Olivia opened her phone again. Definitely not the burnt orange coat, but maybe something similar in gray. No, she hated gray. She had way too much of it in her closet—outerwear, mostly. Underneath her jackets and coats she usually wore the rich, vivid colors she loved, but she was careful to wear them with caution, aware people would think she was from out of town. There was a Pacific Northwest look, after all. Tonight she had opted for a cobalt blue sheath but she had dialed back the impact with a cropped and fitted black jacket, black heels and a black handbag.

She gave up on the shopping, opened the page of the animal shelter and reviewed the photos of cats available for adoption. She had visited the page a number of times in the past few days, studying each new arrival with great care. None had stood out as the Right Cat.

Tonight, however, she was excited to see a new addition to the list, a gray domestic shorthair. The caption said his name was Joe. He was not the handsomest cat on the page. There was nothing particularly striking about him, except for his eyes—they seemed to be looking right at her—but she was drawn to him.

She was studying the details of his life before he arrived at the shelter—there weren’t many—when the woman at the table on the other side of the booth spoke up.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be on our phones,” the woman said in a low voice.

“I’ve got the sound off,” Olivia said.

“Smart. So, any luck with the dates?”

“No,” Olivia said. “You?”

“A couple of possibilities. A lawyer and a guy who says he’s got a hot start-up.”

“Every computer engineer in Seattle says they’ve got a hot start-up.”

“I know. My name is Elly, by the way.”

“I’m Olivia.”

“I’m not interested in a long-term relationship,” Elly said. “I just want to find someone who’s into cross-country skiing and likes to drink wine afterward.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“That’s what I thought when I registered with this agency.”

“At least your dates aren’t all making excuses to head for the restroom.”

“No.” Elly hesitated a beat. “None of my business, but do you want some friendly advice?”

“Sure.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversations this evening. I’m a psychologist. I feel I should tell you that you are sabotaging yourself.”

“I don’t understand,” Olivia said.

“Your first question—the one about walking into hell—is not designed to open a dialogue.”

“I don’t want a dialogue, I want an answer. After I get the right answer we can start a dialogue.”