zeal. She was planning this simple dinner with military precision—a strong indication her mind needed more to think about. The sooner she got back to work, the better.
She went into town first thing to do her shopping, then spent the afternoon pottering around the house. She started prepping for dinner at five o’clock so she could take her time and enjoy the process.
She was looking forward to tonight. There was no point denying it, even to herself. Having another warm body to talk to would be a welcome novelty.
“No offense, Smitty, but sometimes a lick and a scratch don’t quite cut it in the witty repartee department.”
Mr. Smith lifted his head from his paws and gave her an uncomprehending look.
“Exactly.”
She had everything prepped by six o’clock, the table set by a quarter past. At loose ends, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was limp and lifeless, her face pale. Her black leggings had seen better days, as had the long-sleeved wool tunic she’d pulled on. Combined with her sensible walking shoes, she looked...frumpy. There was no other word for it.
As if he’s going to notice what you’re wearing. He’s going to have one eye on the exit all evening.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d noted Oliver’s hesitation when she invited him. Given her not-so-enchanting behavior to date, it didn’t surprise her that he might be cautious about breaking bread with her. The last thing he’d be concerned with would be if she looked frumpy or halfway presentable.
So what? It concerns me.
She opened the closet on a surge of determination. She was allowed to look nice if she wanted to. So what if Oliver was unlikely to register the cut of her pants or the drape of her sweater? She would know, and it would be a welcome change from workout pants and warm sweaters.
She pulled on a turtleneck made from cashmere and silk, matching it with her steel-gray wide-legged linen pants. They made her feel elegant, like the heroine from a thirties noir movie, and she felt infinitely better as she slipped on a pair of simple ballet flats and went into the bathroom to do something with her face.
Some blush worked wonders, as did a few swipes of mascara. Her hair, however, refused to cooperate. Amazing to think that it had once been her crowning glory, almost long enough to sit on, a sleek, smooth waterfall of hair that—in her own mind, at least—had made up for the fact that she wasn’t exactly stacked in the breast department. She’d never been the frilly, feminine type, but the swish of her hair against her back had made her feel saucy and womanly and sexy without fail.
Those were the days.
The E.R. nurses had shaved it all off when they prepped her for emergency surgery after the accident. For long days and weeks afterward, it had been the least of her concerns, but there was no denying that it had been a shock to see herself in the mirror for the first time. The scars on her scalp had been visible through the regrowth by the time they let her look in a mirror, ugly and far too visible. She’d waited till she was alone in her room before letting a few silly, vain tears slide into her pillow. A small moment of mourning for her lost mane.
It had been tempting to grow it all out, but it was much easier to maintain this way. She didn’t have to worry about tying her hair back when she was doing her exercises and it didn’t require special conditioning treatments or take half an hour to dry.
She did what she could with some styling product, trying to coax some texture into it. Finally she rolled her eyes at her own reflection and turned away from the mirror.
Enough, already. She was having dinner with the guy next door, not attending a bloody state reception for the queen.
She was heading for the entry hall to turn on the outside light when the phone rang. She grabbed it from its station on the occasional table as she passed by.
“Mackenzie speaking.”
“Mac. It’s me.”
She came to a dead halt as she heard her ex-husband’s voice. It took her a moment to summon the casual tone her pride demanded.
“Patrick. How are you?” she asked coolly.
It had been more than five months since she’d last spoken to him. The ink was long-since dry on their divorce and technically he owed her nothing, not