“Good, then I get you all night to myself.” I tucked myself into his arms and let him hold me for a moment, swaying a little back and forth just inside my door. I was suddenly struck by the hominess of it, the comfort of having someone’s arms waiting there for you when you got home, with a quiet hello and an on-demand snuggle.

I snuggled deeper as he ran his hands up and down my back, soothing and sweet. I could hear his heart beating through his clothing. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud.

“I’m officially old,” I said softly.

“How’s that?”

“I’ve got this beautiful man in my apartment, and all I want to do is hug him and fall asleep. We’re officially old people.”

“Speak for yourself, Pinup. I could be up for some banging.”

I snorted, lifting my head to see his tired face grinning down at me. “Up for some banging? You must write poetry when you’re not making cheese.”

He slowly moved his hips back and forth a few times, in the most pitiful way possible. “Okay, I give. Too many dumplings. Sleep now, bang later.”

“Poetry, I tell you. Sheer poetry,” I teased as we walked toward the bedroom, scooping up his duffel bag on the way.

“I’ll give you poetry,” he said as we moved through the apartment, turning off lights as went. “Roses are red—”

“Oh man.”

“Hush, I’m creating a masterpiece here,” he said, tucking his chin into my shoulder as we walked. His breath was warm against my ear, tickling pleasantly. “Roses are red, violets are blue. I’m too tired to bang, but that’s okay because she is, too.”

“Bra-vo.” I clapped.

“Quiet, there’s a second part. Roses are red, violets are blue . . .” We were in the bedroom by now, and with his hands on my hips he turned me around, his arms snaking around my body, pulling me snugly against him. Dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose, he continued. “. . . I made her come seven times before we went out to eat dumplings, so there’s that—and something that rhymes with blue.”

I smiled. “I can’t really argue with that.”

“You shouldn’t argue, it’s a poem.”

“It’s a great poem.”

“All great poems are based in truth.”

“Truth?”

“Seven times, Pinup.” He grinned proudly. “Seven times.”

I laughed, pushing him down onto the bed. “We’re going for eight next time.”

We undressed, brushed our teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

Well, almost immediately. Twenty minutes after I fell asleep I was awakened by his grumbling about it being too loud, and how could anyone sleep in this damn city?

I rolled over, cued up the Sound of the Country app I’d downloaded in anticipation of this exact event, put in my earplugs, and let my guy fall asleep to the sound of freakin’ crickets . . . just like in the country.

Give me sirens, horns honking, and drunk people walking home any day of the week.

Dawn came early and swiftly. And so did I. Did you think he wasn’t going to go for eight? Oh my, yes he did, and before the sun was even fully up.

I could get used to getting up early on Sunday mornings if this was the wake-up call. My toes pointing and back arching, he thrust into me from behind, spreading me wide, stroking me with his fingers as he drove deep. He made me say his name over and over again, made me come over and over again, then finally collapsed against me, pulling me on top of him in a tangle of tired limbs and messy hair.

Afterward, he kept murmuring eight with a look of pure male satisfaction. Rolling my eyes, I snuggled back into his side to catch a few more z’s.

But by nine, he had to go. Football practice, he said, and with more kisses and a promise to spend the night again next weekend, he was gone. And I had a brunch to get to.

When I pushed open the door at my parents’ townhouse, Todd said, “Oh boy, are you in trouble.”

“Hello to you, too,” I replied with a frown. No Mom yet. No Dad. And . . . did I smell something burning? “How bad is it?”

“Four brunches in a fucking row?” He looked at me incredulously. “Did you suffer some kind of brain injury up there in the sticks?”

I sighed. “I’d better go ahead and get this over with.”

“One day when I have kids, I’ll tell them about their brave Aunt Natalie—the aunt they never got a chance to meet,” he said, taking my coat with all the ceremony of a general sending a soldier into a final battle.

As he walked away whistling taps, I faced the kitchen with foreboding. I’d broken the cardinal rule of this family, and not even my father was going to believe the brunch-skips were all work-related.

I took several steps forward, cocking my head and listening for signs of anything that could be taken as a good omen, that my parents were in a good mood this morning, and that other than some good-natured ribbing they’d be glad to see me, hand me a bagel and schmear and the lifestyle section of the Times, and everything would go back to normal.

Then I heard my mother tell my father that if he burned another bagel, she’d use the paring knife on something he really didn’t want unattached from his body.

Oh boy.

I stepped on a squeaky floorboard right outside the kitchen and then froze, wondering if they’d heard it.

My mother’s footsteps rang out across the kitchen floor, sounding like she was trying to crash her heel through to the cellar below. Each stride sounded familiar, and not in a good way. I knew the sound of those heels well.