Water drummed against Xavier's skin, the heat searing away the remnants of sleep. His thoughts churned as he thought of Cathleen’s cooking. She was creative and good at it. The thought of her butternut soup made him hasten his movements in the shower. With swift efficiency, he dried off, dressed in tailored attire, and descended the staircase with purpose.

As he reached the bottom, his gaze cut through the morning light toward Olivia. Draped across an armchair, she was a disheveled vision of lace—yesterday's lingerie clinging to her like a second skin. His frown was immediate, a silent condemnation. She might as well have hoisted a flag, declaring war on...