92 Pacific Boulevard. Debbie Macomber

suppose I could make it into town later this afternoon,” she said.

      They agreed on four-thirty and Will set the phone back in its cradle, smiling. He’d gone out of his way for her daughter’s boyfriend at Shirley’s request—or with her approval, at any rate. Shaw had talent, but talent was cheap. He was giving the teenager a leg up, and he wanted to make sure Shirley valued his effort and the fact that he’d called in a favor from a friend.

      Now that their meeting was set, Will closed the gallery a half hour early, then took the time to comb his hair and change his shirt. Before returning to the main part of the gallery, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

      Normally he would’ve been confident he looked good, but Shirley’s reluctance made him feel somewhat insecure—not a familiar sensation.

      While he waited for Shirley, he checked his watch every couple of minutes. He exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw her park in front of the gallery. She climbed out and started toward the entrance, paused, then turned back to her vehicle.

      Will wasn’t about to let her walk off. He hurried over to the front door and threw it open.

      “Shirley,” he called. “Come in.”

      She turned around. “The sign says the gallery’s closed.”

      He laughed lightly. “It is for everyone but you.”

      “Oh …”

      He opened the door wider and gestured her inside.

      “Do you have the check?” she asked the moment she crossed the threshold. Then, as if she understood how rude she’d been, she added, “I, uh, know how busy you are and I don’t want to detain you.”

      “It’s in the office.” When she didn’t move, he repeated, “Come in.”

      After a short pause, she came all the way into the gallery.

      Will closed the door and walked toward his small office, with her following. He handed her a white envelope, which held her check. “You know, I never heard if you received the wine-and-cheese basket I left on your doorstep during the holidays.”

      “Yes, I did… . I apologize. I should’ve written a thank-you note.”

      She did seem appropriately contrite. Will had paid a premium for that basket. This wasn’t some run-of-the-mill wine-and-cheese ensemble, either. Everything had been imported from France.

      “No problem. I just wanted to be sure you got it,” he said nonchalantly.

      “When did you bring it by?” she asked.

      “Christmas Day,” he said.

      “Oh, I hope you weren’t alone on Christmas Day.”

      He looked away. “I was, but it wasn’t any big deal. I had a couple of invitations, but … I didn’t feel well.” He’d rather not admit he hadn’t accepted those invitations—from Olivia and his niece, Justine—because he’d thought he could spend the day with Shirley. He’d made the mistake of assuming she’d be home and alone, the same way he’d been. He knew her kids would be there, but kids that age didn’t enjoy hanging around with their mothers. As a result of his mistaken assumption, he’d ended up going to Olivia’s for dinner and then watching White Christmas on TV in his apartment for what had to be the twentieth time.

      “I apologize for not sending you that thank-you note,” she told him again.

      “It doesn’t matter. I only wanted to make sure you found the gift.” He brightened. “But.” he said in a teasing voice “… you could make it up to me.” He’d keep it light, easy, relaxed.

      “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning instantly. “How?”

      “I know you’re a widow.”

      She took a small step in retreat, as though the subject wasn’t one she intended to discuss with him. That was fine; Will had no desire to draw her dead husband into the conversation. He just wanted to establish her availability—and his.

      “As I mentioned earlier, I’m on my own, too. I thought we could get together one evening,” he said, “or maybe we could meet one afternoon.”

      Shirley took another small step away from him. Now that she had her check, she seemed eager to leave.

      “Nothing formal, you understand,” Will clarified. “Lunch or coffee, that sort of thing.”

      She gave him a slight smile. “I’m not sure I’m ready to date.”

      “This wouldn’t be a date,” he said. “This would be a chat over coffee, a getting-to-know-you session, that’s all. I’d love to hear more of your ideas for the gallery,” he added, to remind her of the conversation they’d already had back in the fall. “I’m free now, if you are. I hear the Pot Belly Deli has an excellent selection of coffees and teas.”

      “You mean now? As in right now?”

      “If it’s convenient. We can walk down the hill. It’s not far.” At least she hadn’t immediately turned him down—that was encouraging.

      “Perhaps another time,” she said after a long moment.

      “Sure, whenever.” He shrugged off her rejection.

      “I’ll call you,” she said next, as if to suggest she’d prefer it if he didn’t call her.

      Okay, on to plan B. “I had some news regarding Shaw,” he told her, hoping to give her extra incentive to accept his invitation.

      “Really.”

      Her interest was piqued, he could see. That was good. He hated to resort to manipulation but she wasn’t leaving him a lot of options. In the past, he’d rarely had to be so blatant.

      “I had another talk with the friend who looked at Shaw’s work.” Will didn’t offer any more information than that. Nor was he disposed to do so. If she wanted an update, she’d have to meet him for coffee.

      With the check in her hand, she waited for an awkward minute or two, and when the information regarding Shaw wasn’t forthcoming, she made her excuses.

      “I’ll see you to the door,” Will said, walking beside her.

      “You don’t need to do that.”

      He was tempted to extend the conversation, delay her parting. He could bring up any number of topics she’d find relevant or interesting. However, he said nothing.

      “Thank you again,” she murmured as she stepped into the darkening afternoon.

      “You’re welcome.” Will closed the door and locked it behind her, knowing she’d hear the turn of the lock. That was intentional. He didn’t want her to think he was begging or that he was desperate for her company. And yet, it was increasingly how he felt. She intrigued and attracted him and he felt intuitively that they could be good for each other. And, he had to acknowledge with a hint of shame, he wasn’t immune to the thrill of the chase.

      Briefly he wondered if something was holding Shirley back—some gossip she’d heard about him. He frowned. He didn’t think Grace Harding had mentioned their Internet relationship. His sister wouldn’t have, either. No, that couldn’t be it.

      What had happened with Grace was regrettable. Little did Will know then that within a few years he’d be returning to live in Cedar Cove. That whole situation, which had begun as a mild flirtation via the Internet, had become extremely unpleasant, and he was happy to put it behind him. He’d been genuinely fond of Grace, still was. Her husband was a nice guy—and not someone he wanted to cross. He was glad her marriage had worked out. Besides, he didn’t believe in fouling his own nest, so to speak.

      Will turned off the gallery showroom lights and went upstairs to his small apartment. He’d made the transition from his previous apartment to the space above the gallery