So she would make an appointment to have her hair done. Maybe even her nails. And she would find a place that could do the same for Jethro.

Or Roscoe.

Or Chompers.

Well, she’d come up with something.

Grabbing her purse and knitting tote, she opened the driver’s side door of her silver Lexus and headed for the front of The Yarn Barn. At the back of the store, she greeted her Wednesday-night knitting group and plopped down in the empty seat Jenna and Ronnie had saved for her.

Everyone else already had their projects out, needles clicking away as they knit and chatted and sipped lemonade from the small sidebar the store had provided for gatherings just like this.

Jenna was knitting yet another of her trademark boas. The feathery purple yarn ran through her fingers like water as she worked the set of large, plastic needles almost faster than the eye could see. She probably had two hundred boas in her own collection by now, but because she loved making them so much, she often gave bunches of them to her aunt Charlotte to sell at her craft booth-and this week, on the road. And they apparently went well, because Jenna was forever knitting them, and Charlotte was forever asking for more.

Ronnie, however, was using much smaller needles and a much sturdier yarn for the sleeve of a dark, smoky-blue sweater she was knitting for Dylan to wear during the coming winter.

“You’re late,” Ronnie said from her spot in the armchair to Grace’s left. “Is everything all right?”

A stab of guilt speared her at the concern in her friend’s voice. She knew Ronnie was worried about her. If their situations had been reversed and she’d been the one to witness Ronnie taking a baseball bat to Dylan’s car and tearing apart his apartment, then crawling into her own bed to rail and wail for a day and a half, she’d have been concerned, too.

Frankly, Grace was lucky her friends hadn’t called the men in white coats. Not that a few hours in a strait-jacket and room with padded walls wouldn’t have done her some good.

“Everything’s fine,” she reassured them. “Work has just been a little hectic lately, and my producer stopped me on my way out to argue about some upcoming show topics.” The men-are-evil-and-must-be-shot segments, which she still maintained were timely and necessary to the fate of womankind.

Reaching into her bag, Grace removed a giant wad of thin, delicate white yarn already knit into several complicated pieces. Parts of what was supposed to have been her wedding dress. She’d been so excited about making it herself, instilling that love and excitement into every stitch.

On several occasions, Jenna and Ronnie had both offered to help, seeing how complicated the pattern was and fearing Grace wouldn’t be able to complete it in time by herself. But Grace had declined. She’d wanted to do it all herself, to wear her own creation down the aisle.

Now, though, the idea brought her only pain and heartbreak.

Removing the miniscule needles from the piece she’d been working on last, she crossed her legs, sat back, and began tugging the end of the yarn to unravel the whole horrible mess.

“What are you doing?” Jenna shrieked, nearly jumping out of her chair when she spotted Grace’s actions.

“I’m pulling apart my wedding dress,” Grace answered, without emotion and without lifting her head. “And when I’m finished, I’m going to burn it, along with everything that asshole ever gave me, everything he left at my place, and every picture of him I can find.”

While most of the women in the group didn’t know about Zack’s recent infidelity or the demise of their relationship, they caught on quickly-and wisely kept their mouths shut. Only Melanie, a young mother of two small children and one of their closer friends who often joined them for drinks at The Penalty Box after meetings, had the nerve to ask what in God’s name was going on.

Ronnie attempted to fill her in as politely and with as few of the more gruesome details as possible. Grace wasn’t nearly as discerning. She recapped the story in a voice sharp enough to cut glass and with a generous sprinkling of four-letter words… most of them used to describe the cheating Zack-Ass bastard.

By the time she finished, a pile of curly white thread lay at her feet, the physical embodiment of a metaphor for the unraveled mess her life and engagement had recently become.

Rather than feeling distressed over undoing all the hard work she’d put into the dress-and Lord, it had been hard work; tiny needles, whisper-thin yarn, and teeny, extremely complicated stitches-she found the harsh, repetitious yank-and-pull, yank-and-pull to be cathartic. She even managed to match her motions to the chorus of “Before He Cheats,” which she was humming beneath her breath while the others chatted around her.

She hadn’t been at it twenty minutes when she noticed the change. The air around her grew suddenly brittle, and there was a distinct shift to the sounds of the store that usually surrounded them.

And then there were the footsteps. Heavy, booted footsteps moving at a fast clip.

Grace’s stomach tightened and a lump of something she preferred not to identify by name formed in her chest. She sat up straighter, steeling herself for what was to come as a dark shadow fell over her and the hot breath of doom blew on her neck.

“You.”

That one syllable was spoken so low and with so much venom, she was surprised she didn’t die of odium poisoning right there on the spot. As it was, her skin did tingle and her pulse did kick up a beat.

Slowly and very carefully, she set aside what she was doing and turned in her chair to smile pleasantly up at a red-faced Zachary Hoolihan. He towered over her, chest heaving. He looked angry enough to spit nails, and she was frankly surprised steam didn’t pour out of his ears.

Dylan stood on his left, just behind Ronnie’s chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Gage stood on his right, looking… well, like Gage. Sort of big, intimidating, and expressionless. Between them, Zack put her in mind of Yosemite Sam, hopping around and blustering like a crazy person.

All week, she’d been imagining how she would act the next time she ran into Zack. And she’d known she would. Cleveland might have been a nice, big city, but it wasn’t that big, and she’d expected he would make a point of tracking her down eventually to confront her about the damage she’d done to his car and apartment.

Payback, as they said, was a bitch.

“Are you addressing moi?” she asked in a voice so sweet, it nearly blew out her pancreas. Because damned if she’d let him think he’d gotten to her-aside from the recent acts of wanton destruction, that was.

“Damn right, I’m addressing you, Little Miss Smart-Ass,” Zack snapped. “You wrecked my apartment, stole my dog, and killed my car.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyes went wide in practiced innocence.

“You. Killed. My. Car.” He enunciated each word, spitting them through gritted teeth before resting both hands on the back of her chair and leaning in until they were nearly nose to nose. “You destroyed my Hummer.”

“Your Hummer?” she asked in a voice she was pretty sure Shirley Temple had used in every one of her adorable little movies. “Did something happen to that big red beast?”

Zack stood back once again, but a vein had begun to throb at his temple and she thought he might be at serious risk of popping an embolism.

Good. It would serve him right, the jerk.

“You know goddamn well something happened to it. You happened to it. You broke into the parking garage at my apartment complex and destroyed my fucking Hummer! Then you broke into my apartment and went apeshit in there, too.”

Grace placed one long index finger against her cheek, wishing now that she’d made a point of stopping at the salon before tonight’s meeting. A beautifully manicured nail would have been just the thing to show Zack that she was doing fine without him. That she didn’t care how many silicone-boobed puck bunnies he boffed.