I’d been able to avoid Max for the most part. Despite the impending arrival of his son or daughter, he was spending long hours on the water. He’d been traveling, too—a golf weekend with old teammates in Arizona, a trip north to visit family, frequent jaunts to the mainland to deal with business or legal affairs. The timing seemed odd to me, but Freya pointed out that Max would be on house arrest once the baby arrived. When he and I did cross paths, we were cool and civil. It was almost like nothing had ever happened between us.

But at night, he still came to me in my dreams. Torrid, sexual dreams that left me sweaty and aroused and hating myself. What if I murmured Max’s name in my sleep? Could Brian tell what imaginings caused me to toss and turn? I never fantasized about Maxime Beausoleil when I was awake. In fact, I disdained him. But my subconscious refused to let him go.

We still hadn’t socialized as couples since that fateful night. Freya had suggested it a handful of times, but between their travel schedules, my responsibilities at the store, and Brian’s writing deadline, it hadn’t come to fruition. My husband had been working on his manuscript, the second in the series, all summer. He’d delivered it in October, on schedule, but a month later, his editor called.

“She says it lacks the tension of the first book,” he complained. “She says the last half is fucking garbage.”

“Really? She said it’s ‘fucking garbage’?”

“She may as well have,” he grumbled.

“I could read it,” I offered lamely. “Maybe a fresh pair of eyes would help.”

“Yeah, like you’re going to solve the problems my professional editor can’t.”

His ego was bruised, his confidence shaken. And he was worried about money. Brian’s advance checks were metered out in installments: a percentage when he signed the contract, another on acceptance of the manuscript, more on publication. Hawking Mercantile had had a decent summer, and we’d budgeted our money to last until he received his next payment. We’d assumed that would be shortly after his delivery date. But that sum would now be delayed—weeks, months, even years. As long as it took for Brian to make the book good enough to publish. And from what I could see, he was barely writing.