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I missed her.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally. “In the meantime, just tell Fred’s assistant to lay off. I’ll let Fred know myself what I decide.”

Sheila nodded, heading for the door.

Was it my imagination, or was she still lingering?

“Any plans this weekend?”

I frowned. “Nope. Remy’s back tonight so probably just a pizza at home. Why?”

She smiled. “Oh nothing. Just… my girlfriend, she’s a real foodie. She follows a food blog called Bella Eats.”

My stomach dropped. “And?”

“And it’s you, isn’t it? In the photos? Getting her car out of the ditch?”

I’d forgotten all about the photo Michelle took of me, the one she’d asked if she could post. It felt like ages ago.

“Oh,” I said, stupidly. I didn’t know what else to say.

“I think it’swonderfulyou’re dating again, and that sweet Michelle, she’s been through so much…”

“We’re not dating,” I said.

Sheila blinked.

“We’re…” I was going to say friends, but I wasn’t sure we were even that anymore. “Remy’s her babysitter. That’s all.”

“But you were in Millerville together—”

“I was just helping Ms. Franco out. That’s all it is. And I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself.” Then, because I knew how I sounded—and that I could trust her, I said, “Please?”

Sheila nodded knowingly. “Right. Of course.”

I almost said something like ‘it’s not what you think.’ But what did it matter?

After Sheila bustled out of the office, I pulled the drawer open and grabbed my phone.

Resolution be damned, I had to see what the blog said.

It didn’t take me long—the most recent post she’d written was calledMEATBALL MADNESS,published on Sunday.I opened and quickly scanned it—nothing about me, and no pictures except a delicious-looking meatball drowning in homemade tomato sauce.

Then, at the bottom I saw the button entitled PREVIOUS POSTS.

I clicked it, and there it was, a couple posts back:WHEN LIFE THROWS YOU SNOWBALLS, DRINK BEER.

There were the photos she’d taken. The first, me looking like a dufus getting my pants muddy as I hitched her car to mine. The second was a selfie, her smile dazzling.

I was suddenly thrown back to that moment—I’d been preoccupied with the feeling of Michelle’s arm through mine as we cut across the parking lot. And in fact, the moment was captured. There in the bottom corner of the photo was my arm.

It was enough that the commenters below the article had clearly lost their shit.

Michelle, OMG, so happy you’re on a date!Exclaimed one.

Who is THAT?!?Said another.

They went on. And on. There were pages of them. People chatting back and forth.