“I feel like I should carry you over the threshold or something.” Evan swiped his watch against a keypad by the front door, and it sprang open like magic.

“I installed a smart security system,” he explained. “Never quite envisioned it making it easier to bring my amnesiac wife home, though.”

I stepped through the doorway and breathed deeply, hoping that the smell of home might trigger something, but nope. Pumpkin spice, laundry dryer sheets, the lemon tart scent of freshly-mopped floors. A bit stale from being empty for awhile. But no memories.

“Wait a minute.” Evan dropped my bags in the entryway and scooted past me. “Stay right there.”

He ran to the other side of the living room and walked into the next room beyond, a kitchen by the looks of it. Then he turned around and stepped back into the living room, a look of hopeful expectation on his face.

“Anything?” he said.

“Uhh, no? Am I supposed to—?”

“No, it’s okay. I thought it might jostle something for you. This is where we met.”

“This house?”

He nodded.

“The one you built that I photographed?”

“The one I stripped to the nails and renovated, but yes.”

“And then you decided to keep it?”

“The timing worked out. We needed a place, and we both loved it.”

I looked around. I could see why we both loved it. It was, in a word, perfect.

Light and airy with high ceilings and charmingly refurbished hardwood floors. Every detail, down to the crown moulding, had clearly been chosen with the utmost care.

My mom had tried to talk me into coming to stay with them for a few days, thinking maybe being around their familiar house and my childhood bedroom would help to spur things on in my recuperation. But I insisted on coming home with Evan. If this was going to be a real marriage, then I needed to remember my time with him. And I wouldn’t be able to do that curled up on a twin bed surrounded by a bunch of stuffed animals.

Evan gave me a tour of the two-story Victorian. I’d moved my favorite pieces of furniture in but gotten rid of all the flimsy particle board bookshelves. His office was downstairs with the master bedroom. My office was upstairs with the sparsely decorated spare bedroom. All my family and close friends lived here in Atlanta. Evan’s lived near Knoxville within an easy drive, except for one younger sister who had moved to California. It didn’t look like either of us had stepped foot in that room, save for storage.

But my office. Now that felt like home, no matter the surroundings. I picked up my camera off the desk and looked through the viewfinder, spinning around to frame Evan and focus him in the crosshairs. As he settled into a crisp, clear image, I gasped.

* * *

“Hey, save some for me.” He tries to wrestle a grape from my fingers, and when I don’t give it up easily, he plays dirty.

“Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” I can’t quit giggling as he tickles me relentlessly.

We’re on a quilt, and the patches whirl by in a swirl of jewel tones as I collapse onto my back. He sneaks his hand up under my shirt, and I squirm then throw the grape into his gaping mouth. The leaves above are a cacophony of colors. Red, yellow, and orange burst in my vision.

“Fine,” I squeal. “You win.”

The tickles stop as he chews and swallows, but his hand doesn’t move from the spot where it’s nestled just beneath my bra line.

“I haven’t won until you have,” he says.

“Mmm?” I pull his face down to mine and bite his lip affectionately, but with the promise of more.

He unhooks my bra and strokes his thumb under my breast, teasing closer and closer to the nipple. His other hand drifts down and hikes up my skirt, caressing my inner thigh as he goes.

“We haven’t christened the backyard yet,” he says.

“But the kitchen twice,” I murmur.

“Three times if you count the doorway.”

“Fair’s fair. Why should the indoors have all the fun?”

“Why indeed?”

At this point, I’m surprised my tongue can even form words. He’s slipped his finger inside me and drawn it out slowly. Teasingly. Within minutes, I’m in a state of near frenzy as I press against him, begging for more with my every shudder. Demanding it.

“I want you . . . in me. I need you. Now.” I clutch his shoulders, desperate for our joining. But it’s more than that. I want him in me and around me and . . . and I can’t put words on it, even in my mind. There’s no way to get enough of him in this moment. I start to whimper, blind with need, and he leaves a trail of kisses down my neck as he thrusts into me.

“God, you’re beautiful, Annie.” He slows his initial feverish impulsion, and we settle into a sensuous pace that leaves me delirious as we crest over the edge into nothingness and everythingness at the same time.

“I’d call that a win,” I whisper as we collapse in exhaustion. I curl into him. He forms a protective comma around me and pulls the corner of the quilt over to shelter us from the cool autumn air as we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

So that was a memory. I collapsed into my desk chair and tried to figure out what the heck had triggered it. Evan grabbed the quilt off the sofa behind him, in the landing area outside my office, and I let out a hoarse laugh. That would do it.

“You remembered something?” he asked.

I nodded.

“What was it?”

“Let’s just say, apparently you haven’t been derelict in your husbandly duties.” I felt a stain of color creep into my cheeks. He didn’t press further, but there was a newfound relief in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Why don’t you go get settled on the couch downstairs, and I’ll bring you some tea and magazines?”

“I’d call that a win,” I murmured as he left to heat the kettle.