He still knew how to undress a woman with great efficiency. He could still carry me. He still had that look of intense concentration when he worked, and he still smiled during a kiss, hot water running over us, soap sliding between us. He still knew every place I loved to be touched, where I was ticklish, how to make my knees buckle.

But he was new as well. He turned off the water when it started to cool, stepped out and wrapped me in a towel. Dried himself off fast, his six-pack rippling, his shoulders smooth and hypnotic with muscle. Then he kissed me and kissed me, sliding his hands under my ass, picked me up and carried me upstairs.

“I’m on the Pill and passed my STD panel with flying colors,” I said as he dumped me on the bed.

“I see your dirty talk hasn’t improved,” he said.

“I just want you to know, I’d never take any chances with you, Noah.” I was abruptly serious. “Even if we . . . I mean, if we’re about to do this, I just wanted you to . . . feel safe.”

He lay down on top of me, his skin so smooth and warm, still damp, his wet curls hanging around his face. “Special,” he whispered, “the last thing I feel with you is safe.”

I didn’t know why the words were so romantic, why they wrapped around my heart and pulled.

But they did, and when we were finally making love, finally, finally together again, I knew I was home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Barb

The morning after the big storm, I had to take John back to Gaylord for an assessment with his team. He’d had another MRI, and they were going to go over the results with us and talk about future therapy and all that.

Driving the hour plus to Wallingford was almost peaceful. John didn’t talk, though he’d been making more noise lately, trying to say words. And I tried to understand them, but it was tough. Sadie thought it meant a full recovery was just around the corner, but I wasn’t so sure. He seemed to check out a lot, and those words . . . I knew he wanted to tell me something, but his speech was so unclear, and the effort exhausted him.

Poor John. I wondered if he’d have been so bad off if he hadn’t been riding his bike that day. If someone had been there and saw him fall, gotten to him sooner. If he hadn’t banged his head in addition to having the stroke. In other words, if he hadn’t been having an affair and training for a triathlon in January, maybe the stroke wouldn’t have been so bad.

But the anger and humiliation I felt had seeped away. It’s real hard to be upset with a man who can’t cut his own food.