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it came to Megan, Greg was keeping his mind on business and business alone.
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    In Rosewood late that night, Megan lay in her bed and stared at the silvery half-moon out the window and thought the same things that Greg was thinking seventy-five miles away.
    How could this have happened? She’d truly believed that the silly crush she’d once had on Carly’s husband was over. And yet, since she’d left Greg on the street outside the restaurant, she couldn’t stop thinking of him. His name played over and over in an endless loop inside her head: Greg, Greg, Greg…
    Which was dumb, dumb, dumb. She didn’t need a boyfriend. She didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Her life was jam-packed and then some. She hardly had time to get her legs waxed. There wasn’t a minute left over for romance—especially not for a romance with Carly Alderson’s ex.
    This was bad. Megan was way too attracted. Much more attracted than she’d been back when Greg and Carly were married. Then, it had only been a kind of now-and-then dreamy fantasy of what it might be like if…
    And now? Well, to reiterate: Greg, Greg, Greg…
    But it didn’t matter. This crazy feeling she had for him was going nowhere. When she saw him next Monday, she’d make sure it was business and only business.
    Period. End of story.
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    â€œPancakes, pancakes. I love pancakes….” Michael sang the words and then poked a great big wad of pancake, dripping syrup, into his mouth.
    â€œEeww,” remarked Olivia. “You’ve got syrup on your chin and it’s rude to sing at the table.”
    â€œWe’re not at the table,” Michael corrected with the pure and literal logic of a five-year-old, the words mushy with that mouthful of pancake. He swallowed. Hard. “We’re at the breakfast counter.” Angela’s roomy kitchen had an L-shaped eating area along one section of the main counter.
    â€œIt’s the same,” insisted Olivia. “The breakfast counter is the same as the table when it comes to singing—so you just quit it.”
    â€œPancakes, pancakes,” Michael sang some more.
    â€œMo-om. He’s sing-ing.” Olivia turned on her stool to stick her chin out at her mother, who stood by the electric griddle down at the end of the counter, flipping another batch of blueberry pancakes.
    â€œEat your breakfast, honey,” said her mother. “And Michael, stop singing and finish eating.”
    â€œHumph.” Michael forked up another huge bite and shoved it in his mouth. Olivia flounced around to face front again and delicately picked up her own fork. Anthony ate in silence, staring at his plate.
    The doorbell rang. Anthony’s head jerked up. “It’s Dad!” he crowed, brown eyes suddenly alight. “He’s early.” Jerome was due at ten to take the kids to the Catskills for the day.
    â€œDad!” echoed Michael around a half-chewed lump of pancake.
    â€œGross,” muttered Olivia.
    And then, in unison, all three kids announced, “I’ll get it.”
    â€œStay put.” Megan slid her napkin beside her half-empty plate. “All of you.”
    Olivia groaned. Michael shrugged. Anthony let out a big, fat sigh. But they all remained on their stools.
    In the foyer, Megan pulled open the door and found Carly on the front porch looking absolutely gorgeous. Her blond hair fell in soft, perfect waves around her beautiful face, which glowed with just a touch of blusher and a dab of lip gloss. She was dressed in the spirit of the day, in trim, royal-blue capris and a curve-hugging white shirt. On her perfectly manicured feet she wore a pair of strappy red sandals. She carried a layer cake on a crystal cake stand.
    The cake was almost as stunning as Carly, a good eight inches high and slathered in ivory-colored swirls of buttercream frosting, with an accurate depiction of an American flag drawn in colored icing