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and Mo stop talking. She lowered the window to see the puzzled face of the shelter employee. “Everything okay here?” he asked.
    â€œYes, it’s fine. Thank you.” She raised the window again and backed out of the driveway. To Mo, she said, “I’m going to take a chance on you. You can come back to my place and we’ll talk.”
    â€œThank you. Thank you for trusting me.”
    â€œAn inch,” she specified. “That’s how far I trust you. And if you betray my trust, I’ll . . . Well, you’ll be in deep trouble, mister.” All it’d take would be one call to Brooke’s husband, Jake, the local RCMP commander.
    Having gotten what he wanted from her, Mo kept his mouth shut as she drove toward the residential neighborhood where she lived. On the radio, Sam Hunt was singing that he didn’t want the woman’s heart, just some of her time. It struck her that the singer had something in common with Mo Kincaid.
    Why was she letting this stranger, this self-proclaimed “shit,” take her time on a Wednesday night when she’d planned to check out sperm donor profiles? Too late now. She’d already agreed, and she honored her promises.
    She drove up to the two-story house with the dormer windows and big front porch that had always been home. With its four bedrooms, it was way too big for one person, but she’d always believed she would share it with a husband and children. The garden, which she devoted a lot of effort to during three seasons of the year, was dormant now. It looked a little stark as her headlights played over it before she turned into the driveway and hit the remote control to open the roll-up garage door. Oh well, in less than a month she’d be hanging her colorful Christmas lights, and then the house would have a sparkly, festive façade.
    After parking, she ushered Mo through the door from the garage into the house and down the hallway to the kitchen. She clicked on the track lighting so the room was bright and cheery. It was warm, too. The heating was on a timer, set to turn on twenty minutes before she normally arrived home. She put her bag and keys on the counter and tossed her coat over a chair.
    â€œNice,” Mo said, glancing around.
    â€œThanks.” She’d kept the same basic layout she’d grown up with, but over the years had done some upgrading. Now the floor had terra-cotta tile, the counters were peach-colored granite, the composite sink was a copper color, and the appliances were white and shiny. Dark colors and stainless steel didn’t belong in her kitchen. On the walls hung a couple of paintings, cheap, colorful ones of a village in Crete that she’d picked up on her last holiday.
    Her favorite thing in the kitchen was the table, the same battered wooden one her parents had found at a garage sale when they were newlyweds. Maribeth would never, ever replace it. Her own child—children?—would grow up eating meals, doing homework, and sharing confidences at that table, just as she had.
    â€œSit.” She cocked her head toward the table. She wasn’t going to take this man any farther into her house. “What do you want to drink? I have milk, tea, coffee.”
    â€œI don’t need a drink. I just want to talk.” He took off his denim jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Clad in a navy pullover and jeans, he had a rangy build: broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. Most definitely an attractive man with that same kind of sexy charisma that Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt had. Normally, she’d have been pretty happy to have such a hot guy hanging out in her kitchen.
    Mo sat down, not settling in but kind of perching. Like he was as restless and wary as that crazy singing dog up in the tree.
    The man unsettled her, and few things in life unsettled Maribeth. She didn’t like it one bit. “Well, I could use a drink,” she said. “It’s been a