Brynne flipped on the lights and surveyed her spacious living room with a sense of lonely satisfaction. When she’d taken over the restaurant after her parents retired, she’d had the former storage/office space completely renovated, putting in a living room with bay windows overlooking Main Street, along with a streamlined kitchen, a master suite and a truly decadent private bath.

There were two small guest rooms as well, linked by a full bath and, of course, a powder room down the hallway.

Brynne sighed, kicking off her shoes and padding across the kitchen to fill the electric kettle and plug it in. A nice cup of herbal tea and a long, decadent soak in her garden tub would help her to decompress.

Running the café wasn’t exactly stressful, but it was a thriving concern, as it had been when her mom and dad ran it, and it kept her busy for as many as twelve hours a day.

And that was good, because when Brynne wasn’t rushing from one task to another, solving problems and putting out fires—sometimes literally—she started thinking about her life.

The mistakes she’d made.

The opportunities she’d missed.

The three years she’d wasted loving Clay Nicholls and believing that he loved her in return.

“Stop it,” she said aloud.

Waldo meowed again, more insistently this time.

“Beggar,” Brynne scolded fondly. While the water heated for her tea, she took an open can of tuna from the refrigerator and spooned a few flakes into Waldo’s empty dish.

He devoured the treat, then sat primly, watching Brynne as she washed her hands at the sink, took a mug from the cupboard and dropped a tea bag into it.

Minutes later, teacup in hand, she shut off the kitchen and living room lights and headed down the hallway toward her suite.

There were photos on the hallway walls—her mom and dad with their recently purchased RV, living it up at the Grand Canyon, wearing mouse ears and huge grins at Disney World, standing in front of Mount Rushmore. Interspersed were small paintings Brynne had done herself, mostly watercolors, and pictures of Davey and Maddie, Clay’s children.

Clay had taken some of them, Brynne had taken others.

They’d all been so happy back then—or, at least, Brynne had thought they were. She certainly had been, as had the children, but then there was Clay.

Had he ever been happy, or had he been pretending the whole time?

He’d told Brynne he loved her, and she’d believed him.

Until Geoffrey-the-Gym-Monkey had clued her in, that is.

She tore herself away from the photos—there she went, thinking again, and continued along the hallway.