He clicked on New and typed in Nora’s email address. Of course she would have an address with “littleredridingcrop” in it. Ludicrous as it was, at least it made it easy to remember.

Nora, he wrote and stopped. Why was he writing her? They’d discussed her book for hours today. There was no more to talk about for now. And considering they already had a reputation for working too closely together, he knew he didn’t need to be writing her about anything but the book. What would he say if he did write her? He had those words, those sentences. But they had tumbled about in his head so much since meeting her that they had crashed against each other, against him, and broken into fragments.

Nora, I don’t want to I won’t it’s been so bloody long I can’t I think of you of her too much I still love but I I hurt her Grace Now it’s hell worse Limbo I hurt too young too much…

Zach deleted it all, even Nora’s address. He knew better than this, knew better than to get involved. He would not make this mistake again. She would not pull him off course.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was gone in five weeks. Off to L.A. where he could start over again and perhaps get it right this time. But did he want to start over? At forty-two a new life seemed a far more terrifying prospect than it had at thirty-two when he and Grace married and moved to London.

The blank email sat waiting before him. He looked down at his fingers poised above the keyboard. Was it the words that failed him or his hands? They felt too heavy now. It made no sense. Without the weight of his wedding ring they should have been lighter.

The screen still waited, the cursor winking at him like an eye.

Zach typed in another address.

Gracie, he wrote, using the nickname that never failed to make her smile. Please talk to me.

* * *

Nora stood at the kitchen window peering into the dark. Sunset came so early in the winter that whole days seemed to pass in darkness. Zach had left her several hours ago, left her with a thousand ideas and admonitions. But now she could only wait and think and gaze at the light falling in from the lamppost outside the kitchen window. It illuminated the tremulous flakes of snow and cast white shadows that gathered round but did not touch her.

She turned toward a sound and saw Wesley standing in the doorway watching her with the same intensity as she watched the snow-lit play between the light and the shadows.

“How long have you been hanging out here in the dark?” Wesley asked, stepping into the lone pool of light.

She sighed at a shadow. “For as long as it’s been dark.”

Wesley reached out to flip the light switch.

“Leave them off.”

Wesley dropped his hand back to his side.

“I didn’t know you could write in the dark.”

Nora gave him only the barest hint of a smile.

“You’d be surprised what I can do in the dark, Wes.”

Wesley grimaced. “Zach know what you do in the dark?”

Nora shook her head.

“No. He thinks I’m just a writer. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“It’s not anything I’ll ever brag about.”

“Wes, you knew what I was when you signed up for this job.”

“And you knew how I felt about it when you asked me to move in.”

Nora took a slow deep breath.

“And yet you moved in anyway. Why is that?” Wesley lifted his chin and only looked at her. “His silence says it all.”

Nora stepped away from the window and took a wineglass from the cabinet.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he came deeper into the dark kitchen.

“If you’re going to pout, I’m going to drink,” she said, pouring herself a steep glass of red wine. “I read somewhere that red wine is good for diabetics. Want one?”

“I’m not pouting. And I don’t drink.”

“There’s a lot you don’t do.”

Nora sat on top of the kitchen table across from him. She watched him, daring him with her eyes to either speak or leave.

“I’ve got homework,” he said.

“Then go.” Nora gestured to the door.

Wesley moved to walk past her. But Nora reached out and stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Or stay,” she said as she took a deliberate sip of her wine before setting the glass down on the table next to her. “Staying is better.” She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled Wesley to her, positioning him between her knees. His face was a blank mask and his eyes would not meet hers.

Nora laid her hand on his stomach, smiling as the taut muscle quivered through his T-shirt.

“Nora, don’t—”

“Søren and I used to play a game on his kitchen table,” Nora said, ignoring the plea in Wesley’s voice. “Did I ever tell you about that?”

“No,” Wesley said, visibly tensing as Nora raised his shirt and slid her hands underneath, pressing her palms into his warm skin. She saw his fingers curl into fists.

“Simple game—he’d fill a wineglass with one of his expensive reds and set it on the edge of the table. Then he would f**k me. Hard.” Nora grinned as Wesley flinched. “If I thrashed too much, or fought him and knocked the glass off…then the wine wasn’t the only red that we spilled that night.”

Wesley closed his eyes as if trying to block out the image.

“The secret is,” Nora said as she raked her fingernails up Wesley’s chest and back down his stomach, “sometimes I’d knock it off on purpose.”