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  Aimee blinks a couple of times but smiles. She fiddles with a button on my shirt, her eyes locked on my chest. She lightly scratches her fingernails on the material. Pinpricks shoot outward, rippling across my skin. I cover her hand with mine, holding it against my heart.

  “Aimee?” I prompt.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she says to my chest.

  She might be, but I’m not. I tuck a finger under her chin and raise my brows.

  “I’m sure,” she says with more conviction, even adds a smile. “Let’s eat. We can talk about my day and the James stuff later. I want to hear everything about your assignment.” She cradles my jaw and plants a firm kiss on my mouth. She then rubs her upper lip as if wiping off the kiss.

  I chuckle and Aimee laughs, apologetic. “I guess that’s my cue to shave.” I scratch below my chin. I need to trim. My five-day rugged shadow feels more like a short beard, making my face itch.

  I think of what Aimee was about to tell me in the car. What could James possibly want with me? I want to ask her, but I don’t want to invite him to our table. Tonight is for us, a celebration of our achievements.

  Wrapping her hand in mine, I lead the way into the restaurant. We don’t eat here often, only on special occasions, like getting THE CALL from National Geographic occasions.

  Throughout the three-course meal of breads dipped in raclette cheese, venison seared in seasoned oil, and strawberries dipped in chocolate fudge, I tell her about the assignment.

  “Al Foster, he’s the photo editor Erik referred me to. He loved my shots from the Rapa. He says the ones with the horses in the hills are great, but there’s too much happening around them. There’re too many people. He wants me to photograph the horses when they’re not being wrangled, so he’s sending me back to Spain.”

  Aimee’s mouth angles downward. “I still haven’t seen your photos from the last trip.”

  I roll my fondue fork in the melted cheese. “You’ve been busy,” I say, somewhat glum. And we had to confront other, more pressing issues.

  She shreds a piece of bread. “Caty talks about them all the time.”

  “I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  “I’d like that. Early, though, if you don’t mind. I have a meeting with the bank first thing and I need to prep.” Aimee bites into the bread. “Are you writing the piece, too?”

  I shake my head. “Not this time. I’m just captioning photos if they want me to. The magazine’s assigning a writer, but I don’t know who yet. He’ll meet me there so he can hike the hills with me. The editor wants my photos to align with the angle the writer’s taking on the article.” I lean across the table and brush my thumb across Aimee’s chin. “Cheese.”

  She wipes her chin where I flicked her skin. “It’s good cheese.” She jabs a fork into another chunk of bread and swirls it in the pot. “I should add a cheese fondue to my menu, maybe for a late-afternoon or early-evening crowd.”

  I frown. “Great idea, but do you want to serve food that late? You’ll have to stay open later.” She already spends plenty of hours managing the Los Gatos shop. The two additional storefronts she plans to open will take up more of her time, even without staying open longer hours.

  “The Starbucks around the corner added wine and tapas to their menu.”

  “You’re better than Starbucks.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  I cover her hand. “Focus on what makes the café different. Let the other coffee shops chase you, not the other way around.”

  “You’re right.” She sips her chardonnay. “You’re absolutely right. Sometimes these ideas I get”—she twirls her index finger by her temple—“sidetrack me. I need to stay focused. I’ve got a lot to do to get the new locations opened.” She pushes out a long, steady breath. “So . . . Spain?”

  I drink my wine and set down the glass. “Come with me.”

  Her expression is hesitant. I can see it in the way her gaze flickers over our meal. I try not to feel disappointed.

  “When do you leave?” she asks.

  “In about a week or two. I have to check the weather reports. It’s the beginning of their rainy season.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Five days, a week, tops.”

  She bites into her bottom lip. “I don’t know. That’s such short notice.”

  I look at my empty plate.

  “Well . . . maybe if I . . . no . . . that won’t work. I—”

  I squeeze her hand. “Just think about it.”

  “I will.” She nods and I’m fine with that. We can discuss the details later. For now, the evening is going well, and considering I didn’t bring James’s name up once since we sat down, I would say our date has been damn near perfect.

  I must admit, though, James isn’t far from my mind.

  What does he want with me? I’ve never met the guy. I did run into Carlos a couple of times, once in Mexico, and again when he and Natalya had lunch with us at the Tierneys’. That was weird.

  I consider asking Aimee. She had been about to tell me in the car before Caty saw us. But she drinks her wine and gives me the look over the rim of her glass. All thoughts of “that other guy” go up in smoke.

  I’ll bring it up in the morning. Tonight’s for us.

  We return home after dinner, sans kid. Strange walking into a quiet house without having to pay a babysitter or take Caty through her bedtime routine. Thank God, Aimee and I are on the same channel. She turns to me the second I flip the dead bolt, her gaze locking on mine, her hands on my belt. She smiles wickedly and yanks the leather strap from the loops of my jeans. The belt snaps the air and she drops it on the floor.

  Damn, I love it when she’s hot for me.

  Laughing, kissing, and stumbling, we make our way to the bedroom, leaving our clothes scattered, a trail of undergarments and shoes. Lips locked, I lift Aimee in my arms. She wraps her legs around my hips and I walk us to the bed where we tumble onto the duvet. I don’t bother yanking aside the cover. That involves too much time with my hands not on her.

  I inhale the subtle scent of the perfume I gifted her last Christmas and it sends a rush to my center. I bury my face into the crook of her neck and gently scrape my teeth along the curve. She bucks beneath me, her kisses frenzied, her hands frantic. They’re making me insane. It’s as though she’s trying to erase the day, those hours before I found her at Nadia’s. I nudge aside a long, sleek leg and sink inside her, exactly where I’ve wanted to be all freaking day.

  And what a day.

  Is it still on her mind? With her head turned to the side and her eyes closed, harsh gasps rising from her lungs with each one of my thrusts, what is she thinking? Who is she thinking about?

  She better be thinking about me, her husband.

  I move faster, determined to possess every thought of hers, every sensation. I wrap an arm under her shoulders, holding her close. I thread my fingers into her hair and grip hard.

  She likes it rough.

  She loves it when I lose control and go crazy for her.

  “Look at me.”

  She does. Her blues, a swirling midnight in the dim ribbon of light from the hallway, hook into mine. Her hands grasp my hips, her fingernails dig into my flesh. I increase our pace, moving forcibly above her, in her, until all thoughts of the day leave my head and nothing exists but us.

  Until nothing exists but Aimee.

  My wife.

  CHAPTER 5

  IAN

  Aimee’s gone when I wake up. Sprawled on my stomach, I squeeze the pillow under my head and take in the empty side of the bed. I mull over yesterday’s events, picking them apart like a new photo to edit. Memories brighten over my relief of finally having Aimee in my arms when I found her at Nadia’s. But that relief dulls with the contrast of why she’d gone there in the first place. James blindsided her, stirring up memories Aimee has worked hard to overcome. At least our night together ended on the high end of the color spectrum. It was filled with vibrancy and fun. />
  I love having fun with Aimee. We’re good together. We’re good in bed together.

  My body stirs. Groaning, I roll to my back, tempted to haul Aimee back to bed. But her comment last night saturates my drowsy, aroused state.

  Do you think we married too soon?

  She’s never asked that before, nor has it crossed my mind.

  What would she do if she believes we did marry too soon? A sick feeling twists in my abdomen. She’d leave me; that’s what she’d do.

  No, she wouldn’t. My inner voice dope-slaps the back of my head.

  I rub my face and groan into my cupped palms. Damn you, James, for putting that thought in her head.

  I get out of bed, yank on a pair of athletic shorts, and drag a loose tank over my head before stopping in the bathroom to relieve myself. I wash my hands, drying them by running them through my unruly hair, and brush my teeth as I inspect my face in the mirror.

  Priority number one today: shave.

  I rinse my mouth, then go in search of Aimee. I find a sticky note instead.

  Maggie called. Family emergency. Aimee xo

  Maggie works the café’s kitchen, as does Darrell, who’s on vacation. Aimee didn’t plan to be the one to open the café this morning, but now she’s flying solo instead of spending the morning with me, poring over Rapa photos and discussing her meetup with James. That quick, clipped chat in the car wasn’t enough. I want to hear the fine print, not the CliffsNotes version.

  I glance at the driveway through the window to confirm she took my Explorer. I’d go in and help her if I had a car. Aimee’s van is still at Nadia’s. I make a mental note to ask Catherine to drop Caty and me off at the café when she brings her home from preschool. By then, Aimee will be exhausted.

  I skim a thumb over the X and O on her note, worrying about her. Between covering for Maggie, meeting with the banks about a loan, scouting property for the new locations, plus overseeing her existing location, Aimee has a lot on her plate today. She’s been taking on too much and I hope she’s not mixing a recipe for disaster. Something’s gotta give. But what?

  Yep, it’s time for a vacation. I need to get her away from James, and her memories of Phil.

  Since I don’t have a car and can’t go to the gym, I lace up my Adidas and hit the pavement for a fast run. I’ll get my circuit training in later today.

  Forty minutes later, I return home sweaty and invigorated. I chug a mug of coffee and whip up an omelet that I quickly wolf down. After adding my dirty dishes to Aimee’s used cup in the sink, I shower, shave, trim, and ’scape. Content that Aimee will be content with the fine dusting I left on my jaw, I dress and head into my office, the spare room with the slider to the backyard. It’s a bluebird day, already warm despite the early hour, and I’m amped to get the trip to Spain booked and our bags packed.

  I jiggle the mouse, waking my computer. It hums to life and two thirty-two-inch monitors brighten. The large screens give me enough space to work on multiple images. For now, though, I launch my e-mail app, and, as my editor assured, the contract from National Geographic is there.

  I grin. This is happening. This is really happening.

  I lace my fingers and, flipping my palms outward, stretch my arms until my knuckles crack. I rub my hands, wiggle my fingers, and am about to open the e-mail when my phone rings.

  “Ian Collins,” I answer.

  “Al Foster. Hope I’m not calling too early.”

  I glance at the clock in the lower corner of the monitor: 7:48. “No, you’re good. I’m up and working. What can I do for you?”

  “My assistant, Tess, should have sent your contract by now.”

  “Got it.” I click open the DocuSign e-mail.

  “Great. Just making sure. Get that signed and I’ll sign on my end. When are you flying out?”

  I haven’t had the chance to check the weather reports. “Sometime next week,” I tell him, keeping it open. “I’m thinking Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Perfect. There’s an inn near Sabucedo—La casa de campo―one of our photographers stayed at for another assignment. I’ll have Tess send you the info so you can make the reservation. The contract outlines your expense budget. Keep track of those receipts and we’ll get you reimbursed.”

  “Sounds good. Have you assigned a writer yet?” I want to research the guy before I leave, get a grasp on his style and approach.

  “We’re working on it. I spoke with the features editor this morning. She’s narrowed her selection to two. I think it’ll come down to availability. You’ll get an e-mail from me as soon as I hear. Either way, he’ll meet you there.”

  We chat for a few more minutes, and after I read through the contract—satisfied with the terms—I sign the document and send it off. Over the next thirty minutes, I check the weather and grimace. It’s questionable for the next few weeks. Lots of rain. I then book the inn Al recommended, a rental car, and flights for Aimee and me. Yes, I’m assuming she’ll join me because she needs a vacation. And James is in town.

  I stab the Enter key, confirming the reservation.

  I spend another hour catching up on e-mails before launching the Sonos app and firing up some tunes. Nathaniel Rateliff fills the house and I get to work, fine-tuning images from a short excursion I took to Moab to photograph the arches.

  “Daddy!” Caty claps my shoulders and I jolt a foot off my chair.

  “Fuhhh . . . fudge.” I clamp a hand over my mouth, drowning out my voice. My gaze darts to the time. Where did it go? It’s after twelve.

  Snatching Caty around the waist, I haul her into my lap. I plant raspberries on her cheek. She squirms, giggling.

  “I scared you, didn’t I?” she says, out of breath.

  “Yes, you did.” My rapidly beating heart collapses like an exhausted runner and slips back into my chest.

  She frowns at me. “You almost said a naughty word.”

  I press a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell Mommy.”

  She mimics me with her finger. “Promise.”

  We hook pinkies in our “secret keeper” handshake. She gives me a look, a slight curve to her mouth, her eyes bright and photo-paper glossy, that strikes me with the force of a SpaceX rocket. It ripples through me like a shock wave. I’d seen that look in my mom a time or two, back when I thought I meant something to her.

  “I missed you, Daddy,” she whispers like it’s a big secret.

  “I—” I clear the toad from my throat. “I missed you, too.”

  Caty slips from my lap and skips to the door. She yawns, arms stretching overhead. “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re supposed to yawn when you’re hungry? I thought that meant you’re tired.”

  “Noooo, silly.” She laughs.

  I wink at her. “Let’s eat lunch.” I rise stiffly from my chair. I haven’t moved for several hours. “Then it’s naptime.”

  “Can we play princess first? Please?” She clasps her hands together and bats her lashes.

  “Sure thing, Caty-cakes. But this time I get to play Rapunzel.”

  “Deal.” She cheers and runs from the room.

  I smile to myself, shaking my head, and follow her out. I don’t wear a wig and tutu for anyone but her.

  In the kitchen, I find Catherine unpacking Caty’s backpack. We chat a bit about Caty’s day at preschool until Catherine announces she has to leave for a hair appointment.

  I walk her to the door. “Do you mind giving Caty and me a lift to the café when you’re done? Aimee took my car this morning. We left hers at Nadia’s.” The least I can do is help Aimee close this afternoon, but right now Caty needs a nap. On cue, she rubs her eyes. Aimee and I aren’t the only ones who stayed up late. Someone let Caty stay up past her bedtime and all eyes are on Grandma.

  Catherine glances at her watch, a silver number on her thin wrist. “I should be done around two thirty.”

  Two hours from now, plenty of time for us to eat and Caty to sleep. “That works. Thanks.”

  Cat
herine leaves and I make PB&J sandwiches, after which we play princess. Dressed in a light-blue tutu over faded jeans and a long blonde wig that’s more knotted than straight, I announce from atop the coffee table to Caty, who’s kneeling on the floor, that I’ll not let down my hair. Just then, the doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get it,” I say in my princess voice. I leap off the table and float to the foyer. “Hello,” I sing, opening the front door. The greeting dies in my throat.

  On the porch stands James. At the sight of me, his mouth falls open. Then he grins, albeit hesitantly, like he’s fighting not to. He tries to hide his face with a quick glance away.

  “You.” I should have known James would make an appearance, like at the café, or Wendy’s gallery. Not here, at my house, while I’m playing pretend with my daughter. But then James is a Donato. One should expect the unexpected from them.

  James holds up a hand. “Sorry, it’s just . . .” He slowly shakes his head. “Of all the scenarios I pictured, I didn’t see this. You caught me off guard.”

  I caught him off guard?

  Seriously?

  “Nice outfit,” he remarks.

  I scowl. His grin dissolves.

  The guy’s got nerve knocking on my door.

  I would have preferred neutral territory, such as a boxing ring at the gym. I would have made a more positive, lasting impression. Preferably one in the shape of my fist rather than the memory James will have of me wearing a tutu.

  James extends his hand. “I’m Ja—”

  “I know who you are,” I say, cutting him off. Dragging the wig from my head, I scratch my scalp and tame my hair.

  “Well, then.” James shoves his hand into his pocket when I don’t take his proffered greeting.

  What does the guy expect? He treated Aimee poorly their last year together only to remind her yesterday of Phil’s assault and his own crappy behavior. The dude wouldn’t take down the painting of the meadow in their dining room, the site of the incident. Who does that?

  Sick bastard.

  James made Aimee cry yesterday. He’s the reason we’ve been off-balance all summer, teetering back and forth as we try to find each other again. I still haven’t heard the full details about what went down yesterday, and now that Aimee’s been distracted with work, I wonder when I will.