I felt his chest rise and fall before he answered. “I know.”

“And the questions I have about the private clients aren’t about not trusting you; it’s just that I’d like to understand better what your past involvement means for your safety and for us moving forward.”

He nodded. “That makes sense.”

I was on a roll, so I moved my hands from his arms to the hard plane of his back. “Your safety is going to be my safety and our children’s safety—and speaking of children, I’d like at least two with an option for more.”

Quinn’s light laugh dispelled some of my lingering anxiousness. “Well, I want more than two. I was thinking four or six.”

I stiffened and lifted my head to catch his eyes, to gauge whether or not he was serious.

He was serious.

“Four or six?”

“I like even numbers. Growing up it was always Shelly and me against Des. This way our kids can pair off to torture each other in teams.”

“Hmm….” My mouth twisted to the side as I considered this. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure. But for now, I think your plan—two then reevaluate after we have them—makes a lot of sense. And I’d like to wait a few years before we start our family.”

“How many?”

“Three or four, but start before you turn thirty.”

“I can agree to those terms.”

His mouth hooked to the side, and his expression was now the polar opposite of the glacial inferno from just minutes prior. I marveled at how quickly the discussion had escalated, reached volcanic, then subsequently plummeted back to baseline.

“This was our first fight,” I said.

He nodded, his eyes searching my face. “It was.”

“I don’t like fighting with you.”

“I don’t like fighting with you either.”

“Good.” I kissed his chest. “We should try to figure out how to avoid fighting in the future.”

“It’s going to happen. We can’t avoid it completely.”

“I know. But if we can decrease the number of incidences, I think that would be ideal. It seems like the key is to assume the best of each other. To…not assume that the other has malicious intent.”

Quinn dipped his mouth to my neck, bit my jaw, and whispered, “I’ve also heard it helps to only fight while naked.”

“Then we would never fight,” I responded distractedly. “I would just stare at you and drool and you’d win.”

“You’d drool?”

“You know I drool. What do you think those stains are on my pillow? Drool during sleep can be indicative of poor digestion or eating too late, but it can also be saliva manufactured during sex dreams.”

He blinked at me. “Your drool is because of sex dreams? You have sex dreams?”

“Yes, of course…don’t you?”

“Yes!” He responded as though the mere question were a slight against his manhood or a question of his sanity.

“Well, good. It’s normal, you know, to have sex dreams. It’s reported that they’re more common—that is, they occur with more frequency—in men than in women until the age of thirty-one. Then women out-pace men until thirty-eight. Then it’s about even.”

He stared at me for a long moment. I thought about telling him that women’s sex dreams were usually about foreplay and erotic situations, whereas men’s sex dreams typically involved penetration, but decided against it. Maybe I’d share that later.

At length, he sighed as if he was confused and frustrated. He kissed my neck and shoulder, nibbled my ear, then pulled away. Setting me away with obvious reluctance, he released another heavy sigh. “What were the other things?”

“Other things?”

“Yes. The other things, when I came in. Because I really want to spend several hours tonight giving you material for future sex dreams, and I don’t want you distracted or suddenly asking my opinion on ferns.”

I blinked at his bare chest dumbly for ten seconds; I was having difficulty seeing anything other than the hard ridges of his stomach framed by the V of his hips. This of course made me think about touching him, which made me think about him touching me, which made me think about having sex, which finally made me remember the other things. “Oh, yeah…the other things.”

He reached for the buckle of his belt, and I backed up two steps, crossing my arms in order to keep my hands to myself.

“So…?”

“Well, one of them was, uh….” I bit the inside of my lip, debated which topic to tackle. “About the private clients. I don’t feel like the conversation we started in London was resolved. I’d like to have a better understanding of that side of the business.”

Quinn pulled his belt from the loops of his pants and placed it on the dresser behind me, his expression thoughtful.

The he said, “I’m done with it—done with them. They’re not going to be a part of our lives moving forward.”

“So there is no chance they’ll impact us at all?”

He studied me, his jaw ticking, but his expression was a mask, revealing nothing of his thoughts. At last, he said, “You already know. Everything else is details—who they are, logs of activity, bank account transactions. Knowing the details isn’t going to give you any additional information about the workings of that side of the business.”

“I’d like to know the details, and I’d like to make that decision for myself.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

His frown intensified, and his eyes lost focus as he moved them to some point over my shoulder. “Let me…let me think about it.”

“Can I ask what that means?”

Quinn tilted his head to the side and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “If you really want to see the details, I think what I’m going to do is pull a few files, show you some examples, and review the decisions made for each. I believe this approach will answer your questions without placing you in…in an uncomfortable position. I just ask one thing in return.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“I don’t want you having contact with these people. You can look through the files, but you aren’t to speak to any of them. And if you have any questions, you have to promise to ask me—not Carlos, not Steven, not Dan—only me.”

I quickly considered this request and decided it seemed more than fair. “Ok. I reserve the right to request more information later. For now, I can agree to those terms.”

His small smile was wry. “That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”

“We’re discussing terms, aren’t we? And I have three more issues to discuss.”

“Go ahead.” Quinn unbuttoned his pants then regained the two steps I’d retreated and lifted my sweater over my head.

Obligingly, I raised my arms. “I want to meet your parents.”

His hands reached for my shirt, but stalled for a beat when I spoke. His eyes didn’t lift to mine when he said, “I haven’t spoken to my parents in a long time.” I recognized that his voice was carefully emotionless; it made my heart hurt.

“That’s true. But you’re getting married now. We’ll be starting a family in a few years. They’ll have biological grandchildren, assuming neither of us has any fertility issues. I think about my upbringing, what I wish were different. I didn’t really have a mother; not really. And the stories you tell about your family, about growing up—your memories are good ones.”

Quinn seemed to be looking at me sideways, like he was bracing himself, as he admitted quietly, “I do have good memories. They were good parents.”

“See? Maybe a little part of this is that I’d like to have someone in my life in that role, especially if we’re going to have kids. I have my dad, but he’s…he’s never been present or very interested. I know it might not make sense, but having a mother seems like it would be nice. I think it would be a good idea to at least make an attempt, extend an olive branch, but not an actual olive branch. Maybe a jar of olives. In Greek mythology as well as early Christianity, the olive branch symbolizes peace and tribute.”

He seemed torn, undecided.

I placed my hands on his hips, my fingers dipping into the grey band of his black boxers. “I could always call them if you…if it’s too difficult or you don’t have time.”

He nodded once. It was a non-committal nod, and I recognized that I wasn’t going to get a definitive yes or no.

“What are the other two things?” He began unbuttoning my shirt.

“I…uh…it’s about your riding the motorcycle.”

His eyes flickered to mine then back to where his hands were working on my buttons. “What about it?”

“I realize that you like riding your bike, and I’m going to have to be ok with that. The only thing I ask is that you wear a helmet, all the time, no exceptions.”

“Makes sense. Fine. Deal.” He was down to the last three buttons.

The backs of his knuckles were brushing against the skin of my abdomen, sending lovely ripples to my chest, up my neck, to my fingertips, and down into my belly. My ability to concentrate was waning, as was my desire to bring up the last item on my list.