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"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I admit.

Daniel nods without looking offended. "Fair enough. I know you've had a rough couple of weeks. No pressure."

He starts to turn away, and something inside me rebels.

Because what the hell am I doing?

Enzo is married. He's a mobster. He lied to me, broke my heart, and left me crying into five cats who aren't even particularly sympathetic. Daniel is handsome, polite, employed in a profession that comes with an actual pension, and apparently interested in me.

Most importantly, he's available. Or so he claims.

"Wait." He turns back, and I take a breath. "Coffee might be nice."

His smile widens. "Really?"

"Provided you can produce proof of your marital status."

"Never married. No ex-wife hiding in the bushes."

"Excellent. You're already ahead of the competition."

We exchange numbers and arrange to meet the following Friday evening for coffee and dinner. When he leaves, I catch myself smiling.

Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Over the next several days, I start noticing things that make me wonder whether I've finally lost my mind.

Monday morning, there's an unfamiliar dark sedan parked across the street from my apartment building. Its windows are tinted, and there's a pale scrape along the rear bumper. The engine is running, but I can't see who's inside.

When I come home, it's gone.

Wednesday afternoon, I notice what looks like the same car near the library.

Probably a coincidence. Los Angeles is full of expensive vehicles, and after dating Lorenzo Moretti, I've apparently developed an unhealthy interest in tinted windows.

But Thursday, I notice a man standing across the street from the library. He's wearing sunglasses and a dark jacket, watching the entrance. When I glance his way again, he turns and walks toward a parked car.

I tell myself he's waiting for somebody. Or checking his phone. Or doing one of the hundreds of perfectly innocent things people do while standing on sidewalks.

That evening, I hear footsteps behind me while walking home from the corner store. When I stop, they stop, too. I turn, but there's nobody close enough to identify, just a couple farther down the sidewalk and someone getting into a vehicle.

I hurry home and lock the door.

Maybe I should call the police, but what am I supposed to say? Somebody walked on a public sidewalk, and a black car exists in Los Angeles?

I'd sound insane.

Besides, I don't want another conversation about Enzo. I'm trying to move on, and the last thing I need is somebody reminding me that my ex-boyfriend has dangerous enemies.

Not that he's been contacting me much lately.

The calls have slowed, the flowers have stopped arriving, and there haven't been any more deliveries requiring a forklift to get through my front door. He still sends the occasional message, but I'm no longer waking up to half a dozen missed calls.

I should be relieved.

Instead, every time my phone stays silent, I feel a little more miserable. Apparently, I'm the kind of idiot who wants a man to leave her alone and then cries when he finally does.

Fantastic.