Then she went to the refrigerator, took out a cucumber, whacked off two slices with a chef’s knife and returned what was left to the vegetable crisper. She’d cried a little, during the video call with Davey and Maddie, though she was fairly sure they hadn’t noticed, and she hadn’t slept well the last few nights, worrying about the New Year’s Eve bash.

Thinking about Eli.

Going back and forth. Should she get involved?

Or shouldn’t she?

She’d kick off her shoes and lie down for a while, cover her eyes with the cucumber slices and, hopefully, emerge from her rest restored.

The moment she’d stretched out on her bed, Waldo leaped up to join her, landing in the middle of her stomach like a medicine ball.

Brynne gasped aloud, then laughed.

The cat curled up beside her, purring contentedly.

And Brynne, who hadn’t slept properly in several days, dropped into a deep and dreamless slumber, cossetted by the sweet darkness of oblivion.

Waldo awakened her some two hours later. He was sitting next to her head, nibbling away at one of the cucumber slices.

Brynne bolted upright, sure she’d overslept. Maybe even missed the party.

Clarity soon returned, however. There was light at the bedroom window, though it was growing dimmer by the minute.

A glance at her bedside clock reassured her further—five thirty. She still had an hour and a half to shower, get dressed and do her hair and makeup.

Nothing to worry about.

Except that her phone, resting on her bedside table, made a dinging sound. A text had come in.

Eli?

Suddenly, Brynne’s heart was racing again.

She picked up the phone, opened the text feature, and squinted at the message.

You’re still beautiful, it read. Clay.

A lump formed in Brynne’s throat. She considered replying that she wouldn’t be accepting any more texts unless they concerned Davey and Maddie, then decided to simply ignore the message entirely.

She sat up, legs dangling over the side of the bed, and sighed.

No getting around it; she was disappointed.

She’d hoped Eli had been the one to contact her.

A certain peevish irritation troubled Brynne for the next few moments.

Was that it? One measly—okay, transcendent—snowmobile ride?

No calls?

No texts?

What did you expect? she asked herself, annoyed. He asked you out—or tried to—and you said no. “I don’t date cops,” you said. Well, guess what, Brynne Bailey? You’re a fool. And a coward. And—

“Enough,” she said aloud. It was New Year’s Eve, and the restaurant was about to fill up with hungry, thirsty people in the mood to celebrate. She could spare neither the time nor the energy to sit around castigating herself.