Dean.
I feel him the instant I step into the room. An intense crackle of energy arcs into me, soaring through my blood. A happiness like no other fills me, a deluge of colors almost overwhelming in depth and intensity.
He’s standing on the other side of the room, his hands in his pockets, his dark hair brushed away from his forehead. Dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a navy shirt, the tan of his skin making his eyes more brilliant than ever, my husband is strikingly, heartrendingly beautiful. I can only stare at him, as if he’s a mirage that will disappear if I blink.
Our eyes meet with a thousand sparks. And then he smiles that gorgeous smile that makes his eyes crease at the corners and takes away what little breath I have left. My knees get so weak I’m not sure I can stand much longer.
But, as it turns out, I don’t have to. Because Dean crosses the room to me in a few long strides, wraps his arms around me, and lifts me clear off the ground. He pulls me against him, the length of his body pressed to mine, the heat of him flowing through his shirt and into me.
He tightens one arm around my waist and cups the back of my neck with the other. We stare at each other, his eyes dark and intense before his lips come down on mine in a kiss of fierce, tender possession.
And, just like that, I fall wildly in love with my husband all over again.
A flood of tears fills my eyes. I wind my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, tears slipping down my cheeks even as our lips remain locked together. Emotion ripples around us, all the pent-up longing of our separation breaking open into a spiral of warmth and light.
Finally Dean eases back a few inches and rests his forehead against mine.
“Hey, beauty.” His deep voice rolls over my skin.
“Welcome home, professor.”
He lowers me down slowly, sliding my body against his. I press my face to the front of his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of him as the area around my heart expands with love. We stand there forever, wrapped in each other again, our separation disappearing like a shadow lightened by sunshine.
I rub my cheek against his strong chest. “When did you get back?”
“Earlier today. Wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Best surprise ever.”
He presses his lips to the top of my head. A slight tension courses through him. “I have to leave again, but I’ve got about ten days. Came back to see you and also for a meeting.”
I tighten my arms around his waist and don’t respond. The unspoken implication of the meeting is clear enough, and I want nothing bad to invade our reunion.
I ease back to look at him. He puts his hand against my cheek, the tension fading as he brushes away the tears still tracking down my face.
“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he says.
“Oh, I have an idea. Especially if it’s half as happy as I am to see you.”
“It’s twice as happy. No, way more than that.”
“Not possible.”
He smiles, sliding his thumb across my lips, his gaze warm. Pleasure fills me at that look, so replete with love and tenderness that I’m reminded anew that together we can withstand anything.
Brushing his hand over my neck, Dean steps away and goes to the telephone. His gaze still on me, he picks up the phone and presses a button.
“About ready here,” he says into the receiver.
I give him a puzzled look. He turns away and lowers his voice. I take the opportunity to look around the room, which I haven’t even noticed in my excitement. Firefly Cottage is a bright, airy place with maple furniture and a gleaming, hardwood floor. Ivory curtains hang from the windows, a hand-crafted down quilt covers the bed, and there’s even a little kitchen with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops.
I step to the French doors on the other side of the room, which lead to a private porch and a pathway to the shore of the lake. The sky is still light enough that I can see the water rippling in the wind, the mountains outlined against the horizon like a painting.
I turn at the sound of a knock on the front door, and Brent appears with a wheeled cart topped with silver-domed dishes. He grins at me again and sets up the dinner on a linen-covered table beside the windows.
He lights two candles, places a vase of roses on the windowsill, and uncorks a bottle of wine. He exchanges a few words with Dean and puts another covered plate and silver carafe on the kitchen counter.
After Brent leaves, Dean pulls a chair out from the table and gestures for me to sit down. I’m suddenly aware of how I must look—dressed in torn jeans and an old, button-down shirt, grubby from hauling boxes at the bookstore all day, not a speck of makeup on my face.
I run a hand self-consciously over my hair and search in my pocket for a rubber band. I wish I’d taken the time—and had the presence of mind—to at least have put on some lipstick before flying back to my husband.
“Sorry, I didn’t even have a chance to brush my hair,” I mumble.