The short, squat man moved his considerable bulk between her and the front door, blocking her line of vision. The look on his round, florid face fairly shouted of exasperation.

"You know how a watched pot don't boil?" he asked her. "Well, a watched door don't open, neither. So stop watching the door and start doing somethin' to earn the money I'm paying you, Zoo-ie."

Zooey Finnegan grimaced inside. Milo Hanes, the owner of the small Upstate New York coffee shop where she currently clocked in each morning in order to draw a paycheck, seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure mispronouncing her name.

Most likely, she thought cynically, it was a holdover from his days as the schoolyard bully.

That was okay, she consoled herself. It wasn't as if waitressing at the coffee shop was her life's ambition. She was just passing through. Just as she'd passed through a handful of other jobs, trying them on for size, searching for something that would arouse a passion within her, or at least awaken some heretofore dormant potential.

Her parents had been certain that her life's passion would be the family furniture business. As the firstborn, she'd been groomed for that ever since she was old enough to clutch a briefcase. They and her uncle Andrew had sent her off to college to get a business degree, and after that, an MBA.

The only problem was, Zooey had no desire to acquire a degree—not in business, at any rate.

Her family had made their money designing and selling stylish, affordable furniture. What had once been a small, single-store operation had branched out over the years to include several outlets, both in state and out. Proud as she was of their accomplishments, Zooey couldn't picture herself as a company executive, or a buyer for the firm, or even a salesperson in one of their seven showrooms. As far as she was concerned, Finnegan's Fine Furniture was going to have to remain fine without her.

She loved her parents, but she refused to be browbeaten by them into living a life of not-so-quiet desperation. Stating as much had led to "discussions," which led to arguments that indirectly resulted in her breaking up with Connor Taylor. Her parents felt he was the perfect man for her, being two years older and dedicated to business. What he was perfect for, it turned out, was the company. He'd upbraided Zooey when she'd told him her plans, saying she was crazy to walk away from such a future.

That was when she'd realized Connor was in their relationship strictly for the money, not out of any all-consuming love for her. If it had been the latter, she'd informed him, he would have been willing to hike into the forests of Oregon and subsist on berries and grubs with her. Declaring that she wanted to be mistress of her own destiny, she'd had a huge fight with everyone involved—her parents, her uncle and Connor. When her parents threatened to cut off her funds, she'd done them one better. She'd cut them off and left to find her own way in the world.

So far, her "way" had led her to take up dog walking, to endure a very short stint as a courier, and now waitressing. None of the above proved to be very satisfying or fulfilling. As a dog walker, she'd managed to lose one of her charges. As a courier she'd gotten lost three times in two days, and her first week's pay as a waitress went to repay Milo for several cups and saucers she'd broken when she'd accidentally tilted her tray.

A lesser woman might have given up and gone home, but Zooey had her pride—and very little else. Cut off from the family and the family money, she was running out of options as well as cash. The rent on her closetlike apartment was due soon, and as of right now, she was still more than a hundred dollars short.

She supposed she should have been worried, but she wasn't. Zooey was, first and foremost, a die-hard, almost terminal, optimist. She refused to be beaten down by circumstances, or a scowling boss who could have doubled as a troll in one of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Something would come along, she promised herself.

After all, she just didn't have the complexion to be a homeless person.

In the meantime, she still had a job, she reminded herself.

Offering Milo a spasmodic smile, she went back to mechanically filling the sugar containers on each of the small tables and booths scattered throughout the coffee shop. As she worked, Zooey tried not to look toward the door. Or at least, not to appear as if she was looking toward the door.

He was late.

Rubbing away a sticky spot on the table with the damp towel she had hanging from her belt, Zooey couldn't help wondering if anything was wrong.

Jack Lever, the drop-dead-gorgeous blond criminal lawyer who came in every morning for coffee and a blueberry muffin—and secretly lit her fire—hadn't turned up yet. It wasn't like him.

She'd met Jack her first day on the job. He'd been sitting at her station, with an expression that indicated he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Being of the opinion that everyone could use a little friendly chatter and, at times, a shoulder to lean on, she'd struck up a conversation with him.

Or, more accurately, a monologue. She'd talked and he'd listened. Or appeared to. After about a week of relative silence on his part, Jack finally offered more than single-word responses to her questions.

Given something to work with, she let her questions grow lengthier and progressively more personal than just inquiries about how he liked the weather, the Mets, his muffin. Week number two had actually seen the beginnings of a smile on his lips. That was when her heart had fluttered for the first time. That was also when she'd almost spilled coffee on his lap instead of into his cup.

She began to look forward to Jack's daily stops at the shop. A couple of times, he put in more than one appearance, dropping by around lunchtime the two days he was in the area because of a case. The county courthouse was only two blocks away.

He was a creature of habit as much as she was a free spirit. And he always, always came into the shop around the same time. Eight-thirty. It was almost nine now.

"Maybe Mr. Big Shot's cheating on you with another coffee shop," Milo said, chuckling into his two chins as he changed the industrial-size filter for the large steel coffee urn. Steam hissed, sending up a cloud of vapor as he removed the old filter.

Milo had caught her looking again, she realized, averting her eyes from the door and back to the sugar container in her hand. Zooey shrugged, her thin shoulders moving beneath the stiff, scratchy white cotton uniform. It chafed her neck a little.

She saw no point in pretending she didn't know what her boss was talking about. "Maybe he took a vacation day."

"Or maybe his wife did," Milo commented.

Zooey was about to tell the man that Jack was a widower. It was the latest bit of personal information he'd shared with her. Eighteen months ago, his wife had been killed in a hit-and-run car accident, leaving him with two small children to raise: a girl, Emily, who was about seven now, and a little boy, Jack Jr., still in diapers. The boy was almost two.

But the information never reached her lips. Milo was nodding toward the door.

Zooey turned around in time to see Jack Lever walking in. He was herding a little girl before him, while holding tightly on to a boy who looked as if he was ready to explode in three different directions at once. Jack was also trying to hang on to his briefcase.

Zooey's heart went out to him immediately. The man was obviously struggling, and while she would have bet even money that Jack Lever was a formidable opponent on the courtroom floor, he looked as if he was in over his head at the moment.

Kids did that to you, she thought. She had a younger brother who'd been a pistol when he was around Jack Jr.'s age.

Abandoning the sugar dispenser, Zooey made her way over to Jack and his lively crew. She flashed her brightest smile at him, the one her father had once said could melt the frown off Satan.

"Hi. Table for three?" she asked, her glance sweeping over the two children before returning to Jack.

"More like a cage for two," he murmured wearily under his breath.

Zooey's eyes met his. He would have looked more refreshed wrestling alligators. "Tough morning?"

He gazed at her as if he thought she had a gift for severe understatement. "You might say that." Jackie tried to dart under a table, but Jack held fast, pulling him back. "My nanny quit."

"You don't have a nanny, Daddy." Emily giggled shyly, covering her small, pink mouth with both hands.

The sigh that escaped his lips measured 5.1 on the Richter scale. "And as of seven this morning, neither do you."

Zooey deliberately led the three to a booth, feeling that the enclosed space might make it easier for Jack to restrict the movements of his children. Just before she turned to indicate that they should take a seat, she grabbed hold of two booster seats stacked in the corner and slid one on each side of the table. Then, because Jack seemed to be having more trouble with the boy, she took him by the waist and lifted him in the air. "Up you go, young man."

Because she added a little bounce to the descent, Jack Jr. laughed gleefully, his eyes lighting up. He clapped his hands together. "Again," he cried.

Zooey winked at him, leaning over to make sure that he was securely seated. "Maybe when you leave."

The little girl was tugging on the short apron Zooey wore. When she looked at her quizzically, Emily said shyly, "You're pretty."

Straightening, Zooey beamed. "Well, thank you, honey."

The smile on Emily's lips faded just a little as sadness set in. "My mommy was pretty, too," she added quietly.

Poor baby, Zooey couldn't help thinking. She deliberat...