“We’re gonna go visit Miss Becca,” he told her in a gentle voice, changing his tone for his daughter. “You want to go say hello to her?”

“Yes!” Libby agreed emphatically. “I missed her today.”

He had, too.

*   *   *

Becca’s phone buzzed in her pocket with incoming texts, but she ignored it. Not because she was in a bad mood—she’d been too busy for that. Because her hands were gloved and covered in cherry-red dye for Mrs. Dilhauser. The woman was eighty if she was a day, but she loved her bright red hair—and she tipped well—so Becca always squeezed her in, even if it was late. Plus, she loved the woman’s stories about her husband, who had passed away last fall. They’d been wildly in love for sixty years, and she adored hearing even the smallest of details about it, because she’d always wanted a love like that.

For the longest time, she’d thought it was Greg, despite how wrong they were for each other. Then after they’d broken up, she’d worried she’d be alone forever.

Now, though, she was thinking of Hank.

Of the way he kissed her. The way he held his little daughter so tenderly.

She’d missed seeing him this morning, which was stupid, and needy. Some of it was the first flush of infatuation, of course, but some of it was her problem of getting attached quickly. She was lonely, and she knew that, and just because she loved his daughter and loved kissing him, it didn’t mean happy ever after was in the works. Ten years with Greg had taught her that. So she needed to slow it down. She needed to remember that a kiss was just a kiss, a date didn’t mean much, and Hank was moving back to Alaska soon.

This wasn’t a fairy tale, she reminded herself. She could enjoy kissing him and taking things casually. As long as her expectations were reasonable, she wouldn’t get her heart broken. It was that whole “reasonable expectations” thing that was challenging for her, but Becca resolved to do better. Hank had never promised her anything, after all.

Best not to dwell on it. So she focused on Mrs. Dilhauser, on the cut and color, and by the time the woman’s hair was in a fiery red puff around her face, it was getting late. She’d managed to squeeze her in at the end of the day, and now there was nothing to do except clean up and go to her empty house and do the same.

She was just closing the salon when a car pulled up in front and gave her a honk.