To keep herself from shattering, she went into defense mode. She began to tremble as fear, stress, and then a delayed response of anger swept over her. With shaking hands, she set the film and canister in the sink, struggling to hide her emotions. It was horrifying, this reaction to the stress of the day, and she refused to let a work disaster take her apart.

She braced her hands on the edge of the sink and tried to collect herself. She glanced at her phone. Four missed calls, six new text messages, four new e-mails—all from “M Finnemore.” She whirled around to face him. “I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry about the negatives. I wish you hadn’t wasted your time driving clear out here. And of course there’s no charge for anything.”

She glared at him, trying to hold fast to the anger. Instead, a hot tear slipped out. And then another. The guy stood there, seemingly frozen by anger. Then he spotted some tissues on the counter and handed her the whole box.

“Do you need to call someone?” he asked, indicating her phone. “Your husband . . . ?”

“No husband,” she said through gritted teeth, swiping angrily at her cheeks.

He cut her with a laser glare, as if her lack of a husband inexplicably deepened the offense. “Thanks for nothing, lady.”

Shaken by the encounter, Camille watched him through the window. What an incredible tool. He strode to his car, yanked open the door. Just for a moment, he hesitated, turning back toward the house. His anger seemed to soften into something else—regret, maybe. Could be he realized he was being a tool. Then he swiped at the back of his neck as if something had bitten him there, and climbed into the car.

Julie came down from her room. “That your client?” she asked, watching as he threw the car into reverse and peeled out.

“My client,” Camille said. “My extremely disappointed client.” She used a tissue to give her cheeks another swipe.

“Why disappointed?”

“I ruined his film.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” A pucker of concern knitted her brow. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Camille took a deep breath. “God, he was pissed.”

“I can tell. Is he single?”

“What? Jules.”

“Just asking. I know how you feel about guys with ponytails.”

Camille felt a flush creeping into her cheeks, because she had already wondered the same thing. Is he single? “I’m done with guys, with or without ponytails.” Maybe she was reading her daughter wrong. “Do you feel bad because Drake and I parted ways?”

Julie’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? No. Having my mom date the school principal was the worst.”

Camille studied her daughter’s face. Julie was so beautiful to her—curly dark hair, bright brown eyes, a sweet saddle of freckles across her nose. Sometimes she recognized a flicker of Jace in Julie, and it made her heart melt. You’re still here, she thought.

“What?” Julie rubbed her cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”