“Me?” Immediately Sophy tried to hand them back. “They’re not mine,” she protested. “I can’t take George’s keys!”

“Why not? Because you and George are separated? Big deal.”

“We’re not separated! We’re divorcing. I thought we already were,” Sophy said. “Divorced,” she clarified.

“But you’re not? Good. Easier to work things out,” Tallie said with the confidence of someone who had done just that and was living happily ever after. “Elias and I—”

“Were not married when you went your own ways,” Sophy said firmly. “It is not the same thing. And I can’t take George’s keys.” She tried to hand them back again, but a yawn caught her by surprise and so she ended up covering her mouth instead.

“You’re exhausted,” Tallie said. “How long have you been here?”

“Not that long. A couple of hours. I got into LaGuardia before dawn.”

“You took a red-eye? Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Not really,” Sophy admitted. “But I’m hoping I will on the way home.”

Tallie looked appalled. “On the way home? What? You’re going home now?”

Sophy shrugged. “He doesn’t need me here. Or want me here. He made that quite clear.”

Tallie snorted dismissively. “What does he know? Besides, it doesn’t matter if he needs you or wants you. I do.”

“You? What do you mean?”

“You, my dear Sophy, are going to save my life,” Tallie told her, taking her by the arm and steering her to a pair of chairs where they could sit.

“Don’t you want to see George?” Sophy said hopefully.

“In a minute. First I want to get you on your way.” The CEO Tallie had once been came through loud and clear. “I need your help.”

“What sort of help?”

“George, bless his heart, thinks that I can simply drop my life and take over the running of his. And admittedly, there might have been a time I could have done it,” Tallie said with a grin. “But that time is not now. Not with three little boys, a baby due in three weeks, a homemade bakery business that has orders up the wazoo, orders I need to get taken care of before the arrival of my beautiful baby girl—” Tallie rubbed her belly again “—not to mention a husband who, while tolerant, does not consider sharing me with a dog for more than one night to be the best allocation of my time.

“Besides,” she went on before Sophy could say a word, “he has to go to Mystic for a boat launch this afternoon. He took the kids to school, but I need to be home to get Nick and Garrett from kindergarten and Digger from preschool. I was planning to bake today before I had to go get them. And I’d take Gunnar home but he doesn’t get along with the rabbit, er, actually vice versa. So—” she took a breath and gave Sophy a bright, hopeful smile “—what do you say? Will you save me? Please?”

Sophy was even more exhausted just thinking about it. She swallowed another yawn.

“And you can sleep while you’re there,” Tallie said triumphantly.

“George won’t like it.”

“Who’s telling George?” Tallie raised both brows.

Not me, Sophy thought. She should say no. It was the sane, safe, sensible thing to do. The less she had to do with George or any of his family before the divorce was final, the less likely she was to be hurt again.

But life, as she well knew, wasn’t about protecting yourself. It was about doing what needed to be done. “Payback” wasn’t always what you thought it would be. It didn’t mean you had a right not to do it.

“All right,” she said resignedly. “I’ll do it. But as soon as George can come home, I’m leaving.”

“Of course,” Tallie said, all grateful smiles. “Absolutely.”

Sophy hadn’t let herself think about where George might be living ever since he’d walked out of her life.

If she’d wanted to guess, she’d have picked some sterile but extremely functional apartment where he’d be called upon to do as little interaction with his environment as possible.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

George had a brownstone on the Upper West Side. Not just an efficient studio in a brownstone or even a complete floor-through apartment. George owned the whole five-story building.

And while most of the brownstones in the neighborhood had long since been subdivided into flats, George’s had not.

“When he came home he said he wanted a house,” Tallie told her. “And he got one.”

He had indeed. And what a one it was.

Sophy stopped on the sidewalk in front of the wide stoop and stared openmouthed at the elegant well-maintained facade. It had big bay windows on the two floors above the garden entrance, and two more floors above that with three identical tall narrow arched windows looking south across the tree-lined street at a row of similar brownstones.

It had the warm, tasteful, elegant yet friendly look that the best well-kept brownstones had. And to Sophy, whose earliest memories of home were the days spent in her grandparents’ brownstone in Brooklyn, it fairly shouted the word home.

It was exactly the sort of family home she’d always dreamed of. She’d babbled on about it to George in the early days of their marriage. He’d been preoccupied with work, of course. Not listening. At least she hadn’t thought he was listening…

No, of course he hadn’t been. It was coincidence.

All the same it wasn’t helpful. Not helpful at all.

At least, she thought as she climbed the steps, the sound of a ferocious dog barking his head off on the other side of the front door belied any homey feelings that threatened to overtake her.

So that was Gunnar.

He sounded as if he wanted to have her for brunch.

“He’s lovely,” Tallie had said. “Adores George.”

But apparently he wasn’t keen on rabbits—except perhaps for meals—and the jury was still out on what he thought of her.

Good thing she liked dogs, Sophy thought, fitting the key in the lock and putting on her most upbeat, confident demeanor. She had no idea if it would convince Gunnar. She just hoped she convinced herself long enough to make his acquaintance.

“Hey, Gunnar. Hey, buddy,” she said as she cautiously opened the door.

The dog stopped barking and simply looked at her quizzically. He was a good-size dog, all black with medium-length hair and some feathering.

“A flat-coated retriever,” Tallie had told her, and when Sophy looked blank, she’d elucidated. “Think of a lean, wiry black golden retriever—with Opinions. Capital O Opinions.” Gunnar’s opinion of her was apparently being formed even as she talked to him.

“I hope you like me,” Sophy said to him. She’d at least had the wisdom to stop at a pet shop on her way down Broadway, where she’d bought some dog treats. Now she offered one to the dog.

In her experience, most dogs took treats eagerly and without question. Gunnar took his, too. But instead of grabbing it, he accepted it delicately from her fingers, then carried it over to the rug by the fireplace where he lay down and nosed it for a few moments before consuming it.

She dragged her bag in over the threshold and shut the door behind her, then turned to survey Gunnar’s—and George’s—domain.

It was as impressive inside as it was out. From the mahogany-paneled entry she could see into the dining room where Gunnar was finishing his dog treat, up an equally beautiful mahogany staircase to the second floor and down a hallway to the back where a glimpse of a sofa told her she would find the living room.

But before she could go look, Gunnar came back and poked her with his nose, then looked up hopefully. “Treats are the way to your heart?” she said to him—and was surprised when he replied.

He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He just sort of—talked—made some sort of noise that had her looking at him in astonishment. So he poked her again.

“Right,” she said. “Yes. Of course.” And she fetched another treat out of the bag she’d bought. He accepted it with the same gravity with which he’d accepted the first one. But he didn’t eat it. He simply carried it down the hall.