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.
“You need to see an eye doctor.”
He smiles. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes. It’s my back I’m worried about.”
“Why?” I ask, concerned.
“After last night . . . .” He lets the comment hang
