---

We’re here.

The drive up from Boston to Portland was exceptionally boring. Not because my conversation partner is a dud, or because we’re in a swale, or because current events are particularly dull, but because I fell asleep.

That’s right.

Asleep.

I’m being shaken awake by a very handsome man with dark hair, green eyes, and a loving smile.

“Shannon? We’re here.” He’s parked in a spot facing the harbor, a small pier with sailboats stretching out into the water. An enormous cruise ship is to our left, old commercial wharf houses to the right, aged brick in abundant supply.

“What? Oh!” My head is cold in one spot, where I must have been leaning against the window, and my lips have that dry-but-sticky tactile sensation that makes the difference between being awake and asleep hard to discern, because the lines on everything are so blurred.

“Are we at our hotel?”

“Looking for it now.” He’s frowning at his phone. I stretch, limited by the passenger seat, then realize I can get out.

So I do.

“I slept the whole way?” I call back through the now-open window.

He nods.

“I’m sorry. You must have been so bored.”

“I put my earpiece in and handled some calls. Less work to interrupt us for these two days.”

As I inhale deeply, salt air comes right on in, invited and welcome. Yes, I live right in Back Bay in Boston and breathe in the same salt air everyday, but this is different. Vacation Air and Life Air have a chemical distinction that separates them. Our bodies somehow know when we are breathing in a soul-feeding gulp versus a rushed gasp of mindless oxygen in the hurry of the daily grind.

Declan is taking a long time inside the car, so I poke my head in. “Everything okay?”

He looks up and gives me a wide smile. “Just fine. Digging up our reservations.” The smile fades as he goes back to the phone, then reaches for the window button–my window–and closes it, phone to his ear before the snick of the window cuts off easy communication.

Huh.

That’s weird.

I stretch my legs with a quick walk along uneven cobblestone streets, stepping up out of the roadway onto sidewalk. As I turn to catch Declan’s eye, I see his jaw tight, expression angry.

Oh, no. Some work-related problem is interrupting our vacation.

I knew this would happen.

Expectations are funny, and by funny I mean infuriatingly difficult to navigate. Adults should be flexible. Part of developing and maturing involves understanding that sometimes we have to adapt to circumstances beyond our control. The Rolling Stones say it in their song, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” right?

And yet human beings are planners. We look to the future. We assume we have a future and develop visions for that. Dec and I wouldn’t be planning a family if we weren’t part of the cycle of humanity that drives us to think ahead, right?

Expectations are a human feature. Not a bug.

Flexibility has to be paired with expectations, though, and when the two collide, we learn more than we want to know about ourselves and others.

I tap on the window with my middle knuckle. He glares at the phone, then pushes the automatic button for the window to drop.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“Milk supply issue.”

“In a year, that’ll be my line,” I joke.

He starts, looking at me with great consternation. “Huh?”

“Bad breastfeeding joke.”

It takes a few seconds, but he laughs through his nose. Whatever’s bothering him is big. Super big. “Dec,” I ask, hand on his cuff, “What’s going on? You’re agitated.”

“I am not agitated.”

“You are showing more emotion in your left eyebrow than usual.”

“Cut it out, Shannon.” His voice is pleasant, but there’s an edge to it.

“Are you hiding some Grind It Fresh! problem from me? I’m COO. Your equal, even if on paper you’re CEO. Please don’t start doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Not telling me about issues with the business. I was afraid this might happen.”

“Afraid what might happen?”

“You’d shut me out from problems with the business.”

“I’m not.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing. Just, you know.”

“Milk?”

“Right.”

I yawn, the impulse taking over before I can stop it, a great big vulnerable muscle stretch that takes over my whole body, blood pumping everywhere even as I fight it, my anger overridden by the biological need to get more air inside me to let all the pieces of me do their job.

Dec’s eyes gravitate immediately to my breasts, which poke out at him, a little cleavage suddenly turned into a nice view of the Grand Tetons.

I take another breath, then say, “I need coffee.”

He looks up at me. “Me, too.” He points to a gluten-free bakery. “That place is on our list. How about this? You go get us two cups to go, and by the time you’re back, I’ll be done with this work issue.”

“Your milk issue.”

“Yes.”

He’s not going to tell me, is he? Anger bubbles up, his betrayal of principle hurting more than he realizes. “Fine,” I say, turning away, shouldering my purse and marching off to cross the street.

I am anything but fine, though.

No amount of careful control can stop tears from rimming my eyes. I’m not good enough to share info about a work emergency with, but I can be an errand girl and fetch coffee?

No.

I walk past the gluten-free bakery and head up a slight hill, turning right into Old Port’s main shopping district. There are two places that top my list to see: a specific coffee shop right by the tiny town common, and a salt and crystals store.

I snake my way, trying not to cry, furious that he would do this now, of all times. As I choke back my tears, I see the coffee shop. In a haze, I go in and order one–and only one–macchiato, my new favorite.

The coffee-chain owner in me should take notes, observe and analyze, check the place out and compare.

The woman and wife in me just needs caffeine and something to do while I process my emotions.

Two minutes later, the delightfully bright macchiato is gone, and I spot the sign for the salt and crystals store. The entrance is down a small set of steep stairs, literally into a cellar-like place.

And just like that, I’m charmed.

Bzzzz.

I know who that is, and I’m not answering his text. He can get his own damn coffee. I’m not good enough to share information with?

Then neither is he.

---

---

Damn it.

I know she’s mad, but I can’t tell her the truth.

While I watch that fine, fine ass head toward the gluten-free bakery across the street, I quickly call AlcheMyAssistant back, the on-hold music sending me into a murderous rage. All the reservations they were supposed to make are for hotels and restaurants that do not exist.

Not here, at least.

“Hello? AlcheMyAssistant hotline. How can I–” A man’s voice, with a cheeriness that makes me homicidal, answers.

“This is Declan McCormick calling. I need to speak to the highest person in your chain. Now.”

“Mr. McCormick, do you have your customer number?” His voice drops, the happy crap gone.

“1179.”

“Thank you. What seems to be the problem?”

“Your company booked me for a two-day trip to hotels and restaurants that do not exist here in Portland, Maine.”

“Excuse me, sir. Let me–oh, boy. I see it now. All of your reservations are for Portland, Oregon. Are you sure you’re not in Oregon?”

“Are you sure your company is going to make it past first-round venture capital? Because as far as I’m concerned, I’m about to personally get this shitshow shut down.”

“Uhhhh...”

“Get someone five pay grades above you on the line. Now.”

“I, uh... I am the highest pay grade, sir.”

“You?”

“We’re a twelve-person team.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir. Our artificial intelligence program handles ninety-six percent of issues, leaving humans to fix the rest. I’m one of the developers. The customer service reps are all out with a bad case of food poisoning from our Sushi Thursday Bring Your Dog to Work town hall yesterday, and–”

“Fix it. Now.”

“Fix... what?”

“I hired you on the recommendation of one of my employees. You have exactly ten minutes to fix this.”

“I–I can’t. Our entire computer system is down.”

“Down? You have no redundancy?”

“We do, but only for the AI–oh, shit. Another call just came in.”

“Don’t you dare put me on–”

The sound of chanting monks fill my ear.

“DAMN IT!” If this were a business issue, I wouldn’t care. I’d dump it off on someone else and it would be their problem. But this is Shannon. This is our vacation. Promises were made and I have to keep them.

Think, Dec. Think, I tell myself, knowing I have limited time before she comes back. It’s not that I have an aversion to being wrong. I do. But it’s more about disappointing her.

And her being right about the whole assistant thing.

Assistant.

AlcheMyAssistant.

Hmmm.

I text Dave: AlcheMyAssistant screwed up. Booked everything for Portland, Oregon. They are useless. Got any ideas?

Three dots appear instantly.

You have a black American Express card?

Of course, I text back. But I don’t have time to book all this. Shannon’s getting coffee and I don’t want her to know.

No problem. Is the info in your desk upstairs?

Yes. Grace had a book with everything in it. Black leather, left drawer.

Give me a few minutes.

What are you doing?

You have to trust me on this.

He’s right. I do.

Fine. You have ten minutes.

I’ll do it in nine.

I get out of the car, run my fingers through my hair, and start to pace. The look on Shannon’s face last month when the pregnancy test came back negative was the closest thing to mourning I’ve felt since my mother died. It’s not that I wasn’t sad about not being pregnant, too. I was, but not with the kind of depth I saw in my wife. Every bit of the XY in me lined up with arms out, muscles ready to get the job done, to fix it all, to make it up to her.

To stop her pain.

This trip is a gift to us both.

And I just made it all so much worse.

It takes me a minute to realize I’m right on a pier, the ocean lapping at the wooden joists holding up walkways. Across the street, she’s getting us twin macchiatos. If Dave can’t give me some ideas, I’ll have to admit the truth to Shannon. Not booking this the “right” way isn’t the problem.

It’s that she’ll connect it to not caring.

And the last thing I want her to think about me is that I don’t care.

Bzzz.

The new text says, Check your email.

I do, finding a pdf attachment from Dave’s work address. I open it and scroll.

Hotel reservations with breakfast room service already booked for two mornings.

Dinner reservations tonight and tomorrow at two places, complete with maps, within a four-block walk of the place. One of the locations is a private chef’s unofficial pop-up restaurant, featured in a Facebook video Shannon showed me a week ago.

How the hell did you do this? I ask him. Thank you!

Don’t ask my methods. Just enjoy.

You looking for a new job, Dave?

That a direct job offer, Declan?

It could be. Wait until I get back.

Why wait? Let’s negotiate now.

I chuckle, relief mingling with a deep respect for Dave, who’s got me by the balls.

Name a figure.

You first.

No, Dave, you.

You know damn well the first one to give numbers loses, Declan. I don’t like to lose.

Neither do I, Dave.

I want one million dollars a year.

I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave.

After a very long pause, I get a picture of Robert Downey, Jr., rolling his eyes in a gif, and a text that says, How long have you been waiting to use that line?

Since the day we hired you.

You are a patient man.

I know how to bide my time.

So do I, he responds.

How about this, I text back. When we’re home from this trip, we’ll talk numbers.

How about I tell Shannon you screwed up?

Are you blackmailing me?

I’m leveraging valuable information for the sake of generating an increased return on a deal I’m making.

Didn’t you say your master’s degree was in folklore? Where’d you learn to negotiate like this?

I left the MBA from Wharton off my resume when I applied to Grind It Fresh!

And he follows it up with smiley face. Son of a bitch. I’m being played by a ringer.

A ringer who just saved my ass.

I thought you dropped out?

I did. Went back. Finished after my folklore MA.

Fine, I text back, naming a number.

He comes back five thousand higher.

My original number was lower than I was willing to pay. I look at the gluten-free bakery. Shannon must be wondering where I am. I start walking to the bakery, ready to spill my guts and tell the whole story now. I have to. How else am I going to explain hiring Dave as my new executive assistant?

Deal, I type back.

Shit, he types back. I knew that was too low.

I send a thumbs up. Want to start now? I have a long list of work to do in my planner.

Paper planner?

It’s on my desk.

How twentieth century of you, he writes.

Bring me into the twenty-second century, Dave.

I love a good challenge.

I’m on the other side of the road, about to go in, when I see the text. Good. We’re done. And just like that, I have all the reservations for our trip and a new assistant. Even on vacation I am the master.

For the next forty-eight hours, all I’m going to do is make love with my wife, eat good food, stroll around Portland and the islands, and have sex with my wife. We might even make time for more sex.

And here she is, waiting for me with a nice cup of coffee, ready to–

Huh?

She’s not here.

---

---

“May I help you?”

“I’m looking for crystals and salt.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” The clerk is a warm, affable woman who reminds me of a much calmer version of my mother. This place is a cocoon. The entire store is filled with shelves that are backlit against dark, polished wood. Himalayan salt lamps cast a womb-like glow that instantly makes me think about babies.

My baby.

My someday baby.

Someday ain’t happening today, though. Not after that stunt Declan just pulled. Anger propels me into this oasis of calm. I push it aside and let it simmer in a far corner of my mind. It’s impossible to be mad in this place. Tiny jars of different flavored salts beckon to me, begging for attention. Licorice. Coffee. Celery. Smoked wood. Half the store is for cooking salts, with pink slabs and cookbooks instructing how to cook on heated chunks of...

Salt.

Who knew?

The other half of the store is for beauty and health care. Salt in soaps. Salt in creams. Salt, salt, salt. And then there are all the gemstones and crystals. So many prisms.

Crystals line the windows like wind chimes, every shade of color imaginable honed into elongated diamonds, like the Washington Monument turned upside down in miniature. The effect is startling, making me feel like I’ve walked onto the set of a 1980s kids’ movie, one where the writers are in on some LSD-fueled joke.

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” the clerk asks me, smiling.

“A reasonable man?”

“I’m so sorry, dear. We don’t sell men here.”

“Oh, I don’t want to buy one. In fact. I’m close to putting mine on eBay.”

She smiles. “Have a fight?”

“Worse. He’s just... oh, never mind. I’m making a fool of myself, blathering on.” I shake my head, chuckling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

I look around, admiring. “It’s so calming in here. You’ve done a great job.”

“Thank you. I can’t take credit. I just work here. I take it this is your first time?”

“Yes.” My eye catches a large door in the back, a deeper amber glow coming from it. “What’s that?”

“That’s our salt therapy room. It’s new.”

“I read about it on your website!” I marvel.

“It’s designed to help people to relax. It can’t fix your man problem, but it can make it seem less important for an hour or so.”

“Sold! Is it by appointment?”

“It is,” she says carefully, as we cross the threshold into what appears to be a vault. The walls and ceiling are giant blocks of Himalayan sea salt, cut into giant stone-like chunks, a pale glow emanating from behind. Lounge chairs, the kind you find at a pool, are sprinkled throughout the room. Enormous crystals, like stalactites, hang down from the domed ceiling.

“You rest in one of those,” she points. “And then you breathe.”

“Breathe? That’s it? I sit in a chair and breathe?”

She nods. “Salt therapy. We grind the salt to a fine powder and use an air system to push it into the air. The crystals are protective. This room is designed to make you relax. To let down your guard. To tell you it’s time to rest. It’s quite soothing, and has more and more medical research to support it for certain health conditions, like respiratory issues. ”

“I’m not here for that. It’s just so... serene. Do I need to have a medical condition? Does having a fight with a stubborn husband count as a diagnosis?”

“If it did, we’d all need treatment,” she says with a conspirator’s smirk.

I can already tell I’m not walking out of this store empty-handed, the products in the other room too enticing not to buy. But this–this is an experience. One I pointed out to Declan last week, back when this trip was going to be a fun frolic away from the stress of running an emerging company together.

When I was naïve and thought he respected my opinion in the business.

“Can I do a session now?” I ask.

She clasps my hand. “I do have an opening.”

“Excellent!”

Two minutes later, I’ve had a glass of water to hydrate, I’ve turned off my phone, I’m in the chair, reclined all the way back, and I am determined to spend the next sixty minutes not thinking about Declan.

And... go.

---

First thought: Hah! this will teach him.

Second thought: Stop thinking about Declan.

Third thought: Bet he’s still on the phone, arguing about milk.

Fourth thought: Stop thinking about Declan.

Fifth thought: He’s going to worry about me.

Sixth thought: He deserves to worry about me.

Seventh thought: Stop thinking about Declan.

---

Damn. This isn’t working.

I’m either being incredibly enlightened or exceptionally petty. Sometimes the difference between the two seems so slim.

I open my eyes and breathe in, the air seeming lighter somehow. As I inhale, I do a yoga belly breath until the bottoms of my ribs ache with the expansion. Mom says a small ache is good, but a big ache is a spasm, and spasms are our muscles’ way of telling us we’re trying too hard. Belly breaths are about feeding the soul, the spine, the heart. They’re meant to stretch you.

Not hurt you.

Just like the people you love.

For a few seconds, I drift. It’s fleeting enough to make me teeter when my mind’s chatter comes back into consciousness, the dramatic sound of all that inner talking making me lose balance. I catch myself, finding my center of gravity just as I take a deep breath and the door opens slowly.

To reveal Declan standing there, looking around the room with raised eyebrows and a relieved expression.

“You’re here.”

“How’d you find me?” So much for an hour of serenity and bliss.

“I guessed. When you weren’t at the gluten-free bakery, I realized you were angry.”

“Took you that long?”

“I was distracted.”

“No...”

“Shannon.”

“Do you mind? I’m paying by the minute for my salt therapy. This is supposed to be relaxing. You are the opposite of relaxing.” I sit up. “Hold on. She let you in here?”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t supposed to.”

“I bribed her.”

“With what?”

“I ordered one of everything they have in stock and had it shipped home.”

“You what?”

“I figured you’d want to shop.”

“Like a normal human! Where I browse and consider and decide for myself!”

“You can do that at home.”

“If this is your idea of a fun, romantic weekend away, you’re really screwing the pooch, Declan.”

“That’s... not on my agenda at all, Shannon.” He gives me a funny look. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re messing this all up. Making mistake after mistake after mistake.”

He seems even more relieved. “Oh. Whew. I wasn’t sure what that was a metaphor, uh, for.”

“Are we going to go over points of the English language, Declan, or–”

“I am sorry.”

I blink. “For?”

“Everything.”

“That’s really vague.”

“For not telling you what really happened in the car. There is no milk supply issue.”

“I guessed.”

“You guess a lot.”

“I’m really intuitive. It’s a curse.”

“I think it’s a skill.”

“You were apologizing. Continue.”

The long, slow inhale Declan takes is marked by his look of astonishment. “Before I do that, I have to ask: what’s in the air?”

“Salt.”

“I gathered that. It’s very refreshing. May I?” He gestures to the lounge chair next to me.

“Sure.”

I know what’s coming next. He’ll take my hand. He’ll rub his thumb on the soft webbing of mine.

The bastard.

He’ll work his Declan magic and be all earnest and open and I’ll melt and cave and then we’ll have mind-blowing sex and cuddle afterward.

Wait. What was my point?

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Oh. Right. I’m still mad at him.

“I was using an online artificial intelligence program to schedule this entire trip.”

Back up. Wasn’t expecting that.

“And,” he continues, squeezing my hand, “it scheduled this entire trip. Top-of-the-line hotel, five star restaurants, special rides, you name it.”

“But...” I say, waiting for it.

“In Portland, Oregon.”

I snort. Then I cough. Then I burn. You ever snort salt air? Ouch.

“Oh, Declan,” I say, eyes watering from the raw pain. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t. AlcheMyAssistant did.”

“Alchemy?”

“It’s a start-up. Stupid names go hand in hand with startups. It’s a text-based assistant.”

“You tried to replace Grace with a company you text to get all that work done for you?”

“Don’t ask. Don’t judge. Just listen.”

Did he just use my line that I use on him all the time?

I sigh. “Gotcha. So that’s what you were dealing with in the car?”

“I couldn’t find the hotel or the restaurants, so I ended up calling them and...” He kisses the back of my hand. “None of that matters.”

“Do we have a hotel?”

“We do now. Dave fixed it.”

“Dave? Dave who?”

“Dave. From Grind It Fresh!”

“Dave Amari? The barista?”

“Yes. But not anymore.”

“He doesn’t work for us anymore?”

“No, no, he does. I just hired him to be my new executive assistant.”

“Dec, you’re not making any sense.”

“Dave turns out to be a whiz, intuitive and fast, at helping me with the kinds of executive planning and coordinating issues I need in order to be effective.”

“You mean he saved your ass.”

“That’s another way to put it.”

“So you hired him? Full-time?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to need a new barista.”

“I texted HR. They’re on it.”

“So... everything’s fixed?”

“I don’t know.” He gives me a sideways look. “Is it?”

“Did you really buy one of everything out there in the store to be shipped home?”

“Yes.”

“You are unpredictable, Mr. McCormick.”

“Says the woman who disappeared on me. I was really worried,” he says, squeezing my hand, pulling it up to his mouth again. This time, he doesn’t kiss my hand.

He licks it.

“Dec!” I hiss, not wanting to let go of my earlier anger and hurt. It’s clinging to me, unfinished, still righteous.

“You are salty.”

“No kidding.”

“I mean literally.” His tongue probes between my fingers, making me wet, breath hitching as he does this impossibly twisty thing that makes me clear my throat and try to reclaim my hand.

But I can’t.

“Please,” I moan.

“Please what?”

“Please don’t make me orgasm in the middle of a salt vault.”

“Is that an option?”

“You keep doing that and I won’t be able to help myself.”

“You cannot say that to me and expect me to stand down. I accept the challenge.” He leans over and licks my earlobe in that just-right way that he knows will tip me over.

“What? No! That wasn’t a challenge! Not one bit.” I bite my lower lip as his tongue continues, the familiar wellspring of arousal concentrating between my legs, all of my nerve endings rushing like a spring melt, tributaries swelling, gravity pulling the force of nature to one point of concentration. I can’t help myself now, Declan’s deft touch finding an accidental erogenous zone on me as he stands, moving over me, his body on top, knee opening my legs until his thigh is against the part of me that needs to be touched most.

“I can’t!” I beg. “This room is supposed to be relaxing!”

“So relax,” he urges, his hushed, hot breath against my ear the final push, my body bucking against him, teeth sinking into the fabric of his jacket.

I come hard and fast against him, laughing at the end, incredulous as I grind and take, needing the release more than I knew, more than I could ever have dreamed.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, here. Now.”

“Thank you for letting me.” Our eyes meet. He’s so damned pleased with himself.

“That was unpredictable.”

“Funny. You just used that word to describe me. Maybe life has become too staid.”

“Our life is hardly boring.”

“No. It’s not. But there’s always room to learn more about ourselves. And each other.”

“I just learned never to let you kiss my hand in public.”

“And I just learned the opposite.” His wink is charming as he settles back into his chair.

“That’s it?” I pant, incredulous. “You’re leaving me like this?”

“You want more?” He goes for my hand. I snatch it back.

“No! I mean, not here.” I look at the ceiling and take a deep breath. “I have no idea how I’m going to look that nice woman in the eye when our time is up.”

Rumbles of self-satisfied laughter pour out of him. “You are hilarious.”

“I am? Because I have some common decency?”

“Because you care what other people think.”

“What do you care about?”

“I care that I just found yet another way to give you pleasure, Shannon.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re a pervert.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not a compliment!” But I’m laughing. “I married a pervert.”

“No. You married a man who likes to make his woman come. That’s not a pervert. That’s–”

“A god,” I joke. It’s a partial joke. Sometimes he’s so powerful, it kind of scares me.

In all the good ways.

He puffs up. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I breathe into my hand, the slick between my legs making me blush with memory, body loose and voice low, sensual. “How about we cut this session short and go to our hotel? How far is it?”

“A few blocks. I already parked there. Checked in.” He reaches into his breast coat pocket and flashes two keycards.

“You’re reinforcing those god credentials.”

“Told you.”

I stand, my inner thighs still shaking, and hold out my hand. “Let’s go to the room.”

“You sure?”

“More than sure.”

As we rush out of the store, I wave and avoid eye contact, Declan laughing as we climb the stairs and race around the corner. He guides me to a beautiful old brick building, the trees and bushes around it lined with soft white Christmas lights, the grand foyer giving a feel of another time.

Normally, I’d gawk.

Right now, all I want to look at is Declan’s naked body.

By the time we’re at the door of a suite and he’s keying us in, my arms are around his waist and I’m undoing his belt.

“Shannon!” he says. I can’t tell if he’s scandalized or amazed. Probably both.

“Hurry up, unless you want to have sex in the hall.”

“Is that an option?”

The door clicks open and I shove him, hard, through it. “No.”

“How about,” he says, voice dropping, gesturing lower, suggesting a certain one-way sex act.

“What? You want me to do that? But it would be a waste.” I bite back a smile but fail.

“Waste? It’s never, ever a waste!” Vehemence isn’t typically one of Declan’s character traits, but it sure is now.

“Of your sperm.”

“Excuse me?” His hands are all over me, practically tearing off my shirt. I stop him and back away.

“I can’t get pregnant by swallowing, Declan. If I could, we’d have twenty-three kids by now.”

He clears his throat, the rumble low and sexy. “I think you’re lowballing that figure.”

I move closer and reach between his legs. “Speaking of lowballing...”

“Don’t make promises with your hand that your mouth won’t keep.”

I drop to the ground.

“My knees have formed an alliance with my hand and have decided to bring my mouth in, too.”

I stop talking, Dec’s low groan all the input I need. As I give him pleasure, a slow-building warmth spreads through me. We haven’t had fun with sex lately. It’s become a side job. Conceiving a baby is like moonlighting. It seems like a great idea when you embark on it, but it quickly becomes a source of exhaustion and frustration.

Time to make this refreshing and exciting again.

Giving like this is its own reward as I spend a luxurious few minutes with my hands on him. I know he wants more, but sometimes a quick–but intense–interlude, however short, where one hundred percent of my focus is on his body, his needs, is plenty. Priming the pump, so to speak, makes a difference.

And just as the, uh, well starts to work and pours forth, I realize what I’ve done.

Conception is all about calibration.

His sperm concentration is now depleted.

But oh, the feel of his hands on my head, fingers in my hair, the quick breath of a man lost in my attentions...

Babies are important, but so are marriages, and right now, I’m giving him pleasure from the same place where I said my vows, with the same hand that wears his wedding ring.

Later we’ll regroup and figure out the baby-making part.

But right now, he’s saying, “Oh, baby...”

I let out a long, hot sigh against his thigh, my breath coming back to tickle my own nose along with the peppering of hair on his skin. “When we said we’d have lots of sex on this trip, I definitely didn’t picture this.”

One hand pulls me up gently. “And yet, here we are,” he says, laughing.

I duck into the suite’s small kitchen and drink a glass of water, watching him waltz across the room with a loose gait that makes me oh, so appreciative. We’ve righted whatever imbalance we had earlier.

Dave did a fantastic job with the room, our view of the Old Port street not quite a water view, but scenic and quaint. Declan finds an ice bucket with a bottle of prosecco in it, the cork popped easily in his expert hands, a glass offered to me before I can cross the suite.

“To you.”

“To us.”

“To orgasms in stores.”

I sputter, the bubbles catching the back of my throat. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I can’t believe you let me!”

“Dec!” I swat him.

“What? Is it my fault I have a beautiful, lush, multi-orgasmic wife with a tongue that can tie cherry stems and a face that launched a thousand ships?”

“That’s Helen of Troy.”

“I don’t remember reading about her tying cherry stems with her tongue in seventh-grade Greek classics at Milton.”

“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

“Oh, no, my dear. I would have definitely paid attention if that were in the curriculum.” A suggestive, full laugh booms out of him, the sound of unleashed revelry. “God, it’s good to have you all to myself.”

“And to have an assistant again.”

“And that, yes.” He toasts me. “To convergence.”

“Convergence?”

“All the pieces are finally coming together as they should.”

I take a sip, then say, “Except for us.”

He freezes. “What?”

“We didn’t come together.”

More laughter, then he pulls me to him, a quick kiss on the lips giving me a double taste of the wine. “We will remedy that.”

“I do not doubt you.”

“I am a man of my word.”

“Always.” The next kiss is deeper, so intense that I have to set down my wine glass, the room starting to spin. Dec sets down his glass, too, one hand on my ass, one cupping my breast, fingers finding their way inside my blouse, his cool, chilled fingers turning my nipple to a hard pearl in seconds.

I pull back, breathless. “Uh, you’re interested now?”

“We’re here in Portland for a two-day vacation. No work. No worries. Just us, together, for forty-eight hours. What did you think I’d want to do while we’re here? Play chess?” He grins.

“Well, no, but, you know... I, uh, just gave you something.”

“And that was wonderful. Now how about I give you something?”

“You did!” I watch his hand, wary. “We should wait.”

“Wait?”

“So you can recharge.”

“I’m recharged already. My battery is raring to go.”

“I can feel that.”

“You can feel it in other places on your body, soon.” He’s kissing my neck in that perfect way that makes me melt.

“But it’s also not days ten to twenty in my cycle,” I start to explain. “I mean, there’s a chance, and I do want you, but–” Why am I saying this? The words are lining up in my head and marching out as if someone’s holding the real me hostage and gagged.

“Screw days ten to twenty.”

“That’s what all the books say!”

“I don’t sleep with books, Shannon. I make love with you. We’re live, breathing human beings and I want to love you my way. Not because some medical professional says I should.”

“How are we going to get pregnant, then?”

“That’s what this is about? Oh, trust me. I’ll show you how. Right now.”

I pull back. “We need to talk about your sperm quality.”

His hands fly up around his face, fingertips pressing into his forehead. “My what?”

“Your sperm quality. It’s going to be lower now. Ideally, you build up for thirty-six to forty-eight hours before trying to conceive. All the swimmers are in my stomach now, being destroyed by an acidic environment.” I laugh a little, trying to diffuse the increasingly tense mood. “The wine we drank isn’t helping. Acidic to the max.”

“You’re telling me that wine is ruining my chances of making love with you?”

“Indirectly, yes.”

“I don’t do indirect, Shannon.” Moving so fast, I can barely process it, he’s on top of me on the bed, my hands pinned over my head, one strong hand on my breast, the commanding way he moves to position himself in a place of authority so breathtakingly hot, my body catches fire.

“I want you. I want sex. If you don’t want me right now, say it.” Those green eyes are hypnotic. Demanding. If the concept of boundaries took human form, it would be Declan.

“I do want you!” My legs part and one of his is between mine, his erection against my thigh, all of me wanting this more than I’ve desired anything in my life. This wanting has an edge, a long, dangerous cliff I need to give myself permission to fall off, free-floating until the abyss takes me away, into Declan, into us.

“Then why do you keep inserting biology into places where all I want to do is insert–”

I kiss him hard, all of my being rising up to meet all of his. He’s right, so, so right, and as his hair brushes against my brow, his hand releasing my wrists and running up my skirt, I writhe under him and let myself fall back into that place where we’re most comfortable, most authentic, most sure.

My fingers find his shirt buttons, the pattern of what to do built into my memory. Behind closed eyes, I re-invent Declan’s body, his clothing, the curl of his knee as he bends it, the way his calf tightens with effort, the perfect humanity of his laid-out self.

There is a slowing down in a long-term relationship when it comes to sex. I’m not talking about frequency. I’ve heard from women’s magazines and on television talk shows and through whispers and giggles among groups of married and long-paired women that sex lives dry up over time. That won’t happen to us. Our kind of slowing down is different. Unique, maybe.

Time itself slows down when we’re naked together.

The words aren’t on the tip of my tongue to describe this. When sex begins, I touch him in ways that are intuitive. Muscle memory kicks in. I’ve spent four years learning his body, and a touch of highway hypnosis infiltrates every time we make love, my body on autopilot, but not in a bad way. This time, though, as his hand moves between my legs, I’m too sensitive for that. All I want is to be surrounded by his arms, his legs, his torso flat and sliding against mine, to pull him inside me as deep as can be so I can lose myself.

It’s still daylight, the waning sun outside shining in through the gauzy sheers at the window, and as we make love with the sheets and cover pulled back, our bodies smooth and slow against the white cotton, all I can think is that if we never conceive, I’ll still have this. The way he makes me feel is a creation of its own kind, his body and heart pushing into me, all of the barren spaces within filled by Dec.

In every way possible.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips in my hair, my hands on his broad shoulders, taking pleasure in touching his back, the curl of shoulder blade, the thick ridges that line his spine. As my hands make their way to his ass, I feel the dimples above each cheek, my mind mapping him with ever-increasing precision, for no other reason than that I can.

I didn’t think I could come again after what happened earlier but I do, the familiar quickening within as my core tightens and his thighs clench, a heady reminder that we make this space to hold us. We do. No one else, his mouth slanting across mine as we come together, my hips arching up to get the impossible, every time we make love moving me closer to him, but never enough.

It’s the coming down together that somehow, with each breath, bonds us even more. Letting go takes courage and trust, but finding yourself in a sea of shattered joy with a witness to it all is special and loving, too.

Our breath is all I hear, bouncing off the sheets, each other, hot and then cold, pushing out the energy we just spent. We relax into each other, Dec sitting up to grab the edge of the covers and blanketing our mingled bodies with warmth. Snuggling in, I find parts of me that still can’t get enough of him. They settle in around tendon and hair, kneecap and rib, each sighing deeply as they find a place to pause and ponder.

I run my fingers along the groove of his breastbone and say, “We’re not going to have this, you know. Once we have a baby.”

“Sex? Of course we’ll have sex. How do you think people have siblings? Having one child doesn’t mean you never get a chance to make another.”

“No, I don’t mean sex. I mean this.” I brush my toes against his calf, feeling my way around the honed muscle. My thighs slide along his hip until I settle in, seeking the Shannon-shaped space on him. “I mean the time to just be together.”

“We barely have that now.”

“I know. And add a baby to the mix...”

“Are you saying you want to wait? Because we can. If you want more time alone with me, I will do whatever you want, Shannon. Nothing’s set in stone. We can change our mind, take a few more months...” Trailing off, his voice goes soft. Wistful. His fingertips trace the path of the curve of my side, sweet and explorative. We’re spent. There’s nothing sexual about it. Just a friendly appreciation.

“I don’t want to wait,” I say truthfully. “Just ruminating. Thinking about what we’re about to do.”

“Maybe it’s already done.” As his palm flattens against my collarbone, it makes a slow descent under the covers, over one breast, across a hip and down to my belly. Pausing there, I expect him to continue, but he doesn’t. Cradling the round curve, he says, “Maybe he’s already here.”

“He, who?”

“Our child.”

“No way. Impossible.” I fight tears, both touched and terrified all at once. We’re only on month two, but the emotional aspect of conception is killing me. I know people go their entire lives unable to conceive, or struggle far more than we have, but the bottom line of wanting to be pregnant and not yet being pregnant is opening a whole chapter of existence in my book of life that I didn’t know was there.

“Not impossible.”

“According to charting–”

He kisses me. I know he’s doing it to shut me up, but he tastes so good. I whimper against him, moving so his hand is between my legs. Just as I’m about to ask for more sex, which feels inconceivable (pun intended), a sharp, cold wave of air hits me.

Rolling over, he bends so sharply that his ass sticks up in the air, counterbalanced by thickly muscled thighs that engage his core and keep him from falling off the bed. Returning to baseline, he clutches his pants, and pulls his phone out of one pocket.

He starts to text.

“What are you doing?”

“Cancelling dinner reservations.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard the room service here is great.”

“Until a few hours ago, you didn’t even have a reservation here.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the restaurant here.”

“Then what.”

His head goes under the covers. “I’m talking about dining on you.”

I bat at his head. “Dec! Not now!”

“You said time is of the essence.” His words are all mumbly from being under the sheet.

“I did? When?”

“Just now. We have to beat the clock.”

“Beat the what?”

“The clock. We need to have all the fun sex we can now, to prepare for all the times we won’t be able to have it.” His head pops up, framed by the white sheet. He looks like a very male version of a novice nun, although comparing him to someone who took a vow of celibacy is probably a terrible idea.

Definitely a terrible idea.

“Do you think parents invented quickies?” he asks.

“What?”

He props himself up on his elbow and smiles at me. “Quickies. They make more sense in the context of parenthood.”

“You’re losing me here, Dec.” My stomach growls. “Losing my stomach, too. You seriously cancelled dinner?”

He shrugs. “Dave’s ordering us a pizza.”

“You did not tell Dave to cancel dinner reservations and order pizza so we could have sex in our hotel room!”

“It’s anchovy, pineapple, and sausage with feta.”

“You remembered?” This is my new favorite combo.

“I did. You have any idea how much I have to love you to eat a pizza like that?”

“I love you.” I bend down to kiss him.

“I guessed.”

I hit him with a pillow.

“But I also know you, and that means Dave ordered two pizzas. One I like, and one you like.”

His smirk confirms I’m right.

“We’ve been here for two hours, Declan. What are we going to do with ourselves for the next forty-six?”

Crawling up to the top of the bed, he rests on his back, hands behind his head. I snuggle into him on his chest, enjoying the feel of so much of my skin against his. Unlike sex back at home, we don’t have alarms for work meetings facing us in the morning, or the endless run of household tasks plaguing me as I stare at my own home. Hotel rooms grant us a different kind of vacation from daily life, one a change of location alone doesn’t quite provide. When you inhabit a space you’re not responsible for cleaning and organizing, it gives you a separate freedom.

Your mind becomes your own again, unencumbered by spotting the unfolded laundry, the wall that needs to be touched up with paint, the unorganized photo album, the overflowing closet. Dec hires people to do all of that, but it still finds real estate in my mind, squatting.

In this room, we’re just us, naked bodies tangled with sheets and sweat, kisses and moans.

And soon, pizza.

“We have coffee to taste. Donuts to try. Breakfast in bed. Second breakfast in bed. Do you want an itinerary, honey? I can have Dave make one.”

“I don’t need my orgasms to be a line item in an agenda,” I reply.

“That would not be a bad idea.”

“Yes, it would! I don’t want my sexual self to be some project you manage.”

“If it were, you’d be more scrum than waterfall.”

I groan. “Really? You’re using business jargon in bed? That’s not sexy.”

“I thought CEOs were always sexy.”

“They are. You are.” I kiss him, then settle back on his shoulder. “But let’s not talk business. We work together, we live together, we’re having a baby together, conception willing. Let’s talk about something else while we wait for the pizza.”

“Like what?”

Five minutes later, we’re still trying to come up with something other than work to talk about.

“Coffee should count,” Dec says. “We both enjoy it, even if we now make it and sell it for a living.”

“What about movies?” I offer.

“What was the last movie we saw together?” he asks, genuinely trying to remember.

“How about working out? How are things at the gym?”

“Andrew is drinking some disgusting oil Vince gave him in an effort to boost his sperm count.”

I’m about to ask what the hell that means, when we both hear:

Tap tap tap.

“Pizza!”

Climbing out of bed, Dec saunters over to the door, dragging his loose pants, fishing for his wallet.

“Put those on,” I remind him, like I always have to remind him when we get takeout delivered.

“Huh?”

“This isn’t Gerald’s nude sculpting class. Don’t be rude. Put on pants.”

I can feel his eye roll from here, but he does it.

Two minutes later, we’re naked in bed, cross-legged and eating our respective pizzas straight out of the box.

“Nothing but the finest money can buy for my dear wife,” Declan cracks, a dot of tomato sauce on the corner of his mouth. I bend over the pizza boxes and lick it off.

“This is fun,” he declares, reaching for one of the two cans of soda he ordered–well, Dave ordered–with the pizza.

“How did Dave know I like Moxie?” I ask, popping the top on mine, taking a sip.

“It’s in Grace’s notebook.” Dec pulls another piece of pizza out of his box and uses his tongue to guide a sensually long string of mozzarella into his mouth.

“Grace kept track of that kind of detail?”

“Sure did.”

“Wow.”

“She even documented your birth control prescription, strength, dosage, the whole bit.”

“Did she know the kind of condoms you used while you and I were dating?”

He stiffens. No, not there.

“Oh, Dec. Gross.”

“Gross is your pizza.”

“Come on. Your assistant bought your condoms for you?”

“Look, Shannon, executive assistants run every detail of a C-suite executive’s life.” He’s not saying no, which means... yes.

“Now Dave knows?”

“I doubt Dave cares. And besides, we’re not using condoms.”

“Which means Dave will figure out fast that we’re TTCing.”

“TTC what?”

“Trying to conceive.”

“Oh.” Shrug. “So?”

“I was hoping to keep it private.”

“Your mother knows. That ship sailed so long ago, it’s called the Santa Maria.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re acting like Dave’s a lady’s maid who is watching your sheets for your period so she can tell your mother when you’re late.”

“Someone’s been watching a little too much White Queen lately,” I mutter.

“What’s White Queen? I’m citing portions of the social history of England.”

“You can be really obscure, Declan.”

“I blame the scent of your abominable pizza.”

“Quit making fun if it!”

But I laugh anyhow, caught up in the fun.

“Forty-five and a half more hours, huh?” he says, closing his pizza box and moving it to the ground, settling in with pillows behind him as he chugs his soda.

“Yep,” I say, eating the rest of my slice and mimicking him. We find ourselves next to each other, reeking of garlic, stomachs full, hearts happy.

“Life is good.”

“Life is great.”

“Dec?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. This is the best vacation we’ve ever taken.”

“It’s only been two and a half hours, Shannon.”

“I know.”