“No; no beef,” he said, holding up his palms to ward me off. “I just figured you might be out hooking up with some guy or something.”

“Baby, what are you talking about? You’re crazy!” I reached across the table and took his hand. “You know you’re my whole world.” I squeezed his hand for emphasis.

“So you weren’t out messing around on me last night?”

I really couldn’t believe this. He was so adorable. If only he’d known what I’d really done last night. Dave was beautiful in the mornings, with his unshaven stubbly face and hair still damp from the shower. “No, I was not messing around on you last night.”

I’d mimicked his words back to him. This made him smile.

“Okay, so this means we can go back to your place and have afternoon sex?” he asked brightly.

He was so great. I had no idea he would be that insecure. Now I was smiling as big as he was.

“Let’s go.”

Only we didn’t go to my place; we went to his. We had afternoon-daylight sex, which had always seemed a bit naughty. I stared up at the ceiling while I let him do the work; he should, after all the trauma I’d been through, worrying about Mr. Softy. He was almost finishing, and I wasn’t even close. I thought that Amy would have to be a blond; who’d ever heard of a brunette named Amy? I thought of Marilyn sashaying through Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Maybe gentlemen do. Dave finished. I didn’t, but it was okay—I’d been close. Nine days, thank God.

I was catching my breath, still tangled in the sheets. Dave dismounted after a few minutes to grab a drink of water in the kitchen.

“Shit!” I heard him yell, followed by the banging of drawers, opening and closing of cabinets.

“What’s wrong?” I called out.

“I just wanted to make you dinner tonight. I was thinking of making a kind of baked ziti thing to have while we watched The Sopranos later.”

“You mean you’re making me Fuckin’ Baked-Ziti?” I teased.

“Yep, that’s what the real Sopranos eat.”

Talking about Fuckin’ Baked-Ziti made me smile; it was part of our boyfriend/girlfriend lexicon.

“I went to the Mayfair yesterday to buy the food, and I thought I had a couple of bottles of red wine here, but there’s nothing,” he called out to me.

“It’s no big deal. I can run out and get some. The show isn’t on for hours.” I started to sit up.

“No, no, no.” He came back in the bedroom, crossed over to me, and pulled the sheets back up. “You’re going to relax. This is for you. Take it easy for once—you’ve been working so hard.”