I half open my eyes and find myself staring at a wall that’s painted a light gray. Equally unfamiliar is the elegant mahogany nightstand where a cheap plastic alarm clock announces in big red numbers that it’s 5:08.

I stare at the clock, the numbers burning themselves into my corneas as I try to remember exactly where I am and how I got here.

I roll onto my back and several muscles groan a protest, like I’ve been working out, which I tend to avoid, mostly because I simply don’t have the time or energy. Even more baffling is the soreness between my legs.

Rubbing my eyes, I push myself into a sitting position. The velvet bedspread tumbles off my shoulders and pools in my lap. I gape at my bare breasts. I haven’t slept naked in…forever. After all, any desire to do so had faded after Kelsey’s birth. Something about sleeping nude with a child in the apartment had always seemed… unseemly.

I know how old that sounds.

I lean sideways and spy clothing scattered on the floor beside the bed. The tangle of wrinkled cloth is all that’s needed for my synapses to fire. Memories of what happened in this very bed, of what Jason did to my body with his hands, and with his mouth, makes me blush.

I glance at the other side of the bed. The pillow bears the imprint of a head and the bedding is rumpled. I lean over and slip my hand beneath the covers, feeling the sheets. They’re cool to the touch, so Jason rolling out of bed wasn't what woke me. He’s clearly been gone for a while already.

I glance at the clock. My shift at the call center was scheduled to end at five. I’ve lost an entire day’s pay. I know that it’s just a matter of time before I start fretting about the havoc the loss that much cash will create on my budget. Especially given what I need the money for…

Right now, I’m still glowing from my first bout of lovemaking in seven years. I’m not ready to let reality interfere on my good feeling just yet. There will be plenty of time to worry about finances later. There always is.

I do need to make a phone call and let Adele know that I’m running late.

I slide back down under the warm blankets and flip over to my stomach. Balancing on the edge of the mattress, I rummage through the pile of clothes, looking for my cell phone. It takes a minute to realize that the only clothes scattered on the floor are Jason’s. My clothes, along with the phone, are nowhere to be seen.

So where are they?

I grab Jason’s shirt and swing my legs off the bed. I sit on the side of the mattress and button myself into the dress shirt. It, like the sheets, went cold a long time ago, but the fabric still carries his scent. I bury my face in the collar, inhaling the spicy sweet scent of his aftershave, a scent I’ll forever associate with Jason.

The shirt is way too big on me. The sleeves cover my entire hand and fall several inches past my fingertips. The shirttail brushes the back of my knees, each brush of the fabric against my skin reminding me of Jason’s warm, slow caresses.

Goosebumps erupt on my skin.

As I roll up the sleeves, I pad, barefoot, out of the room and start searching for Jason.

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for the full impact of Jason’s wealth to hit me. I mean, I knew from that article I read in Forbes that he was fantastically wealthy – a billionaire, even – and how he’d earned all that dough. Still, the truth of it didn’t hit me until right now as I look at his house.

Not only does it have a private beach and a first-class view of Lake Michigan, but it’s also one of those houses that positively reeks of wealth. High cathedral ceilings, floors constructed out of real hardwood instead of the laminate normal people use. The entire section of the house that faces the lake is constructed out of tinted glass, presumably so occupants can see out, while not having to worry about people enjoying the water spying on them.

I love the building, but I wouldn’t call it a home, not really. It’s beautifully decorated with leather and chrome furniture and gorgeous paintings hang on the walls, but it all feels like something picked out and organized according to a decorator’s taste. Nothing feels like Jason.

Well, maybe not everything, I think as I spy the dog-eared paperback lying on an end table near a massive black leather couch.

I pick it up and flip it over. A Millard Fillmore biography. Funny, until this moment, I’d completely forgotten that the first time I spotted Jason in that beach side bar, he’d also been reading a book.

Another presidential biography.

I scrunch up my nose and try to remember who’d been the subject of that book. Not one of the really famous ones, that’s for sure, but one whose name I’d recognized. Madison, that was it. He’d been reading a book about James Madison at the time. Asking him about the book, whether it was good or not, had been how I’d broken the ice. He’d told me it was and confessed to being a bit obsessed with presidential history and how one day he hoped to write a book, a short history of all the men who’d led the country.

I wonder if he’s gotten around to that particular goal yet?

A loud thump sounds directly below my feet, startling me. I scoot to the side, worried that maybe there’s something structurally wrong with the house and the floor is about to cave in. The floor holds, even though there’s another loud thud.

I strain my ears and realize that if I really listen, I can hear the faint strains of some driving rock song. The music is also coming from below my feet.

I scan the room, but see no sign of a door that leads to a staircase that leads downward.

I backtrack, moving out of the elegant living room and back into a wide hallway with an arched ceiling. This time, I decide to be nosy and open each door as I pass. I poke my head through the doorways, making a quick perusal of the room behind the door before moving on.

In this particular case, the third time really is the charm. I open the door to find a narrow, steep staircase that leads down into the bowels of the building. The driving rock music, Styx I think, drifts up the staircase.

Jackpot!

Without any hesitation, I hurry down the stairs, my bare feet slapping against the cool hardwood.

I hit the landing and find myself standing in the middle of an elaborate home gym. The place contains a massive treadmill that’s set at a steep incline that has my thighs burning just from looking at it, three, that’s right, three stationary bikes, and an assortment of different weight lifting apparatuses that bear a creepy resemblance to the Spanish Inquisition's torture machines. One corner of the enormous basement has even been roped off and turned into a mini fight arena.

Looking at it, I decide that I won’t ask any questions. If Jason plays host to his very own fight club here in his basement, that’s his business. I don’t want to know anything about it.

The sight of posters featuring Star Trek, Avatar, Star Wars, Firefly, Doctor Who, and an assortment of somewhat lesser known sci-fi shows and movies adorn the concrete block walls, a jarring contrast to Jason’s stark fitness nirvana.

I cast my eyes over them and think about my daughter’s own obsession with anything connected to science fiction, particularly Firefly. I’d always wondered how she’d gotten into that stuff since it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. Now I know.

She’d inherited her love of space ships and zany aliens.

This is the first section of the house that feels like Jason.

I spot Jason lying flat on his back on a weight bench, hefting an impressive-looking barbell. His head is turned to one side, his eyes locked on me.

I twist my fingers into fabric of the shirt I’m wearing and struggle to ignore the burst of shyness that’s blossoming in my chest. “Hi.”

Jason settles the barbell on the holder above his head and sits up. He uses the bottom of his black wife-beater shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, the move providing me with a mouthwatering glimpse of his rock-hard abs.

“Hey.” He licks his lips. “How are you?” His words come out in a nervous rush.

Oddly, the idea that he’s nervous does wonders to calm my own.

“I feel good,” I tell him. “Great actually. I just… It’s late. I missed my entire shift and never bothered to call Jerry and tell him where I was. He’s going to have a cow, if he hasn’t already.”

Jason shakes his head. “I called Jerry and let him know that you and I were still discussing how the call center operates and that since things were taking a long time, that you wouldn’t be in today.”

Some of the tension eases out of my shoulders. While I seriously doubt that Jerry is going to believe that Jason and I spent the whole day chatting about the call center, he won’t be able to reprimand me, or to dock my wages.

“Still, you shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.”

“I thought about waking you up, but you looked so peaceful and were sleeping so deeply I didn’t have the heart to do it.” He studies my face. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but you look better, a little less… tired than you did at the office.”

Now that I’m not worried about whether I’ve lost a day’s pay, or worse, my job, I have to admit to myself that I feel better than I have in…for longer than I can remember. I suspect it’s a combination of the sex and sleep. Both were things I think my body and mind desperately craved, though I didn’t realize how much until I woke up in Jason’s bed.

I fiddle with his shirt. “I borrowed this from you. I hope you don’t mind. I would have put my things back on, but they seem to be missing.”

“You fill it out better than I do.” Jason’s eyes glow with unsuppressed appreciation as they sweep over my body. “I tossed your stuff in the washing machine.”

“Oh.” For some reason, the simple act charms me. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Um, when you did that, did you happen to notice my cell phone? It was in the back pocke—"

“Of your jeans.” Jason finishes my sentence. “Yeah, I found it. I put it on the top of the washing machine.”

“Thanks.” I walk around the room, conscious of Jason’s eyes following me as I casually trail my fingers over one piece of workout equipment after another.

“So, this is how you stay in such great shape,” I say. I slant him a look from under my lashes. “When did you become such a fitness geek?”

“About five years ago. I was in the middle of developing a couple of different software programs and needed a way to unwind while also blowing off some steam. A buddy of mine got me started on sparring and that kind of worked its way into lifting. It turns out that in addition to being a great way to work out the kinks after a long day in front of a computer, it also keeps me from getting too skinny.”

“Whatever you’re doing, it looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” Jason’s teeth flash in an appreciative grin. “What about you? Do you work out at all?”

I stop beside the weight bench he’s sitting on and shake my head. “No. In fact, I think this is the closest I’ve been to a real gym in my entire life. Working out…” I wrinkle my nose. “It just seems like an awful lot of extra work for results that take so long to appear.”

“It can be.” Jason stands and stares down at me. “It all depends on what you want to get out of it. I started doing it to help me unwind. The results were pretty much instantaneous. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“What? This?” I flap my hands at the bench press bench and take a step backwards. “Oh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m such a wimp. I never lift anything heavier than a grocery bag.”

Chuckling, Jason unhooks the heavy weights from the barbell until only the bar itself remains. “Oh, come on. Give it a try. You might find that you like it.”

He grabs a set of thin discs and hooks them to the bar. “There. The bar itself only weighs thirteen pounds, and I’ve added another twenty pounds. So you’ll only have to press thirty-three pounds. Anyone can do that.”

“It still sounds heavy.” Of course last month I picked up a big bag of cat food while it was on sale, and that weighed fifty pounds and I’d managed to carry it without breaking anything.

“It only sounds like it.” Jason places a warm hand on my shoulder, urging me closer to the bench. “Once you start handling the bar, you’ll probably find that it’s not enough and have me add some heavier weights.”

“Unlikely,” I mutter. I want to duck out from under his touch and leave the room, but there’s something undefinable in Jason’s eyes that does funny things to my resolve. I want to make him happy, and if that means lying on this stupid bench and proving I can, or can’t, lift a stupid bar over my head, then so be it.

It’s not easy to preserve one’s dignity when it comes to straddling a weight bench while wearing nothing but a man’s button-down dress shirt, but I do my level best.

“Good.” Jason hooks his hands under my knees and scoots my back along the bench until my ass presses against the end. The move causes the hem of his shirt to bunch under my thighs and expose several more inches of bare skin.

“Plant your feet firmly on the floor. Like this.” Jason sounds breathless as he crouches and adjusts my feet. Anticipation zings through me and crimson heat stains my cheeks.

Jason stands, his large hand stroking my left thigh before he gives himself a shake and moves to my head.

I’m disappointed. Here I am, primed, positioned, and willing, and he doesn’t take advantage.

“Okay, now grasp the barbell like this.” Jason takes my hands in his sweat-dampened ones and lifts them. He helps me wrap my fingers around the barbell.

I look up at him, which is good. Listening to him talk gives the impression that he’s lost interest in me, but his face tells a different story. The veins in the side of his neck stand out and small beads of sweat that have nothing to do with his own workout session bubble near his temples. I watch as his gaze sweeps the length of my prone, naked but for his shirt, body. He swallows hard.

Hmm …

I give my hips a little wiggle, causing the edge of the shirt to creep up a fraction of an inch more. Jason’s eyes track the fabric’s movement. The hem has now reached the top of my thighs, just a whisper away from exposing me completely.

Jason gives himself a visible shake, as if pulling himself together, and returns to the subject.

“Right,” he says, his voice still slow and steady – if a little more strength in the moment for. “You’re going to lift the bar off the hook and slowly lower it to your chest. Weight a beat or two, and then gradually extend your arms, pushing it upwards until your elbows are straight. Keep your movements slow and steady. If you get into trouble, I’m right here, ready to take the bar.”

Jason’s hands hover near the bar as I remove it from the hook and slowly lower it. Following his directions, I push it up into the air.

“I did it,” I tell him. “Can I get up now?”

Jason rocks forward a little so that he’s looking down at my face and grins. “How about you shoot for ten reps.”

Ten reps! He’s certifiable. Ten reps at my current fitness level, that’s the very definition of insane.

“I don’t think so,” I inform him through gritted teeth. “I did what you asked. I tried it. That should be enough.”

“How about five reps? At least that’s enough to really feel it.”

Grumbling under my breath, I slowly lower the barbell back to my chest, resting for a moment before straightening my elbows.

The first two aren’t bad. Like Jason promised, the barbell isn’t as heavy as it looked and even my spaghetti-thin arms are capable of handling it.

The third one is a different story. My arms are starting to burn and I really want to hook the bar back to the bench and forget the whole matter, but my stubborn pride insists I keep plugging away at things.

By the time I extend the barbell over my body for the fifth time, I’m starting to understand why Jason lifts. Not only does focusing on what it takes to complete the exercise empty my mind of everything else, it also helps me feel more centered and connected with myself.

Still, that doesn’t mean it’s something I see myself doing on a regular basis.

I return the bar to its hook and sit up. I glance at Jason and find him staring at me, his expression undefinable.

“What?” Suspicion slowly unfurls within me. “No. If you have any intention of sweet talking me into trying something else, the answer is no.”

“I love you.” His words are barely louder than a whisper. For a moment, I think I imagine them.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Marry me,” Jason continues.

I shake my head frantically. “No!” the word is ripped from my chest. “I can’t. How can you even ask me such a thing? We barely know one another. Just no!”