Imogene Scott

The morning sun streams through the bedroom window. Despite the late hour—it’s already 8:30—I continue to lie in bed with my eyes closed. I need to get my head together, to make sure memories of the night are real and not dreams.

“Hey, lazy bones.”

Damien’s voice resolves the confusion. I open my eyes. Dressed in only his boxer shorts, he stands beside the bed, two cups of coffee in his hands.

“You want a cup of coffee?”

I quickly hand-brush my hair, prop my pillow behind me, sit up, and pull the sheet over my breasts.

“You look great,” Damien says, as though he’d read my mind....