Unfortunately, this current scenario wasn’t conducive to me finding that perfect nightgown to wear the first time I slept the night with Brock Lucas. We had slept together, twice, both times me falling asleep with him on my couch while watching a movie. No, strike that, three times adding last night.

But, except for last night, he’d always been gone before I woke and we had never slept together in a bed.

This was a momentous occasion that I should mentally, and arguably more important, fashionably prepare for. But at that moment, I didn’t have it in me.

I sorted through my nightgown drawer with trembling hands and luckily my inherent girl power kicked in and my fingers honed in on my cotton-candy purplish-pink embroidered eyelet nightie with its empire waist, spaghetti straps, and teensy-weensy ruffle at hem and bodice. Cute, girlie, comfortable, therefore it seemed a casual choice, like it was any other night, but it bared lots of skin, showed serious leg and a hint of cleavage, all of which stated plainly I was making an effort for my man.

Freaking perfect.

I grabbed it and my glasses, took them to the bathroom, and did my nighttime gig, contacts out, face washed, teeth brushed and flossed. I changed clothes, slid my glasses on, and walked out.

I heard Brock’s rumble when I did.

And this was what it said: “No shit, Calhoun.”

I pressed my lips together at that name, scurried into the bedroom, dropped my clothes in the hamper, and scurried out.

I knew he wanted to protect me but I was forty-three years old. I was in a situation. This situation was unlike the last. Now people knew. People who cared about me. People who had my back and people willing to take my front and act as a shield.

But it was high time I got my head out of the sand.

Somehow, I’d managed to be a survivor. But I was thinking that was pure luck and it only had to happen because I’d left my head in the sand too long with a husband who was no good for me from the start and I knew it. I just didn’t do a thing about it.

I needed to get my shit together.

So I stopped in the kitchen doorway and leaned against it, doing this with my eyes on a Brock Lucas who had his fist to his waist and his eyes on me.

Then he did something beautiful.

He trusted me and the strength I was building inside enough to keep talking.