“Yes, they do, but they were married before. Your decision says you don’t need a man, and they don’t like not to be needed. No one does. You should accept the fact that you’re going to be alone forever.”

The side door opened and a nurse stepped out. “Hi, Dena. We’re ready for you.”

Dena picked up her bag and coat and followed the nurse to the examination room. She told herself that the words of some stranger shouldn’t matter at all. That she had a great life, with plenty of love and support, and the woman didn’t know her. She wasn’t giving up on love—she was being proactive. She was strong and determined, and if some guy was put off by that, then he was a fool, and she didn’t need him in her life.

Which sounded really brave, but left her feeling sad and more than a little scared about her future.

Reggie watched the “smarter” vacuum finish up in the kitchen, making notes about the weird chirping sound that it had recently started making. She’d texted Gizmo about it, but he hadn’t had many ideas, nor had he seemed all that interested in the video she’d sent. Apparently his epic holiday light show was consuming his time these days.

“I can only do what I can do,” she reminded herself as she watched the vacuum return to its home base. It chirped a couple more times, then went silent as it began recharging.

More interesting than the test or the noise was the fact that Belle had spent the last hour comfortably dozing on the sofa, barely raising her head to take note of her former enemy. Apparently her lone act of bravery in protecting Harrison had lasting and very positive repercussions.

“Who knows what you’ll be doing in a few weeks?” she told Belle.

Her dog stretched and closed her eyes, as if saying she wasn’t ready to discuss that just now. Reggie smiled, then went into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. Her parents were both at work today—her mom subbing for the office manager who was home with a bad cold.

She put away dishes and what felt like every bowl in the kitchen. They’d made pancakes that morning, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, that process involved more bowls than seemed natural. She hesitated before putting away the old-fashioned egg beater, not sure where it belonged. It was probably the last working one in the country, but her mother insisted that it was required to beat the eggs before they were added. Fluffy eggs meant fluffy pancakes.