Here's what I'm sure of, Ginger said, finally returning the woman's gaze. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the men in the world aren't worth my time, and I am done wasting my time; therefore, I am alone and prepared to remain so.

That sounds awfully lonely.

Thank God I have HeatherLynn.

Mrs. Needleman frowned. Your daughter?

My bichon frise.

Of course.

Ginger uncrossed her legs, slipped back into her sandal, and stood to go, aware that not everyone appreciated the deep love a woman can have for her dog. For many folks, the idea that a little white ball of fluff had saved Ginger from the depths of despair was laughable. Luckily, her friends Josie, Bea, and Roxanne understood perfectly. The three women in her dog-walking group had become Ginger's closest confidantes, and the group had walked and talked Ginger through the two roughest years of her life, dogs in tow.

I should let you rest before dinner, Mrs. Needleman, she said. I enjoyed our chat. Ginger had reached the door when the voice rang out behind her, clear and firm.

He is out there.

Ginger spun, shocked that Mrs. Needleman had sneaked up on her. Looking into the woman's fierce expression, Ginger thought that Josie had been too kind in her description of her. Odd didn't do her justice. Disconcerting was better.

Will seafood be all right? Ginger was unsure how to wrap up this little get-together, but knew it was time.

It's nothing to sneeze at, you know.

Seafood?

No. Mrs. Needleman clutched Ginger's forearm. I'm talking about that one-tenth of one percent of the male species you haven't yet written off. You could still get lucky, but if you spend all your time worrying that you're over the hill, then you'll miss your chance to be over the moon.

Ginger's eyes went wide.

You must listen to your heart, Genevieve, not your fear. Do this, and you will find happiness.