“Besides,” she added, striding right over to the cliff’s edge and throwing her arms wide. “I like to stand here… It’s one of the reasons I specifically chose this property.” She whirled around to face them, her heels right at the rocky lip, making Simon’s stomach queasy with fear. If she lost her balance, fell back even half a step—she’d be gone. “I don’t like the idea of anything between me and this ocean. I like the feeling, the power of it.”

The contractor had raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to say, It’s your homeowners insurance, not my problem which of you, or your drunken friends, goes careening over the edge to their certain death. It wasn’t until Simon brought Charlie home four months ago that Clare had called the contractor back and explained their new circumstance.

Because she couldn’t bear the thought of Charlie getting hurt.

Simon stood at the fence now, his hands gripping the cold wrought-iron bars. The crash of the sea nearly drowned out the tinkling notes of piano spilling from Clare’s open window high behind him.

This was not his home.

It was his first honest thought in a long time, and it scared him. Simon took a deep breath of the cold sea air. It made his lungs constrict, and he coughed the salty, wet air back out. She had never, not once, even asked his opinion on anything with regard to their home.

This place, a secluded and sleepy seaside enclave forty minutes north of San Francisco, this plot of land, chosen by Clare without consulting him, even the design of the house, also all Clare’s idea. Everything about this place originated from what she wanted, where she wanted to be, how she wanted to live. One day, four years ago, she had made the executive decision to completely change their lives.

He had come home from his office and ridden the elevator up to their fourth-floor apartment in SoHo, and Clare had simply announced what she had done.

“I’ve purchased some land. I’m going to build a house.”

She was standing in the kitchen, glass of white wine in hand, slouchy wool socks, and her pajama shorts. Her long auburn hair was piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun, and he knew right away she had been writing all day. Clare never bothered getting dressed when she was writing.

He let his computer bag slide from his shoulder to the wood floor. “What?” he asked, still half thinking about the two foreign deals, German and French rights that had come in that morning. He’d been planning on surprising her, but she had surprised him first. “Land?” He shook his head. “I’m not following.”

“My book signing last month, in San Francisco?”

He nodded, yes, he remembered. San Francisco had been the last stop of the book tour.