He gestures to a couple of guys who are unpacking boxes from the truck and tells them to take care of things for a while. We get two iced coffees and find a place to sit away from the crowd.

"I've thought about you a lot," I tell him. "Wanted to email or write, but I remembered what you said."

"Yeah. I was glad that you moved on." North tugs at the braid in his beard. "So tell me now."

I tell him everything I did after I left Twelve Oaks ten years ago. Community college, working retail, transferring to the University of Wisconsin. Library sciences, literature, Jitter Beans, Mirror Lake, the Historical Museum. The Wonderland Cafe.

"When I was at the University of Wisconsin, I met a man who teaches medieval history," I say. "He's my husband now."

"He's a good guy?"

"The best." My throat tightens with emotion. "He really knows how to love me."

"Good."

"How's everything here?"

North tells me about the seed business, the changes in the commune, the people who have come and gone, their new expansion into making furniture and hammocks.

By the time we're finished talking, the sun has started its descent and several of the farmer's market vendors are packing up their stuff.

"You want to stay?" North asks.

Part of me does. I'd love to spend a few nights back at Twelve Oaks, enjoying the salty air, wandering the gardens, joining the group for dinner and the nightly campfire.

But I shake my head. "I booked a hotel room a few blocks from the beach."

"What are you in town for?"

"To see you."

"You came back just to see me?"

"You did so much for me, North. More than I can even explain."

He shakes his head, looking away for an instant before gruffly patting my shoulder. "I didn't do anything, Liv. You did."

"I just wanted to tell you that everything turned out..." My throat closes over. "Everything turned out better than I could have imagined."

"I'm really glad to know that."

We throw our cups into the recycling bin and walk back to the Twelve Oaks tent. I help pack up the remaining vegetables, handmade soaps and lotions, while North and the other guys dismantle the tent.

When the truck is loaded up, I approach North and dig into my pocket. I pull out the necklace he gave me.

"Remember this?"

He takes it in his hand and nods. "Long time ago."

"It helped me a lot. The reminder. It took me a long time to learn it was true, though."

"At least you learned," he says, putting the necklace back in my palm. "Some people never do. Always knew you were a good student."

He pulls open the door of the truck and gestures to the passenger seat. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Thank you, North. For everything."

"Great to see you again, Liv. You know where to find me."

"Always."

I take a step back and lift a hand in farewell. My heart fills with gratitude for this gruff, honest man who pointed me toward a road that led directly to now.

"When are you heading back?" North asks.

"Friday."

"So soon, huh?"

"Yes." I smile at him. "I have a life to live."

A week after my brief trip to California, I drive to the airport again. This time, it's to meet my husband on his return from Italy. Dean had emailed me that he would take a taxi from the airport, but no way am I waiting an extra two hours to see him come home.

For good.

Not "for better" or "for worse."

For good.

Dean's flight is scheduled to get in at six in the evening, and I arrive at the airport an hour early. I find an empty bench at the gate exit and sit down. By the time the plane lands, I'm jittery with excitement.

After what seems like an interminable wait, tired-looking passengers clutching bags and carry-ons begin to disembark. I stand up, searching the crowd. A few minutes later, a tingle ripples over my skin.

He walks past the open doors, my beautiful, dark-haired husband who would stand out in a crowd of Greek gods. He looks incredible in faded jeans and a rugby shirt, his face dusted with rough stubble. His hair is a little longer, curling over his ears, and I'm struck with a visceral memory of seeing him for the first time and experiencing that intense, hot pull of attraction.

I feel that rush again, uncoiling in my blood, but this time-more powerfully-my heart surges with joy and love. Dean doesn't see me as he starts down the stairs, but when he reaches the bottom, he looks up.

His glance passes right over me. He starts to turn toward the baggage claim area.

Then he stops. He turns back, his gaze colliding with mine.

For the first time, I don't run and leap into his arms, although the urge to do so is almost overwhelming. Instead I smile and approach him, holding out my hands.

"Welcome back, love of my life."

He stares at me, stunned, his hands closing warm and strong around mine.

"Liv."

"Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to bring you home."

He's still staring at me. He clears his throat. "You... uh, you cut your hair."

"I did." I turn to show him the back of my short, sleek haircut, which falls just below my ears in gentle waves. "Well, Kelsey's stylist cut it for me. Do you like it?"

"Very Betty Rubble."

I grin and turn back to face him. He still looks faintly dumbfounded. It's kind of cute.

"It'll grow back, professor." I pat his chest. "I promise."

"You're beautiful." Dean finally breaks out of his stupor and untangles one of his hands from mine. He reaches out to curl a lock of my hair around his forefinger, giving it a gentle tug. "As long as I can still do this, I like it."

He moves to grasp my waist and guide me away from the few remaining passengers. We edge behind an advertising display sign before Dean lowers his head to mine. He tucks his hands into my hair, angling my head in the exact right way, and captures my lips with his.

It's a lovely kiss that fills me with pleasure. I spread my hands over his chest, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt, the closeness of him sending shivers clear down to my toes. Our lips fit together seamlessly, that familiar sense of belonging wrapping around us both.

Dean lifts his head, his eyes tender as he spreads his hand gently across my belly.

"How are you?" he asks.

I wind my arms around his neck and rub my cheek against his. "Never better."

After another few stolen kisses, we hurry to get Dean's suitcase from baggage claim and drive home, both of us eager to return to the island of us again.

We spent the next few days settling back into our routine and catching up with each other. One afternoon several days after his return, Dean comes out of his office looking rather stunned.

"I just talked to Frances Hunter," he tells me. "She said she recommended to the board of trustees that I get fast-tracked for tenure."

"Oh, Dean." Happiness and pride flood me. "That's wonderful."

"She also said the chancellor got a call from a man who's interested in donating to the new law school building at King's."

"Not... not Edward Hamilton."

"No." Dean shakes his head. "Justice Richard West from California. Frances wanted to know if I'm related to him."

It's enough to make us both realize that maybe some family bonds really are unbreakable.

And so things settle into place. For the next few weeks, Dean delivers lectures, organizes Jessica Burke's PhD defense, guides his students' research, and is as confident and in control as... well, all those powerful kings of legend. He contacts the real-estate agent Nancy about houses on the market and keeps an eye out for potential properties.

And because my husband is a scholar extraordinaire, he researches every last detail and makes plans for our upcoming parenthood. As he starts lists of everything we'll need for the baby, his vocabulary becomes an amusing mixture of medieval and baby-related terms: Cistercian, onesie, crenellation, binky, scriptorium, exersaucer.

The Words and Images conference is a resounding success, leading to a slate of new offers from universities and institutions trying to lure Dean away from King's. We meet his ex-wife Helen for dinner one night, a nice evening that gives Dean a final sense of closure.

Summer arrives with wild, happy fervor. Sailboats float on Mirror Lake like lily pads, and both tourists and locals crowd the coffeehouses and cafes, including Wonderland. My blissfully normal pregnancy progresses without incident. By the time I ease into my second trimester, my libido kicks back into force, and Dean and I return to the pleasure of our lusty sex life.

And I just love the way my husband loves me. His kisses are like whipped cream melting into hot apple pie, like ripe, red cherries, and dark chocolate swirled with peppermint. I never dreamed that my response to Dean could be even more intense, but one brush of his mouth is enough to flood me with immediate desire. We seek each other out almost every night, both to satisfy our erotic cravings and to immerse ourselves in intimacy.

One evening I find him stretched out on the bed wearing only his boxers and his reading glasses, his forehead furrowed in concentration as he grades papers for his summer lecture course. Just the sight of my handsome professor lights a fire inside me. After a moment of admiring his rumpled hair and muscular chest, I climb onto the bed beside him. He pushes the papers aside and reaches for me with a smile, lust already brewing in his eyes.

The moment Dean's lips touch mine, a warm, scrumptious feeling blooms inside me. He takes my face in his hands, deepening the kiss, tracing the line of my lips. I press my thighs together to ease the ache cascading through my lower body. I open my mouth and surrender to the sweep of his tongue. A moan catches in my throat as I spread my hands over the muscles of his chest.

Though Dean is especially gentle with me these days, his hunger for me burns hotter than ever. He unfastens the buttons of my shirt and pushes it off my shoulders, his eyes filling with both heat and tenderness. My heartbeat quickens as I shrug out of my bra and toss it aside, already desperate for his touch.

I'm rounder everywhere, my waist flaring to wide hips, my belly a distinct swell, my breasts full and sensitive. Dean's breath escapes on a rush of pleasure as he palms my breasts, rubbing his thumbs across my nipples before he bends to capture one between his lips. A shock of lust jolts through me.

With a gasp, I arch against him, my knees weakening as he licks one nipple while rolling and pinching the other between his fingers. His thick hair brushes my bare skin, an exquisite tickling that sensitizes my whole body.

"Now," I whisper, clutching at his shoulders.

He lifts his head, fondling my new curves with a growl of pure appreciation before pulling me against him. Our mouths lock together again, hot and deep. We tumble into the pillows, and I wrap my arms around him, kissing his neck, feeling his hands sliding smoothly across my body.

He takes off my pants and underwear, his gaze intense as he moves away to shed his boxers. I moan at the sight of his thick, stiff cock, so blatant and tempting that my sex tenses with the urge to have him plunge deep inside me.

I part my legs, moving back into a more comfortable position, tightening in readiness for his delicious penetration. He slides his hands to my inner thighs, pushing them apart, his shaft rubbing against my folds in a slick, easy rhythm that makes my blood burn.

I stroke my hands over my body, dipping my fingers into my cleft and back up my rounded belly to my breasts. My nipples are achingly sensitive, and one light twist drives my urgency higher. Dean's chest heaves as he pushes his cock into me slowly, watching the pulsing shaft disappear into my slit, his hands on my spread knees.

Even saturated with lust, he's careful not to lower himself on top of me, which means I have the pleasure of gazing at the gorgeous expanse of his body, the sweat-slick muscles of his shoulders and arms tight with strain, the heated expression on his face.

My body shifts and bounces as his thrusts increase in pace, his shaft filling me repeatedly as I arch my hips to meet every hard entry. We fall into the rhythm together, the rhythm of us, all damp skin, flexing muscles, gripping hands.

When bliss crashes over me, I clutch the bedcovers as Dean presses his fingers against my clit, his deep voice murmuring husky words of pleasure. My body is still vibrating when he moves his hands to my hips and plunges inside me with his own powerful release.

With a groan, he rolls to the side and pulls me closer, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at my temple. I tuck myself against him, absorbing the slow ebbing of sensations.

As my mind clears from the fog of desire, I become aware of a nagging worry that took root during my many hours of researching before-and-after pregnancy issues. I push up to one elbow and look at Dean, who is lying there with his eyes closed, all sweaty, disheveled, and content.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hey, Liv."

"Are you worried about having a baby?"

He opens his eyes. "You mean the labor and delivery?"

"No, I mean..." I twist a corner of the sheet. "Well, last fall you said you didn't want anything to change between us. But of course with a baby, it will. And, you know, things will change sexually..."

Dean shifts to face me. To my surprise, a smile tugs at his mouth.

"Liv, you turn me on like no woman ever has," he says. "You always will. And sure things are going to change, but we'll work it out. Haven't we always worked it out before?"

Have we ever.