“Okay, Caroline—I think we can work with this. Let me show this to my accountant, but I see no reason it can’t work,” she said at last.

I finally breathed deeply. No more tiny stars.

• • •

Friday night, eight fifty-seven. I busied about the kitchen, getting things ready. Simon had texted me when his plane touched down, and he was on his way home from SFO. He’d been flying for hours and I knew how wiped out he’d be. But I still wanted his homecoming to be something special.

As I took one more pass through the first floor, making sure everything was in its place and looking spick-and-span, I paused by the dining room. Specifically, the window that was cemented shut. I winced every time I saw it and the deep windowsills that Clive barely got to enjoy before he ran away.

The sound of Simon’s key in the front door brought me back from my thoughts and I sprinted into the kitchen.

“Babe? I’m back. Hey, when did you— Whoa!” I heard him say as he became aware of his surroundings.

When he left ten days ago, there was still chaos. The end was in sight, but it was still rough. But now it was complete. And tranquil. And filled with the smell of homemade chicken soup.

I listened to his steps through the house toward the kitchen, where I turned from the stove to meet his eye. Wearing his favorite apron, over clothes this time, mind you, I smiled at my sweet Simon. Worn out and travel weary, he was still the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Three days’ worth of lovely scruff roughed up his face, accenting the most chiseled jaw this side of Mount Rushmore. Piercing blue eyes sparkled at me—he did love me in an apron.

“Everything looks . . . I mean, it’s all so—” Shrugging his shoulders, he laughed. “I’m speechless. It’s perfect, babe.”

“Just wait till you get my bill. You hungry?” I asked, then ladled him a bowlful of chicken soup made with rich broth, eggy noodles, and packed with vegetables. I could see him sniffing the air and I smothered a laugh as he walked toward the breakfast nook where I’d set a table for two.

He sat down, and as soon as I’d set the bowl in front of him he pulled me onto his lap. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured.

I felt that sandpaper jaw on the side of my neck and my skin immediately pebbled. “I wanted to make it nice for you,” I replied, then leaned close to his ear. “Welcome home, Mr. Parker.”

His hold on me tightened. He ate his soup and drank his milk with one hand, not wanting to let go of me with the other. As he ate, we talked comfortably about everything and nothing at all. Afterward, he showered off the travel while I cleaned up.

After he explored all the rooms that I’d put my finishing touches on, we found ourselves in our master bedroom. We chatted about weekend plans as he towel dried his hair, and I watched him walk around the room in his pajama bottoms. Best thing ever.

“We’re having Jillian and Benjamin over for dinner Sunday night, if that’s cool with you?” I asked.

He pulled down his side of the duvet. “Sure that’s fine. Is everyone else coming too?”

“Mimi and Ryan are with her parents in Mendocino, and Sophia and Neil haven’t come up for air yet.” I smirked as we fluffed the comforter at the foot of the bed. Those two were back together like nobody’s business. They’d barely left their bed.

We flipped pillows, turned down blankets, and I sighed when I saw the sheets. Egyptian cotton, thread count in the millions, and gleaming white.

“Hey, speaking of Mendocino, you’ll never guess who called me the other day. Remember Viv Franklin?”

“Fishnets and tattoos? From your reunion?”

“Yep. She might be moving out here—to Mendocino.”

“Really? Wow, that’s great. I thought she was pretty set up back there with her . . . security guard company?” I asked, gesturing for the throw pillows. I had a special way I stacked them in the armchair at night.

“Security software, babe. She designs security software for companies. I’m not sure what she’ll do; she’s still thinking about it. Some great-aunt died, a big house on the shore was willed to her—I don’t know all the details. But she might move out here and take over the house.”

“That could be amazing!” The pretty brunette was a fun mix of badass and sweet; she’d kept Simon on his toes. I’d liked that about her.

“I told her to let us know when she made a decision. She doesn’t know anyone out here, and we could go help her out,” he said, throwing me the last pillow.

“Oops, don’t throw that one!” I set it delicately on top of the others. “Yes, for sure. Just let me know when she knows for sure.”

“Um, it’s a throw pillow, right?” he asked.

“Hey, mister, if you knew how much of your money I spent on that pillow, you wouldn’t be so quick to throw it.”

“So I really don’t want to know how much this set me back, do I?” he asked, nodding his head toward our new bed. A bed of our very own that had no history of past others. The California king was large enough to accommodate both his snoring and my flailing, and it was simple and elegant, with a massive, well-padded headboard.

“It’s better if you just let me do my thing and not ask questions,” I sassed, now crawling across the bed on all fours, making sure my pink nightie swished in all the right places.

“I like it when you do your own thing. Especially when you let me watch you do it,” he breathed, raising an eyebrow when I turned to show him my ruffles. He pressed his body against mine, his shower-warm skin heating me as much as his words.

“Tonight I’d much prefer you touching me. With your hands. And that mouth,” I instructed as I perched on top of him. I’d positioned the bed so that when we cuddled up, we could see the lights twinkling over the bay.

“Look at that view,” I whispered.

“I’ll say,” he muttered from below, peeking up my nightie. The next thing I knew, he’d wiggled me right out of my coordinating panties.

And with the ruffled bottoms abandoned, the pink nightie pushed up around my shin, Simon brought it on home.

And goddamn it if he still didn’t find a way to bang that headboard.

Thump.

“Be careful . . . Oh, God . . . That’s new paint . . . Oh, God.”

“You want me . . . to be . . . Christ, Caroline . . . Careful?”

Thump thump.

“Well . . . maybe . . . a little . . . Oh, God . . . Simon!”