Reggie thought about pointing out she also needed time to work, but knew then her mother would get that hurt look that made Reggie feel small and mean.

“Did you order potting soil?” she asked instead.

“Yes, a special kind for the cactus. Maybe we could tie little ribbons on the pots. Red and green, for the holiday.”

“Sure. Let’s do ribbons.”

Her mother smiled. “I’m glad you approve.”

“It’s your wedding, Mom. You get to pick whatever you want.”

Leigh rubbed Belle’s ears. “I want my beautiful grand-dog to be my flower girl. Your mommy’s going to make you a lovely dress and you’ll be the prettiest girl ever.”

Belle’s tail wagged.

The flower girl dress! She’d forgotten. Reggie held in a groan, thinking she was going to have to make a list to keep track of all her wedding duties. There was also running the third-grade charity project, but she didn’t want to think about that, mostly because she knew Toby would be one of the parents helping and that meant spending time with him. As their last encounter had been fifteen kinds of awkward, best not to go there.

“I need to clear my head,” she said out loud. “Want to go for a walk, Belle?”

Her dog shifted away, sliding down on the sofa until she was curled up on a cushion, her back to Reggie, her eyes closed.

Reggie’s mother laughed. “I think that’s a no.”

“I have to agree with you. Lazy dog.”

The afternoon before Thanksgiving, Micah was ready to throw a chair through the window. He’d spent most of the day trying to write, and no matter what he did, he ended up with crap.

He’d made lists of words to get things started. He’d googled holiday phrases and traditions. He’d taken three walks, had attempted to take a nap and had even tried going for the ridiculous with a song about a Christmas aardvark. A little after five he had absolutely nothing to show for his day. Not a note, not a word.

He’d planned on writing a Christmas song for Adriana, but at this point, he would be thrilled to get out a stanza or a refrain about a damned aardvark, but he couldn’t do that, either. Whatever combination of talent and work he’d once had to create music was gone, or at least in deep hiding. What he didn’t know was if it would ever come out.

He paced the length of his suite three times, after which he again thought about tossing the chair through the window. Only he’d never been destructive—not in that way—and saw no reason to start now. Besides, this was Dena’s place, and he didn’t want to hurt her. Or disappoint her. Ridiculous, but true.