body, as though he’s waiting to dive into action and defend his boss. At last, I turn my gaze back to my husband who’s still holding the pen in his hand. I take him in again. His dark hair is swept back off his forehead, his eyebrows a sharp slash over eyes that bore into me. A chill dashes across me at their intensity, and I could almost lose myself staring into them. They’re the color of my father’s favorite cognac. Despite the ferocity he displayed only moments ago, they seem almost gentle now. In a move that surprises me, I reach out and take the pen. Our hands brush. Before I change my
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