“Let’s get out of here. We need to celebrate, and I know just the place.”

Olivia held up her finger.

“Before we celebrate, I think we’re forgetting something.”

He laughed out loud and tossed her a pen.

“You’re right, we are. Would you like to sign first?”

She grinned at him and bent over their agreement, and signed her name with a flourish at the bottom. He pulled out his favorite pen and signed right next to hers. They both looked at their names, side by side, and smiled at each other.

“There, signed and dated.” He handed her their agreement, and she slid it into her briefcase. “Now, how would you feel about a slice of rich, decadent, luscious chocolate cake to celebrate?”

“How many layers?” she asked.

“Three,” he said.

She grinned.

“Perfect.”

Epilogue

They went back to Hawaii the next August during Max’s recess. The year had been both hard as hell and better than Olivia could have ever imagined. They’d each had to push themselves—and sometimes each other—to follow their contract, but it got easier and easier each time. His job and hers had both had big ups and big downs, and then big ups again; they’d both traveled far too much; they’d seen each other not at all enough. But almost without fail, they saw each other at least once a week, unless there was some sort of emergency that got in their way—which had happened only three times, twice on Max’s end and once on hers. One time she’d even surprised him and flown into DC for a night just to see him. She’d been to fundraisers and parties and town halls and concerts with him, and had actually found a number of them interesting, even fun—especially that time she’d managed to wangle an invitation for her sister and her husband, too. And she’d never, not for one second, doubted Max’s love for her.

They went to the same hotel as the first time—Olivia was less skittish about the press these days, but she drew the line at potential paparazzi shots on vacation—and ran down to the beach like fools again when they arrived. They spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing in a cabana, with pineapple drinks, and without their phones.

Midway through the afternoon, Max looked up from The Economist.

“What do you think about having dinner on the balcony of our room tonight, instead of down in the restaurant? I’m feeling lazy.”

She looked up from her novel.

“That’s an excellent idea. Plus, if we go down to dinner, someone might recognize you, and I want you all to myself.”

Max picked up her hand and pressed a kiss on her palm.

“I want you all to myself, too.”