you just lost your best friend. What happened? Another deal fall through?”