Actually, it was lucky they’d been in a public place because it saved her from doing something completely foolish. She had told him in no uncertain terms that it would be a bad idea to start something. Still, it didn’t stop her from thinking about him constantly.

She did something she’d never done before—stalked him on the Internet. He wasn’t much for social networking, but she found several articles he’d written and read them as if they contained the secret of life. One of the articles was particularly poignant. Working with a French crime lab, he had helped identify the remains of three American soldiers who had gone missing during World War II.

Sitting at her desk in the small office tucked in the back of Ooh-La-La, she could hear sounds from the adjacent coffee shop. Brew-La-La had been open since sunup, serving up their own signature local roast for early risers, commuters, and fisher folk heading out to the bay. The gurgle and hiss of the commercial espresso machine from Italy reminded her that it needed servicing. There was a meeting with a sales rep penciled in on her calendar.

Yet no matter how hard she tried to force herself to focus on work, it was too tempting to open a new search-and-follow on Professor Malcolm Finnemore around the World Wide Web. He was a bad influence, clearly. He’d already tempted her into Googling him. What else would he entice her to do?

She felt something strong and new, but wasn’t ready to admit it to anyone, least of all herself. His parting words haunted her: I’ll make sweet love to you and we won’t have to get all serious and involved, but it’ll still be awesome.

Just not as awesome as falling in love. Nothing is as awesome as that, she reflected.

She felt betrayed by her own thoughts. Falling in love was the last thing she wanted to do. Her failed dating track record was proof of that. Sometimes, when she couldn’t help herself, she thought about the things that were holding her back. Unlike a lot of single women, she hadn’t been burned by a bad relationship. On the contrary, her marriage had been wonderful. Maybe too wonderful. She never wanted to get that close to a man again, because the pain of loss was simply too high a price to pay.

When the phone rang, she jumped with a guilty start.

Bethany Bay High School appeared on the screen, and Camille snatched it up.

“This is Helen Gibbons, secretary to Mr. Larson,” said the voice on the other line.

Camille tensed, bracing herself. “Is Julie all right?”

“Yes, it’s not an emergency, Mrs. Adams. However, Mr. Larson would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.”

Camille scanned her list of things to do, which was tacked on the wall next to the computer. It was a long list, one that she would need all day to accomplish. Rhonda had just opened the door and was setting a few key pieces out on the sidewalk to entice weekend browsers, and Camille had promised to help.