Perfect Strangers

It wasn’t until her girlfriend nudged her with a laugh that Olivia realized she and the handsome stranger had been gazing at each other, mesmerized, for quite some time.

Every love story has a beginning. That was theirs. One look, one locked gaze, and they were both done for.

Until that magical moment, she didn’t believe love at first sight existed. She didn’t believe in soul mates, or happily-ever-afters, or something as idealistic as true love.

Because it’s childish to believe in a fairy-tales…until suddenly you’re starring in one.

With a wink and a chuckle, her husband would later tell people who asked how they’d met that Olivia had thrown herself at him. The reality was the opposite. After the end of brunch when she and her girlfriends were leaving, the handsome stranger followed her out to the valet stand where she was waiting for her car. As Olivia’s astonished girlfriends looked on, he boldly asked her on a date—before even asking her name or introducing himself.

Actually, he didn’t ask. He demanded. “Go on a date with me,” were his exact words.

Because…bossy.

When she replied that she didn’t date strange men, he had a quick answer. “I’m not strange. Unless you like that, in which case I definitely am.”

He grinned. She laughed.

They moved in together two weeks later.

In all the years since, they haven’t spent a single night apart.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Olivia’s voice echoes in the empty foyer of their 1920s Craftsman, which they’ve been renovating since they moved in. It’s an endless project: as soon as one thing is fixed, another falls apart. But she loves it in the way one loves an old friend, all its eccentricities only adding to its charm.

“In here!”

She follows the faint sound of James’s voice past the living room and kitchen toward the back of the house. She should’ve known he’d still be in his studio. He usually doesn’t emerge until it’s time for dinner. Pausing outside the closed door of attached garage they converted to a work space, she lightly knocks then pops her head in.

James has his back to the door. In paint-splattered jeans, bare feet, and no shirt, he stands gazing at his work in progress, a canvas that stretches the entire length of the room and nearly to the ceiling. It’s a gorgeous abstract splash of colors, but in terms of sheer beauty, it’s no match for him.

His bare back is a masterpiece. And his ass…

James turns his head and looks at his wife over his shoulder. “That was a big sigh. Your meeting with Estelle go okay?”

She smiles. “The meeting went great. And I won’t tell you what the sigh was about, because I don’t need your ego getting any bigger than it already is.”

He grins, flashing a dimple in his cheek. “Yeah, I know. I’m irresistible. Get your butt over here and give me my kiss.”

Pretending to be stern, Olivia walks a few feet into the room and crosses her arms over her chest. “Excuse me, Romeo, but I’m not a dog. I don’t obey on command.”

James turns, sets his paintbrush on his messy work table, wipes his hands on a rag, and strolls toward her. His grin grows wider. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief. Reaching her, he takes her into his arms.

“No, you’re definitely not a dog, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. His voice drops and his eyes start to burn. “But we both know you do obey on command.”

She winds her arms around his shoulders and tries hard to keep the smile off her face. “Only in bed. Which we’re not currently in. So quit bossing me around and use your manners.”

He acts confused. “Manners? Not familiar with the word.”

He kisses her again, deeper this time, threading his fingers into the mass of her dark hair. When he breaks away several moments later, they’re both breathing harder. He murmurs, “And anything can be a bed. That couch, for instance. The armchair in the corner. The floor.”

Though they’ve made love on every piece of furniture in the room, the floor is a brand new suggestion. Her laugh is husky. “I’m way too old to be having sex on a floor, thank you very much. I could hurt myself. Break a hip. Bruise the peach.”

James takes a big handful of her ass and squeezes. “Guess we’ll have to find you a mattress, then, you geezer.”

In a swift, practiced movement, he bends and lifts her into his arms.

Laughing, Olivia clings to his shoulders as he strides out of the garage and into the house. “Wow, somebody ate their Wheaties this morning!”

“I missed you,” he says, heading for the bedroom.

“Missed me? I was gone for four hours! By the way, Estelle thinks I should name your character Brock.”

James sends her a horrified look. “Brock? Jesus. Is this new book of yours about a gay porn star?”

“No. Guess what I made you.”

On mutual agreement, James doesn’t read any of her books. If she’d write a novel that didn’t feature some version of him as the main character, he might, but unlike her ex-husband, he finds the idea of reading about himself too weird.

Gargantuan ego notwithstanding, he’s actually quite modest.