A little before eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, the doorbell rang. She set aside the book she’d been reading and went downstairs to find Heath standing on her porch, looking rumpled and travel weary. Although they’d spoken on the phone, this was the first time she’d seen him since the night he’d met Keri.

He took in her loose-fitting white cotton tank—no bra— and blue cotton drawstring pajama bottoms printed with pink martini glasses holding tiny green olives. “Were you asleep?”

“Reading. Is something wrong?”

“No.” Behind him, a taxi pulled away from the curb. His eyes were red-rimmed, and a hint of stubble clung to his tough guy’s jaw, which, sicko that she was, only made him more ruggedly attractive.

“Do you have anything to eat? Nothing but pretzels on the plane, even in first class.” He was already inside. He set down his carry-on suitcase and a laptop. “I planned to call first, but I fell asleep in the cab.”

Her emotions were too raw for this. “All I have is leftover spaghetti.”

“Sounds great.”

As she took in the lines of fatigue in his face, she didn’t have the heart to turn him away, and she headed for the kitchen.

“You were right about Keri and me,” he said from behind her.

She bumped into the doorjamb. “What?”

He gazed past her toward the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t mind a Coke if you have one.”

She wanted to grab him by his white shirt collar and shake him until he told her exactly what he meant, but she restrained herself. “Of course I was right about you and Keri. I’m a trained professional.”

He loosened the knot on his necktie and unbuttoned his collar. “Refresh my memory. Exactly what kind of training have you had?”

“My nana was a superstar. It’s in my blood.” She was going to scream if he didn’t tell her what had happened. She grabbed a Coke can from the refrigerator and passed it over.

“Keri and I were too much alike.” He propped his shoulder against the wall and sipped his Coke. “It took half a dozen phone calls just to schedule lunch.”

The gray cloud that had been following her for three weeks swept off to spoil somebody else’s life. She withdrew an ancient powder blue Tupperware container from the refrigerator, along with what was left of the lunchtime Whopper she hadn’t felt like finishing. “Was the breakup tough?”

“Not exactly. We played phone tag for so long we had to do it by e-mail.”

“No broken hearts, then.”

His jaw set in a stubborn line. “We should have been great together.”

“You know my opinion about that.”

“The Fisher-Price theory. How could I forget?”

As she cut up her leftover hamburger and mixed it with the spaghetti, she wondered why he hadn’t phoned her with the news instead of showing up in person. She slid the plate into the microwave.

He wandered over to inspect the yellowed diet plan she’d stuck to the refrigerator when she’d moved in. “We didn’t sleep together,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on a low-carb fish dinner.