Bridget’s pale hair nearly matched the color of her elfin face. She had a long nose, a nearly invisible upper lip, a closet full of Gap dresses, and the soul of a seventy-year-old married lady. She’d yet to find a man, so when she wasn’t working, cleaning, or making spreadsheets, she was daydreaming about men, checking online dating sites, and struggling to boost her confidence enough to risk a blind date.

“You can’t seriously imagine that you’re going to pair well with an ex-con,” Meadow said to Bridget. “It’s like . . . like trying to pair peanut butter with a steak.”

Bridget sniffed. “I happen to think that combination sounds promising.”

Meadow fell back against her chair, wrist to her brow. “Bridge. Just no! You’re a lady. You need a gentleman.”

“A gentleman would be lovely,” Bridget returned primly. “If you’ll kindly point me in the direction of the nearest one, I’ll head that way immediately.”

“Men are pigs. You’re better off without.” Meadow’s volatile on-again, off-again relationship with the father of her twelve-year-old daughter had dragged on for years before finally blowing up. Ever since then, she’d been pessimistic about men.

They were very different—Finley, Meadow, and Bridget. Yet their differences paled in comparison to their loyalty and affection for one another. In the magical way that sometimes happens, their trio clicked.

“The statement that men are pigs,” Finley said, “might be a tad too broad.”

“Name one who’s not a pig.”

“Your father,” Finley answered.

Meadow smiled sheepishly. “Fine. Point taken. Most men are pigs.”

“To answer your question,” Finley said to Bridget, “I don’t like Luke romantically. Nothing about my stance on dating has changed.”

“Is he as good-looking as I’ve heard he is?” Bridget asked.

“Better,” Finley acknowledged.

Bridget laid a hand on her heart.

Meadow squawked. “Finley! Don’t encourage her!”

“I don’t think Luke’s right for you,” Finley said to Bridget. “But I promise you that if a wonderful man who is right for you ever wants to foster or adopt one of my dogs, you’ll be the first to know.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Finley claimed that she didn’t go barefoot or burn incense, but her house looked like the type of house where a flower child would live.

Luke parked in front of the address she’d given him, peering through darkness at her cabin. Nothing around it but forest, so the only light came from the two fixtures on either side of her front door. She’d painted the wooden two-story gray and the trim around the eaves, windows, and door green. Not the color combination he would’ve chosen. The upstairs rooms must have slanted ceilings because the roofline came to a peak at the center.

He let himself out of his 1974 Chevy C10 and walked up the steps to the landing. Pots of white flowers, ivy, and cabbages waited like doormen.