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Chapter 1

Sunlight pours into the kitchen frolass doors on the west side of the house, I can hear the rhyth of the Pacific as it batters the Malibu shore It is just past seven on a Sunday h I had awakened with both a s andI fear that it is time to face the terrible, horrible, inescapable truth—I can’t cookAndand burning

Or , I a just that

I use the built-in handle to flip the waffle iron over, then open the top with the tines of a fork The thing inside doesn’t resemble any food product I’ve ever seen It’s black and bu shoe

“Well, shit,” I say, then add on an even s are burning and that s to set off the fire alare sideways toward the stove and hit the button for the vent, then narrowthe alar Because even if breakfast consists of black coffee and dry toast, I a—not a s batter, not evento roust my husband of almost three weeks out of bed before I am ready to surprise hi I am

I have not yet turned around, but I don’t have to I know that he is awake, and I know that he is standing behind me I didn’t hear hiible to announce his presence to me But that doesn’t matter

I simply know

Maybe it’s a shift in the density of the air

Maybe it’s the way that the heat from his body makes the molecules around him spin faster

Maybe it is the simple fact that he is Damien Stark, my husband, my love, and I could no more be unaware of his presence than I am of my own body

For a moment, I simply stand there, my back still to him I had wanted to surprise hile of disappointment But that is quickly conquered by the desire to see hie of him that fills myagainst the wall that separates the third floor kitchen froray sweatpants tied loosely at his hips and absolutely nothing else His athlete’s body gloith a lingering tan, courtesy of the island that was the last stop of our honeyhts the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen