I drop the panties back into the drawer and go to brush my hair and teeth. I peer at myself in the mirror, pleased to see that I look exactly the way I’m supposed to—a tousled, well-satisfied woman whose eyes hold the expectation of even more marital bliss.
After splashing water on my face, I head into the living room. I switch on the Christmas tree lights, then go to make coffee.
It’s a cold morning. I turn up the thermostat and look out the window. Puddles of light spill from the streetlamps lining Avalon Street. No new snow, but the promise of it clings to the air.
“Did you check under the tree for a present?” Dean is standing in the bedroom doorway, his chest bare and pajama bottoms slung low on his hips.
“Yes, but you weren’t under there.”
He grins. It’s the old, hint-of-wicked Dean grin that I haven’t seen in far too long, and it melts any wariness still threading my heart. I go to peer underneath the tree. A large box wrapped in blue paper and a red ribbon is pushed behind the tree and concealed by the branches. A smaller box sits on top of it.
“Dean, what…”
“Don’t lift them. They’re heavy.”
He nods toward the sofa for me to sit down, then picks up the boxes and puts them on the coffee table in front of me. The big red ribbons are perfectly tied.
“When did you get these?” I ask.
“About a week ago. Open them.”
I tug the ribbon and tape off the bigger box. Slowly I peel the paper away and stare at the contents. It’s a set of gorgeous, top-of-the-line, stainless-steel cookware—two frying pans, a sauté pan, two saucepans, and a stockpot.
“This… this must have cost a fortune.”
“If you’re going to cook well, you need the best equipment.”
Tears sting my eyes as I open the smaller box to reveal an eleven-piece set of exceptional Shun knives.
Cookware and culinary knives. Maybe not romantic to anyone else, but no other gift from my husband could say more. And he bought them a week ago, before our still-fragile reconciliation.
“Thank you.” I look up at him. “Thank you so much.”
He reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Well, if you cook, I get to eat. It’s a win-win.”
“I didn’t get you a present.”
“Yeah, you did.” He bends to kiss my forehead.
Ah, lovely warmth. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my mouth against his hard, ridged torso. He tangles his fingers in my hair and laughs.
“Careful.”
“I love you.” I squeeze his very nice rear, then pull away to gather the torn wrapping paper. “Thank you.”
“Now you have to make me eggs and bacon for breakfast.”
I open the cookware box to take out a shiny frying pan. “Yes, sir.”
“Sir, huh?” He winks at me. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
It takes me an hour to get breakfast going because I have to read all the instructions on how to wash and care for the cookware and the knives. Since it almost seems like a shame to use such expensive equipment for a meal as mundane as scrambled eggs, I get out a flowered linen tablecloth and set the table with white plates and cloth napkins.
Then I fry the bacon and scramble the eggs with some parmesan cheese and dried basil. It’s unexpectedly sexy to be making breakfast for my husband while wearing only his shirt and nothing else.
I fill Dean’s mug with coffee, then take a pad of paper and draw:
I stick the note to the mug as Dean approaches the kitchen, sniffing the air.
“Wow,” he remarks. “Smells good in here.”
“You’ve done it now.” I hand him the mug. “You’ll never get me out of the kitchen.”
“I never want you out of the bedroom either, but I’m open to negotiation.” He reads the note and smiles, leaning over to kiss me. “Great drawing.”
I pat his cheek, then set our food on the table while Dean sits down. When I return to the table with a plate of toast, there’s a note beside my fork.
I laugh. “Lovely sentiment, but why did you draw a picture of a smiling butt?”
“A what?”
“A smiling butt.” I hold out the note.
“That’s a coffee bean.”
“Oh.” I squint at the picture. “Well, I guess I finally found something you can’t do very well.”
He frowns. “I’ll have you know I used to draw intricate comic books when I was a kid.”
“Of course you did.” I put the note on the table and sit down. “Superhero knights, right?”
“Captain Lancelot Versus Dr. Mordred was my most epic work.”
I smile. My white knight. Both tenderness and heat soften my heart as I look at him, all rumpled masculinity with stubble coating his jaw and his hair curling over his ears. He meets my gaze, a responding warmth filling his eyes.
I pick up my mug to take a sip of coffee. Dean reaches across the table to take the cup away from me.
“What…?”
“We’ll have to buy some decaf,” he says. “You’re not supposed to have caffeine when you’re pregnant.”
Crap. I forgot. There’s probably a lot of things I’m not supposed to do now that I’m pregnant.