Joanne woke to a scene so still, so quietly golden, that for a second she thought she might still be dreaming.
The vast bedroom was hushed, save for the soft rustle of distant trees and the faint chorus of birdsong rising with the morning light. A thin blade of sunshine slipped through the gap between the heavy drapes, casting a warm stripe across the cool marble floor. It carried with it the crisp, clean scent of late winter—earthy and new, like the beginning of something.
But none of that made her heart skip.
What stole her breath was the man beside her.
Jeffrey sat quietly at the edge of the bed, leaning on one arm, his broad shoulders relaxed and bare. He had shielded her eyes from the sun with the gentle canopy of his hand—his fingers, warm and familiar, casting a soft shadow across her face. That simple gesture, tender and instinctive, was what woke her.
