I flip it over several times like I might get a hint because it’s so odd and kind of unsettling that it was hand-delivered. Setting it down, I wait for Harbor to come home.

Not an hour later, I hear the alarm’s quick beat pattern from the bath, and call out, “I’m in here.”

It takes him a minute to make his way back to the bathroom. Harbor may be wealthy beyond reason, but his habits would fit a simpler life. He likes routine. Don’t get me wrong, though, because he has a fantastic spontaneous streak. Once my schedule became more predictable, we could plan our time together better. We got out at least once or twice a week, especially if it’s to meet with his clients and their significant others. But most nights we prefer to eat here, cook together, or if it’s been a day, which happens, order in.

He’s been known to surprise me with a quick trip here and there. What’s the point of having all that money if you never enjoy it? When I’m in my own practice, I plan to surprise him in return.

With my head rested back and my eyes closed, I can see him dropping his keys in the bowl by the door, setting any packages we received on the island, and then stripping off his suit jacket as he works his way to the bedroom.

I open my eyes just as he leans against the doorway, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up. This man . . . He’s like the gift that keeps giving. I ask, “How was your day?”

“Better now that I’m seeing you.” He comes over to bend down and kiss me. “How was yours?”

“Indulgent. I never know what to do on my days off, so I stayed in bed most of the day. I caught up on sleep, did a little reading, and watched a movie. Uneventful.”

“Sounds full.” He then asks, “What’s the letter on the counter?”

“I don’t know. I was waiting for you to get home to open it.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his bicep on the doorframe. “Why?”

“Just wanted you here. Do you want to grab it?”

“Drink?” he asks once he disappears into the room again.

“Wine works. There’s an open bottle in the fridge.” I lie back, but my bubbles are starting to dissipate, and the hot water is now only warm. I won’t be in much longer at this rate.

He returns, setting the glass on the small table next to the tub, and then asks, “Want me to open it since you’re wet?”

“Yes, please.” I take the glass and a large sip. It’s weird that this feels different. We get invitations all the time, but this doesn’t feel like a charity or event to attend. It’s personal.

He pulls a flat card from the envelope and scans it, glances at me, and then exhales. Rubbing his hand over his head, he looks back at me, and says, “If you weren’t already sitting down—”