Fifty-one

AM I dreaming?

The room felt warmer. Soft sounds of crackling ascended from the hearth as a deep voice tickled my ear.

“Mmm, your skin smells nice . . .”

I opened my eyes. A golden glow now bathed the beautiful wall of artwork I faced. Strong hands sweetly caressed my body. Soft lips tasted my bare shoulder. I moaned and turned over to find the top buttons of my nightshirt undone—and I didn’t mind one bit.

“You’re here . . .” I touched his bristly cheek. “It’s not a dream.”

“I’m here,” Mike said. “And you smell different.”

“It’s the soap. A pretty little rose petal soap from Paris.”

“That’s funny . . .” He propped himself on an elbow. “I didn’t see anything like that in the bathroom.”

Forever the detective, I thought. Even in the shadowy light, Mike’s blue gaze was sharp, searching my face for answers. I didn’t blame him. After years living with a wife who frequently cheated, he’d learned to look for clues and signs, like a different soap when she cleaned up at some posh hotel.

Well, I had nothing to hide, not where my faithfulness was concerned. “I took a shower at Matt’s warehouse,” I told him straight. “And before you ask, there was a perfectly good reason.”

“I’m sure there was.”

I explained how a red SUV nearly ran me over and left me freezing in a muddy puddle. “Matt took care of me, let me clean up in his bathroom and warm up in his warehouse.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine—bruised ego, that’s all.”

“So how’s Allegro’s loft coming along?”

I paused. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

“Why?” he said. “Because it’s a building code violation?”

“I think he used a licensed architect—the one designing our roastery. And I have to admit, it’s the perfect living space for a ‘don’t fence me in’ guy like Matt. None of his rooms have a fourth wall; he can sleep with his beloved coffee; and when he misses the bush, he’s got a tent on the roof with two charcoal grills.”

“So there’s a fire code violation?”

Oh, brother. “Forget I said anything. Please? The way things are going with our shop downstairs, he can’t afford citations.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not out to stick the guy . . .” Mike leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “But I do like having something on him—just in case he gets out of line.”

“Can’t we all just get along? Strive for family harmony?”

“Harmony’s okay by me, as long as Allegro understands that you and I are an exclusive duet.”

“He does.” I leaned closer. “And when he doesn’t, he gets a swift mental kick of a reminder.”

Mike smiled at that. “I’ll give Allegro credit for one thing. He has good taste in soap.”

“He does, but it’s not his taste I care about at the moment . . .”

I didn’t care about petty arguments, either. With everything going on in our lives, discussions about my ex-husband were a waste of precious time.

“We’re together now,” I told my fiancé, “and I can think of much pleasanter preoccupations . . .” Then I finished unbuttoning my nightshirt and Mike’s smile grew wider.