The Witness

by Nora Roberts

He was thirty-two years old, and that tone, that look, could still make his balls shrink to marbles.

“What makes you think you’re going to want to stop having sex with me?” She got out two glasses, two small plates, two forks. “The law of averages.” “Oh, that. I defy the law of averages.” “A lot of people believe they do. They don’t.” She poured the wine, studying him as she offered a glass. “I like your nose.” “Abigail, you fucking fascinate me. Why do you like my nose?”

“I’ve never been romantic, not before you. But you make me want moonlight, and wildflowers and whispers in the dark.”