How to Honeymoon Alone

I grab his hand and twine my fingers through his. “Come on, then. Let me show you my bungalow.”

He smiles. It’s brilliantly wide, promising many more to come, and his hand tightens around mine. “Lead the way.”

Three Weeks Later

Phillip leans back on the couch with my laptop braced on his knees. He’d only bothered to put on his pants, and his bare chest is still in full, delicious view.

“This is good,” he says.

I fold my legs up beneath me. “Honestly?”

“Honestly,” he says. His face is set in the concentrated frown I’ve come to love.

He’s reading the first ten chapters of my work-in-progress. Apart from Becky, I’ve never shown my writing to anyone since One Fatal Step came out and sold two hundred and seven copies. In total.

“I think it’s better than Fatal,” he says.

Oh, he’s read that one, too. He’d bought it even when I told him I’d give him a copy for free. And when he returned the following weekend from Seattle, he’d already read it cover to cover.

“Okay, you’re just saying that,” I say.

“No, I mean it. It has a really strong start. And,” he says, looking over at me, “I’m really liking this mysterious businessman.”

I chuckle. “You are, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’ll soon be suspected of the murder.”

“Mmm. But our intrepid heroine-who is falling deeply in love with him, by the way-is going to save the day.”

“She is. In about two hundred more pages.” I fold up the long sleeves of my shirt. His shirt, really. It’s the only thing I’m wearing.

It’s Friday, and he arrived a few hours ago to spend the weekend here. With me. In my house. In Pinecrest. We had takeout, then we’d had sex on my couch, and now he’s reading my manuscript.

I can’t quite believe it. That I get to live this life, that he’s here, and that happiness has taken up permanent residence in my chest.

He taps his fingers along the side of my laptop. “I might have some notes about the legal process, later. About the investigation, but also about what laws actually apply to a foreign national murdered abroad.”

“Lay it all on me,” I say. “You can be my law consultant on fictional criminal cases.”

“Will I make it into the acknowledgments?”

“Maybe,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Scratch that. I want into the dedication.”

I laugh. “You’re getting greedy.”

“Yes,” he says and puts the laptop down. He looks at me across the room with unbridled lust. “I thought that was obvious by now.”

I chuckle, stretching my bare legs in front of me, and loving the way his eyes dip down. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“Then why are you over there?”

I get up off the armchair and walk around the coffee table, sinking onto the couch beside him. He lifts my legs and tucks them over his lap.

“Much better,” he says. He’s let his stubble grow out again. I love how it looks, rugged against his shirts and suits.

I prop myself up on a pillow. “I like it when you’re here.”

“I like it when I’m here, too,” he says and puts a big hand on the outside of my thigh. His skin is warm on mine.

“Would you want to meet one of my friends on Sunday?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Who?”

“Becky. She had her daughter the same day you showed up, remember?”

“I remember,” he says. “Your goddaughter.”

I nod. Little Riley is only three weeks and four days old, but she’s already the cutest-looking baby. I haven’t seen her or her mother much; only to return Ziggy and then to drop off a few meals and a big bag of groceries during their first week. Becky’s the one who wants to meet up for a slow walk in the park this Sunday. And by slow, she’d written in her text, I mean snail’s pace.

“Yeah. She’ll come along,” I say.

“Sure Becky won’t mind me crashing?”

“I’m sure. She really wants to meet you.”

“Ah,” Phillip says. “The best friend test. Should I be scared?”

I grin at him. “Don’t worry, you’ll pass with flying colors.”

His thumb starts to move in slow sweeps over my bare thigh. “You’ve told me how she encouraged you in Barbados, to go for it with me. I owe her a thank you.”

“Mmm, probably,” I say. His dark-brown hair is mussed from earlier, and his eyes dance with the same happiness I’m feeling.

I can’t believe he’s here… and that he’s mine.

His eyes narrow. “You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like what?” I ask, but I’m smiling, too.

His fingers dig softly into my flesh. “You know exactly like what… like you did earlier.”

Yes. And we both know what had happened then, after eating takeout, right here on this very couch. “Whoops,” I say.

He smooths his hand up my thigh and beneath my shirt, his shirt, and over my bare hip. “You didn’t put your panties back on.”