Page 5

The French doors are still open, offering a seamless view from the living room to the pool and the lake beyond.

A remaining few stragglers drank the last of their Dom Pérignon and left about a half an hour ago.

Out on the pool deck, Will is sitting on a chaise, a scotch in hand, his gaze fixed on the night sky.

I slip my Louboutin heels off by the couch and pad out barefoot.

“I have a good feeling about forty-six,” he says, still looking up at the stars.

“Oh?” I sit down beside him and pull my knees into my chest.

“If tonight is any indication? It’s going to be one for the books.”

It’s almost a compliment. Almost. And I can’t resist fishing for more praise. “Good party, then?”

“Best forty-sixth birthday I’ve ever had.”

He’s going to leave me hanging. I roll my eyes. “Very funny.”

He turns his gaze to me. “You looked beautiful tonight. In white and in black.”

“Thank you.” I smile. “So how does it feel to be forty-six?”

“You mean officially closer to fifty than forty? Will you still love me when I’m fifty-six?”

“Of course.”

“If my hair goes gray?”

“Salt and pepper hair? Sexy.”

“What if I start getting little white hairs in my ears?” he continues.

I feign disgust, pretending to gag. “Oh, ick. You really know how to flirt with a girl.”

He turns toward me, amused. “I didn’t know we were flirting.”

“Well, we’re certainly not now.”

He plants his feet on the ground, preparing to stand, but the mischievous glint in his eye tells me he has something else in mind. I kick a leg up in the air, mounting a feeble defense.

“No, no!” I giggle. “Don’t you bring your weird ear hair over here. Stay in your chair.”

With a burst of energy, he launches toward me, catching my leg and wrapping it around his hip.

He pulls me close, settling between my legs and grazing my collarbone with his teeth in a playful nibble.

My laughter slows as the nips become tender kisses on my collarbone and then up my neck, his lips warm against my skin.

I love him like this—unhurried, a little tipsy, and playful. And I can’t remember the last time he was in such a good mood. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him closer and unbutton his shirt, untucking his shirttail so the open shirt drapes around us.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he urges, pushing the hem of my dress up.

And I want to say: Who’s going to see us?

The house is at the end of a small peninsula that juts out over the lake.

We might as well be on an island. I want to tell him to live a little.

But I know Will, and he isn’t going to go for spontaneous sex on the lawn furniture when Italian cotton percale sheets are right upstairs.

So I sit up carefully and straighten my dress, trying not to break the moment.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I repeat as I retrace my steps toward the living room.

He follows close behind, holding my hand so loosely that sometimes it’s just my fingertips balancing in the palm of his hand.

As we reach the top of the stairs, I turn to face him, fantasizing that he’ll pull me into him and hike my legs around his waist, then carry me to bed like some scene in a movie.

Instead, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He looks at the caller ID and then to me. “Sorry,” he mouths.

And the moment—the one I had been hoping not to break—shatters. I nod, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Hey,” he says, putting the phone to his ear. “It’s Mia. Just a minute,” he whispers to me, and I believe him because he doesn’t walk away like he would if it was a work call. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. I put my head on his bare chest.

“Where?” he says to her. “Okay. Just give me a second.” Her side of the conversation is inaudible, but I can tell from his tone that she’s upset about something.

He hangs up and loosens his grip on me as he puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Mia left her Taylor Swift hoodie in the boat.”

I kiss his jaw. “Get it in the morning.”

“She’s all worked up. It’s her prized possession, and she’s worried it’ll rain.”

I wonder if this is when all of the composure I’ve been working so hard to maintain tonight might dissolve. My lower lip is threatening full pout, and Will must see it because he kisses my forehead and says, “Give me five minutes.”

I don’t agree, but I don’t disagree either. So, I watch him descend the stairs, shirt still unbuttoned, then turn on my heel and head to our bedroom.

Standing in the bathroom, I debate if I should let him undress me in some sort of tantalizing foreplay, or if I should just cut to the chase and be stark naked and waiting when he gets back.

Deciding on the latter—it is his birthday—I slip onto the bed and prop myself up, ready, waiting, my head a little heavy from the wine.

But sometime after 1:00 a.m. , the wine wins, and I fall asleep.