CHAPTER 1
Fiona
Her husband washot.
Fiona leaned against the doorframe, fully indulging. The towel sat low on his hips, water still dripping from his hair, steam curling out of the bathroom. He ran a hand through his damp hair, slow and casual.
He caught sight of her in the doorway—sleep-mussed, bare-legged, cradling two mugs—and his smile was instinctive, like it always was when she was the first thing he saw in the morning.
Sometimes she didn’t understand how she’d managed to attract the attention of a man like Dean. He was so much more than her—more sophisticated, more cosmopolitan, moreeverything.
And yet, every time his eyes found her like that—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered—something in her lit up, disbelieving and grateful. This was the man she loved. This was the man she was going to live the rest of her life with.
Not bad for a girl from Sweetwater.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he said, that low gravel-voice just for her.
Her smile softened, and she lifted the mugs she was holding. “I brought coffee.”
Dean took the mug from her hand, brushed her fingers as he did. “Perfect,” he said, taking a sip and then setting it down.
She perched on the edge of the bed, still in her pajama shirt, toes curled in her strawberry-printed socks. He was moving around the room now—draping himself in his day. Shirt, watch, cufflinks. Every motion crisp, automatic, a man stepping into his armor.
And still, between each layer, he kept returning to the mug—stealing little sips in between cufflinks and collar stays. Fiona watched him with quiet, wifely satisfaction, her heart catching a little each time he reached for the coffee she’d made.
Like some small part of her was helping carry him into the day. Like she belonged in his rhythm.
“Why are you getting dressed?” she said lightly. “Stay home and let me ravish you.”
Dean laughed, adjusting his cuff. “Tempting.”
She tilted her head. “No client meeting’s gonna love you like I do.”
He shot her a grin over his shoulder. “You’d be surprised. Branding decks are very affectionate.”
She watched as he buttoned his shirt, skin disappearing beneath crisp cotton, and felt a quiet ache behind her ribs.
Soon he'd grab the keys to the sleek car he drove. Another day, another meeting, another layer of polish she never had to think about in her own world.
Dean’s whole world revolved around packaging things perfectly—ideas, products, himself. At school, she could wear soft cardigans and sensible shoes and no one cared as long as she knew how to defuse a classroom full of fifth graders on a sugar high.
She loved seeing him like this—focused, successful, making his mark in the world. She’d never get tired of watching him chase big dreams.
But this morning she also wanted him to stay. To drink too-hot coffee and leave the shirt on the hanger and curl back into bed with her instead of heading out into the sleek, sharp world of client lunches, and glass elevators.
“I wish I could kidnap you away from your job today,” she said with a sigh, “and we could just stay here.”
Success came with strings: dinners with colleagues, office politics, the careful dance of small talk and subtle power plays. She didn’t resent it—this was part of who he was—but sometimes she missed the version of him that was just hers.
Dean glanced over his shoulder, adjusting the expensive watch on his wrist. She'd never gotten used to seeing him wear something that cost more than her monthly salary. "That's the kind of kidnapping I could get behind,” he told her with a soft smile.
She settled cross-legged on the bed, sipping her own cup. He joined her a moment later, pressing a kiss to her temple.
She smiled up at him, her chin resting on her knees. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if I ever got kidnapped, I’d probably spill all my secrets immediately. Like, in the first five minutes. ‘Here’s my bank passwords! Also, I once lied in sixth grade and said I met the president at a gas station.’ Just—bam. No torture required.”
Dean choked on his coffee. It always surprised her, how easy it was to say things to him—things she wouldn’t admit to anyone else. With Dean, all the quiet parts of her felt like they had permission to speak.
“Ipanicked!” she explained, laughing. “Everyone else was telling these amazing celebrity stories, and I just… lied. I’ve been haunted ever since.”
