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There comes a time in every woman's life when she looks into the eyes of the man with whom she's shared the most intimate parts of herself and realizes she was meant to spend the rest of her life with him. Fortunately for Honey Ambrose, Cliff Watson was not that man.

He stood in her living room, as he had for the past five years, all six foot three of him, arms folded across his chest in exasperation, eyes soft and intense at the same time. She could barely believe it was true. She wasn't in love with him anymore.

"It's because I'm white, isn't it?"

Honey's patience was running thin. It was time for this back and forth between them to stop. For the first time in their hot and cold relationship, she was the one who would call it quits.

She folded her legs beneath her on her brown Broyhill couch, finally comfortable with the thought of being without him.

"You know that's not the reason. And you're just saying that because it's me doing the breaking up this time."

Cliff opened his mouth to speak, then clamped his lips shut. Her eyes followed the movement. Damn, she would miss kissing that mouth, tonguing his goatee.

"Okay, you're right," he admitted.

He looked like he wanted to sit down beside her, then thought better of it.

"Look, Cliff, I'm just giving you what you've wanted for a long time—your freedom."

"Yeah, but I only wanted it when I knew I couldn't get it."

He rocked a bit, with his long arms still crossed in front of his chest. His glasses caught the soft glare of her floor lamp, reflecting a vulnerability Honey didn't know the man had.

"Thank God, I've come to my senses," Honey said and meant it. The man in front of her had tied her life into emotional knots for so long that she didn't know how to live any differently.

Cliff took a seat next to her and placed a hand on her exposed leg, drew circles around her ankle with his finger. "You know what will change up this whole situation?"

Instead of sending thrills to all parts of her body, the sensation tickled. Honey laughed and pushed his hand away. "Not gonna happen, Watson."

"I knew that. I knew that."

His head dropped to his chest. "Damn. This really is the end."

"Yeah," Honey said, a twinge of sadness weakening her voice.

He sighed and stretched his long, denim-clad legs out in front of him. "I'm going to miss you."

"How? You live next door."

"I used to live in you."

"Cliff, we'll always be—"

"Nope, not going there," he said, standing quickly. He headed for the door, his skin starting to flush.

"Don't give me that we'll-always-be-friends, I-love-you-like-a-brother crap."

"But it's true."

He opened the door. He was a slim man, but at that moment he looked like he was carrying a thousand pounds. "No it's not. That's why we couldn't make it. With us, it's all or nothing."

A pang of doubt made Honey bolt off the couch. "Cliff…" she began but with no idea of how to finish.

"Don't, baby," he said. "You're doing so well. I'm proud of you. Hold your ground…even if it means letting go of me."

Honey met him at the door, wondering where the strength of her heart was going. The power of her convictions.

Out the door?

She stood at the doorway of her two-story, custom-built home. Her lawn was well manicured, not a blade of grass out of place. No, the only thing out of place was the man walking across her yard and the piece of her heart he took with him.

West Cheyenne was unusually busy for a Monday morning. Cars rode past as though they were on an expressway rather than a residential neighborhood. It wasn't like there were a bunch of kids around. Most of the two-income families in the six-block square of her affluent subdivision were too in love with their independence to be tied down by children. Honey had chosen the neighborhood specifically because of that.

Independence.

Hearing the whoosh and bang of Cliff's door made her question her decision as she realized that even though she no longer wanted a life with him, she didn't want a life alone.

Two more cars sped by. In a hurry for what, Honey wondered. She didn't think she would be in a hurry for anything ever again.

She ran a hand through her crinkly hair and glanced around as a single woman for the first time in five years.

It was a strange feeling, but not as debilitating as she'd envisioned.

A bright sun pushed through thick white clouds. Honey smiled. If she'd known that the end of life as she'd lived it would not kill her, she would have ended her relationship with Cliff a long time ago.

She was eager to begin her new life, but her feet wouldn't move. Her legs had turned to lead, and Cliff's leaving had welded her to the spot. She was still standing stiffly in place when a big truck rolled down the street and backed up into her driveway. It wouldn't have been so bad except for the Dumpster attached to the back end and the fact that the driver of the truck had parked and was getting out of the cab.

He was a short guy, built like a rectangle. The name stitched on his blue company jumpsuit said Charlton.

"Can I help you?" Honey asked, gaining some of the feeling back in her legs.

"I just need a signature," he said, seemingly by rote. He must have said those words ten times a day for years.

"You've got the wrong address," she said.

"Ambrose? Honey Ambrose?"

The expression on his face hadn't changed. It was deadpan. Emotionless. There was no indication at all that he might be at the wrong location.

But Honey had no idea where or how he could have gotten her information. Although her brother, Brax, often accused her of harboring a landfill in her home, she didn't think of her piles and accumulations in that way.

"I'm Honey, but I never ordered a Dumpster."

That put a chink in old Charlton's chain. He stared down at his clipboard, lifted the top sheet and scanned the paper beneath it. When he looked up, his placid expression had been replaced by mild confusion.

"The name on the order is Houston Pace. He live here?"

"Never heard of him."

"Well he's heard of you. This Dumpster's been rented for a week. Paid in full."

A flicker of unease moved through her. Honey shifted her weight. "I don't know what to tell you except there's been a mistake."

Charlton tucked the clipboard under his arm, pulled his keys from the snap back clipped to his belt. "You sure you don't want the bin? This Pace guy put it on a credit card."

Honey glanced back at her house. Hills of inventory and mountains of merchandise choked damn near every room in her home.

"No, thanks," she said, turning back to Charlton.

"Okay," he said and went right back to his truck. He pulled out the same way he pulled in, nice and easy.

Honey went back into her house nice and easy and concerned, wondering why someone was trying to use her name and hoping that there wasn't some identity theft in progress. She made a note to get Roger Sprague, her credit advisor, to look into it for her.

As a matter of fact, she thought, maneuvering from her living room to the dining room amidst boxes, papers and catalogs, she'd call him right now.

Honey picked up the third stack of papers on her dining room table, took out the phone book underneath, then replaced the papers. She flipped to the S section, found the number and dialed.

Roger Sprague picked up after the first ring.

"Hey, gorgeous," he said.

"Hey, sweetheart. How've you been?"

"All right, but better now. What's up?"

"What do you know about identity theft?" He paused. "Everything. Why?"

"I need to know if someone is using my name."

"I'd like to use your name," he said.

"What for?" she asked, but Honey had an idea.

"Honey, ah. Honey!"

"Fresh!" she retorted, but laughed.

"That's me. Okay, on the real. I'll check into it and call you back when—"

"Hold on, Roger," she said as her doorbell rang. That better not be Cliff, she thought. It couldn't be. She didn't think her heart would be strong if it was.

Honey opened the door and was absolutely right about her heart. It wasn't strong. It was as weak as a wet paper towel—the no-name kind popular in ninety-nine-cent stores. The man standing in front of her was the cause and the effect.

Six five. Had to be. A wonderfully delicious bald head. His onyx eyes sparkled almost as brightly as the diamond-studded earrings in both his ears. In a crisp, copper-colored long-sleeved shirt and deep, bronze-colored linen pants, he had a body a wrestler would do a flying dropkick for and a mouth so luscious and sexy it could stop a convoy.

Honey had her own private heat wave goin' on inside her body.

"Uh, Roger…let me call you back."

"Okay, gorgeous," he said.

Honey pressed the Off button on her phone. The man in front of her had pressed her On button just by standing on her porch.

"May I…help you?" she asked, grateful she'd decided to put on a tank top, sans bra, and her favorite hip-hugging jeans. Her breasts lifted and jutted all on their own, and her hips swerved on autopilot.

"Yeah," he said, his robust voice making Honey tingle in all the sweet places. "You can tell me what happened to the Dumpster I ordered."