I grab Nicholas and pull him close, holding on tight. I bury my face in his hair and close my eyes, a thousand words of grat.i.tude spilling through me like a rainbow.

Dean pushes the board over the opening behind him and gets to his feet, holding out his arms. I move closer so he can embrace Nicholas. Dean meets my gaze over the top of our son's head, the last remnants of panic fading from his expression. We walk back to the house and spend the next half hour getting Nicholas cleaned up and ensuring he isn't hurt.

When I return to the kitchen, I'm still shaking. The pot on the stove is boiling over, drops of water hitting the burner with a sizzle. I turn it off and push the pot aside.

"You okay?" Dean comes up behind me and settles his hands on my shoulders.

I nod, even though everything inside me is shouting, "No! No, I'm not okay! I left my two-year-old son alone, for G.o.d's sake. Alone. I wasn't paying attention. Anything could have happened to him. Anything."

I inhale a ragged breath and concentrate on the weight of my husband's hands on my shoulders, like he's securing me to the earth.

"Nothing happened," Dean says gently. "He's fine."

This time.

The ominous warning blisters in my head. You hear stories all the time of children who escape their caregivers and end up hurt, or parents who get distracted by something for just a few minutes, and then- Guilt scorches my chest.

"Liv, it wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was my fault." The words break like gla.s.s in my mouth. "It was my watch. Whose fault was it, if not mine?"

Dean doesn't respond, but pulls me toward him and kisses me. Then he goes to read a picture book Nicholas is holding out.

The black thought of what might have happened hovers over me like a cloud as I finish getting dinner ready. It makes no sense to blame myself for things that didn't happen to my son. But good sense has nothing to do with the guilt and fear that gnaw at me for the rest of the evening.

Long after Dean and Nicholas have gone to bed, I sit on the sofa and look out the picture window at the garden enshrouded in darkness. In addition to the self-blame, I'm upset by the fact that Nicholas found a hiding place in our own home I didn't even know existed. What if this had happened out in the park or playground, or a place that was totally unfamiliar to me? I wouldn't even know where to begin looking.

Slowly I make my way upstairs and crawl into bed beside my husband. I huddle up against Dean's warm, strong body, which moves in the steady rhythm of sleep. Everything about him has always made me feel so safe, but a feeling of safety is no guarantee of anything.

Our home aside, what if I'd lost track of Nicholas tomorrow night, when Dean is gone, rather than tonight? What if Dean hadn't been here? I might not have heard the noise from under the porch, and certainly I wouldn't have known to even look there. Or what if I hadn't noticed Nicholas was missing until...

I shove the oil-black thoughts aside. I'd once told Dean to stop thinking what if and to focus on what is. I only wish I could take my own advice.

I press my body closer to his and rest my hand over his heart, which beats ceaselessly against my palm. Despite our ups and downs, I know to my bones this man, at least, always is.

CHAPTER NINE.

OLIVIA.

I'm reluctant to be apart from Nicholas after Dean leaves again. It's irrational, I know, and my reluctance only seems to intensify Nicholas's clinginess, but it's also part of the overall unsteadiness I've experienced ever since Dean told me about the new job opportunity. Ever since I started thinking it would be perfect for him.

Not for us, but for him.

I have to disentangle myself from my crying son when I leave him at daycare-a process that brings a lump to my throat and elicits sympathetic murmurs from Christine as she gently separates Nicholas from me.

Just a phase, I tell myself as I drive to the cafe. Remember, there will come a time when he won't want you around. A time when he'll go off to college with a "Bye Mom," and a quick hug.

I exchange a few texts with Dean during my shift, which makes me feel better, and Christine sends me a few pictures of Nicholas happily playing with some of the other kids.

Still, deciding more time together is a good thing, I pick Nicholas up early from daycare and take him to the children's museum for a couple of hours, then to the Boxcar Deli for dinner.

As we settle into a booth, I hear a woman say my name. I look up to see Jessica Burke approaching. We greet each other, and she ruffles Nicholas's hair.

"Can you join us?" I ask her, gesturing to the seat opposite me.

"I'm meeting a friend, but I'm early so I can sit for a few minutes," she says, sliding into the booth.

"Any word on possible jobs in the area?" I ask.

"No." She sighs and gives me a rueful smile. "I applied for a visiting professorship in Indiana, so we'll see what happens. How is Dean's trip going?"

"Fine, from what he tells me." I hesitate, then figure she can probably give me a good perspective on this whole a.s.sistant director position. "What's your take on the WHC job opening?"

"It's fantastic, and a great opportunity for Dean," she says, accepting a gla.s.s of water from a pa.s.sing server. "He'd have a ton of influence if he were offered and accepted it. He might even be able to get the Youth Experts program started again."

"What's the Youth Experts program?"

"It was started as a program for students around the world to get involved with conservation issues," Jessica explains. "Dozens of students have been interested, but the program hasn't had a leader so it's been something of a disorganized mess."

"And Dean could fix that?"

The answer is obvious, of course. Dean can fix anything.

"Yeah, definitely," Jessica says, shooting Nicholas a smile as he offers her a s...o...b..ry goldfish cracker. "If he were a.s.sistant director, he could totally allocate funds and hire someone to organize the Youth Experts program. It would make a huge difference to so many young people, since they're the ones who will one day be in charge of the sites."

I'm certain if Dean had the power to hire a leader of the Youth Experts program, that person would be Jessica Burke. And with her looking for a job right now...

She waves at a curly-haired young man who enters the deli.

"Sorry, Liv, I gotta go." Jessica slides out of the booth. "Let's have coffee soon, or let me know if you need a babysitter for the cutie over here."

"I will, thanks."

We say goodbye, and I turn back to the menu. Knowing that Dean taking the job could also lead to a prominent position for Jessica and opportunities for students around the world is an unexpected thorn in my side.

I shake my head to dislodge the dreaded sense that I could be the one preventing so many opportunities for others because I don't want anything to change.

I pull a few coloring books out of my bag and turn my attention to Nicholas. Most of the time, I love being alone with Nicholas, except this time I feel Dean's absence more acutely than I have before. With his new responsibilities over the past couple of years, I've gotten used to him being away, but only now do I realize I don't like being used to a separation from my husband.

Later that night, after Nicholas is asleep, I call Dean. His phone goes to voicemail.

"Hi, it's me," I say. "Just wanted to see how things are going. I'm about to go to bed, so I'll try you again tomorrow."

As I end the call, I remember when he first went to Italy a few years ago. For the two months he was in Altopascio, we had a standing phone date every night at ten sharp. Not once did either of us miss our nightly calls.

I slide into bed, rolling over to press my face into Dean's pillow, which I still often do when he's not here. The faint scent of his shaving soap clings to the cotton.

I inhale deeply and imagine the two of us closing the door of a hotel room and turning toward each other. Shutting the rest of the world out, the way we used to do so often, even in the early part of our relationship when we were utterly captivated by each other.

I still remember those days so clearly. I woke one morning alone in Dean's bed, absorbing the warmth still lacing the sheets, the lingering smell of l.u.s.t. I listened to the sound of the shower and imagined Dean naked under the hot spray, soap sluicing over his muscular body... heat coiled through me as I reached for my robe.

After tugging it on, I went to use the guest bathroom. When I returned, the main bathroom door was half open. Dean was standing at the sink, getting ready to shave, a towel wrapped around his waist. Fragrant steam coated the bathroom and fogged the mirror. I paused in the doorway, allowing my gaze to travel over the contours of his bare shoulders and chest still damp from the shower.

He was such a beautiful man. A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the previous night when I had traced the slopes of his pectoral muscles, his rigid torso, following that line of hair down to...

"Keep looking at me like that," Dean said, "and I'll have you on this counter in two seconds."

"Promises, promises." I leaned my shoulder against the doorjamb and continued to watch him.

I had never seen a man shave before. I'd lived my childhood with my mother, and despite her numerous men I'd never become accustomed to their rituals or behaviors. I'd spent so much of my time trying to hide from them that they'd been like alien creatures-vaguely menacing and fearsome.

Dean was the one who proved I had nothing to fear, not from him. He was all warmth, heat, and tenderness.

"How often do you shave?" I asked.

"Once a day at least. Twice if I'm planning to take my lady out." He took a razor out of a drawer and turned on the water faucet.

"You don't use an electric razor?" I asked.

"Not a close enough shave." He rubbed his whiskery jaw. "Prefer it the old-fashioned way. Soap, not cream, and a good double-edge razor."

"Soap?"

"With a brush." He extended a small bowl with a disk of soap and a shaving brush.

I took them both and swirled the brush into the soap, creating a frothy lather. The spicy scent rose to my nose, filling me with memories of that scent clinging to Dean's skin.

"Can I put it on you?" I asked.

"Sure."

I stepped closer and reached up to slide the brush over his jaw. Before I could, he took hold of my waist and lifted me onto the counter beside the sink. My heart thumped at our nearness. Dean slid his hands to my thighs, the heat of his palms burning through my cotton bathrobe. He pushed my knees apart so he could move into the juncture of my thighs.

"I thought you wanted to shave." I was close enough now that I could see the water still beading on his chest and shoulders.

"I do." He took hold of my hand and lifted the brush toward his face. "But I did say I would have you on the counter."

My breath caught in my throat as I stroked the soap-covered brush over his cheek and down to the underside of his chin. I swirled the brush into the soap again and covered the other side of his face and around his mouth. With my finger, I wiped away the excess soap from his lips. By the time I was finished, my pulse was pounding.

Dean reached beside me and picked up the razor. I eased to the side so he could see himself in the mirror. He took my hand again and closed my fingers around the razor handle.

"Dean, I can't..."

"I trust you," he said.

I looked at him for a moment, struck by the intense light in his eyes. It had taken me a long time to realize trust didn't come any more easily to him than it did to me. But every time we were together, it felt like an undeniable acknowledgment we'd both crossed that barrier. I knew everything we did together, every act in which we engaged, would serve to either strengthen our trust in each other or prove that it was warranted.

Dean brought the razor to his face, his hand still clasped around mine. "Sideburns first. Downward stroke."

I smothered the worry about nicking him as I positioned the razor and drew it downward. It was a rather thrilling sensation to slide the sharp blade over his face, whisking away the lather and stubble and leaving a smooth patch of skin.

Dean took his hand from mine. I rinsed the razor and lifted it to his jaw again, using my other hand to pull his skin taut before I positioned the blade.

"Okay?" I whispered.

He nodded, his gaze on my face as I stroked the razor down to his cheek. The air between us was still fragrant and steamy from the shower. I rinsed the razor between each stroke, shaving each of his sideburns, then his cheeks, wiping away traces of soap with a towel.

Beneath my thick robe, my skin was getting damp as I became increasingly aware of Dean's body between my legs, the movement of his breath, the heat of his skin. I adjusted my legs around his hips and turned to rinse the razor again. As I did, I felt his finger trail down the open V of my robe.

"Dean, I'm holding a sharp blade," I reminded him, trying to ignore the tickling sensation of his finger over my skin.

"Mmm. Now you're not only s.e.xy, but dangerous too."

I shot him a look from beneath my lashes. "If you want me to finish this, you can't touch me until I'm done. It's not safe."

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. I lathered up the brush again and swept it across his neck. He lifted his chin so I could reach underneath. My hand trembled as I eased the razor over his throat. Slowly I sc.r.a.ped the coa.r.s.e stubble away. He didn't touch me, but he shifted his hips closer, and the ridge of his erection brushed my inner thigh.

A few traces of soap lined his neck. I wiped them away with my fingers before setting the razor aside. I studied his face, ensuring I hadn't left any patches of roughness. He looked gorgeous with his face clean-shaven and his hair still damp, the delicious scent of soap rising from his hot skin.

"Okay." My heart was thumping slow and heavy. "You're done."

Dean slipped his hand beneath my chin, lifting my face toward his.

"I was done the second I first saw you," he murmured the instant before his lips touched mine.

With a sigh of pleasure, I parted my legs as he deepened the kiss, one hand moving to the nape of my neck. I loved how he gently angled my head, as if he were intent on fitting me against him exactly right and locking our mouths together without a seam. I parted my lips to let him in, heat unspooling inside me as his tongue probed deeper. He slid his hands to the front of my robe and tugged at the lapels.

"You'd better be naked under here," he warned against my lips.

My pulse throbbed. "I... I have panties on."

"Not for long, you won't."

A moan of l.u.s.t escaped me as he opened my robe and slipped his hands inside to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His chest rumbled with a groan. He lifted my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, cupped them in his palms, and rubbed his thumbs across my nipples.

I squirmed, aching for him to touch me between my legs. Dean lifted his head and stepped back, pushing the robe off my shoulders. Still loosely belted, it fell around my waist and left me naked from the waist up.

A flush rose to my cheeks as Dean raked his hot gaze over me, lingering on the stiff peaks of my nipples. He reached for the shaving brush again and swirled it into the soap, then brought it to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I drew in a breath when the soft, warm bristles touched my nipple. A shiver rocked through me. I watched, mesmerized, as he ran the brush over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, painting them with lather, the white foam slick and shiny against my damp skin.