If—in hindsight—she sometimes wished they’d taken the relationship slower, learned more about each other before committing for life . . . if she was sad that her parents had judged her hasty nuptials as a foolish mistake and written her marriage off as another one of her dim-witted blunders . . . well, everyone harbored a regret or two.

Besides, fretting over history was pointless. The deed was done.

He released her hand, unmuted the TV, and turned his attention back to the screen. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Meg rose, kissed his forehead again, and returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Rubbing her temple, where the first hint of a headache was beginning to throb, she crossed to the fridge.

It would be nice once in a while if Steve kept her company while she cooked—or lent a hand with cleanup.

But after living with a gourmet chef who’d banished him from the kitchen until the food was ready, he would never think to offer assistance. He was used to how his first wife had prepared meals.

And since she wasn’t anywhere close to Le Cordon Bleu caliber—as Steve often reminded her—the least she could do was let him wind down from the day in front of the TV.

Marriage was all about accommodation, after all.

He doesn’t accommodate you very much, though.

She clenched the handle of the fridge and yanked the door open.

That wasn’t true. Letting her take the job at the station had been a big concession for a man who’d told her up-front he wanted a stay-at-home wife and mother—terms to which she’d agreed.

Yeah . . . but he only relented after you almost died from the miscarriage.

Meg pulled out the pork chops and slapped the package on the counter.

Enough.

Steve was a fine man.

So what if he was a bit overprotective and controlling?

Grief—and fear—could do that to a person.

After his experience with his first wife, he’d naturally be terrified about losing her too. That’s why he always wanted her close by, kept tabs on her activities and friendships.

Stifling the dissenting voice in her head, she pulled two potatoes from the cabinet and began peeling them.

Her husband’s behavior was perfectly reasonable, given his history. She should be flattered he hovered and wanted to keep her safe, not resent his attention.

And it wasn’t as if this pattern would last forever. Once they settled into their marriage and he felt more secure, he’d ease off, badger her less.

She began quartering the potatoes . . . but stopped as a putrid smell assailed her nostrils.

It didn’t take her long to find the source. There was a rotten spot in the middle of one, hidden under skin that had appeared normal.

Wrinkling her nose, she tossed the potato in the trash—and quashed a niggle of unease.