Last spring, at the close of an emotional y difficult time inGuatemala , I’d final y decided to take the plunge. I’d agreed to vacation with Ryan.

What could go wrong at the beach?

I never found out. Ryan’s pager beeped while en route to theGuatemala City airport, and instead of Cozumel, we flew toMontreal . Ryan returned to surveil ance inDrummondvil e . I went back to bones at the lab.

Woo-us interruptus.

I rinsed.

Now Detective Don Juan had his buns parked on the couch in my study.

Nice buns.

Flip.

Tight. With al the curves in the right places.

Major flip.

I twisted the handle, hopped out of the shower, and groped for a towel. The steam was so thick it obscured the mirror.

Good thing, I thought, picturing the handiwork of the mosquitoes and gnats.

I slipped into my ratty old terry-cloth robe, a gift from Harry upon completion of my Ph.D. at Northwestern. Torn sleeve. Coffee stains. It is the comfort food of my garment col ection.

Birdie was curled on my bed.

“Hey, Bird.”

If cats could look reproachful, Birdie was doing it.

I sat next to him and ran a hand along his back.

“I didn’t invite the chow.”

Birdie said nothing.

“What do you think of the other guy?”

Birdie curled both paws under his breast and gave me his Sphinx look.

“Think I should pul out the string bikinis?”

I lay back next to the cat.

I lay back next to the cat.

“Or hit theVictoria ’s Secret stash?”

Victoria’s Secret knockoffs, actual y, fromGuatemala . I’d found them in a lingerie store, and bought the mother lode for the beach trip that never was.

Those items were stil in their Vic-like pink bag, tags in place.

I closed my eyes to think about it.

The sun was again cutting through the magnolia, throwing warm slashes across my face.

I smel ed bacon and heard activity in my kitchen.

A moment of confusion, then recol ection.

My eyes flew open.

I was in a fetal curl on top of the spread, Gran’s afghan over me.

I checked the clock.

Eight twenty-two.

I groaned.

Rol ing from the bed, I pul ed on jeans and a T and ran a brush through my hair. Sleeping on it wet had flattened the right side, pooched the left into a demi-pompadour.

I tried water. Hopeless. I looked like Little Richard with hat hair.

Terrific.

I was halfway down the stairs when I thought about breath.

Back up to brush.

Boyd greeted me at the bottom step, eyes shining like a junkie’s on crack. I scratched his ear. He shot back to the kitchen.

Ryan was at the stove. He wore jeans. Just jeans. Slung low.

Oh, boy.

“Good morning,” I said, for lack of a more clever opener.

Ryan turned, fork in hand.

“Good morning, princess.”

“Listen, I’m sorr—”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”