As Danica passed the man, he glanced at her and acknowledged her with a quick smile. She returned it, then found her eyes going to his left hand to check for a ring. He wasn’t wearing one. Past him now, heading for the produce section at the far end of the store, she wondered if he’d seen the glance and understood its meaning. The notion made her cheeks flush, the feeling distinct against the cold rolling off the open cases.

You’re out of practice at all this. Way out.

No argument there. Before now, the last time she’d been single she’d been thirty-give-or-take herself. A lot had happened in the intervening decade. Very little of it had been good.

She took a head of lettuce from produce and made her way to the checkout. She’d just finished setting everything on the conveyor when the same young man stepped into place behind her with a small bottle of orange juice. It crossed her mind to wave him ahead of her, but then the scanner beeped as the checkout girl passed the first item over it.

Danica glanced at the man again. He reminded her of Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles, a reference that made her want to cry. Though she’d only been seven when that movie came out, this guy would have been, what, negative four?

After the glance, she kept her eyes on the groceries on the belt, though in her peripheral vision she took note of the guy’s body language. Something about it gave her the sense that he was nervous. He kept turning his head just slightly, maybe halfway toward her, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite do it.

The implication—the possibility, anyway—hit her like a drug. Was he interested? It wasn’t entirely unthinkable. She really did look young for her age. How many times had her friend Carrie told her she looked thirty, with just enough angst behind the compliment to give it credibility? The thing was, Danica did feel pretty good about her looks. Even these days, grinding along at rock bottom in terms of self-esteem, she was happy with the picture in the mirror. She liked her eyes—big and brown and unable to hide anything she felt. Anime eyes, Carrie called them, with that same angst. She liked her hair, too; she had spent the last twelve months growing it long again, ditching the pixie cut she’d worn for years. She got compliments on the new look all the time. So why shouldn’t this guy be interested? And what if he looked younger than he was? What if he was thirty-five? What if he didn’t care about the difference, anyway? Not every guy was obsessed with—

“Found it.”