“Thank you for everything. I—I don’t think I could’ve gotten better this fast without you and your help.”

I entwine my fingers through hers. “Yes, you would. You’re doing all the hard work. Not me.”

“You’re doing work too. I see it even if I don’t show it.”

“I know you do.”

She moves her finger over my wedding band. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“I want you to ask me only personal questions.”

“Were you…with someone?”

I almost fall off the bed. Of all the questions she could ask, I’m shocked this is the one she’s asking her first night home.

“With someone?” I repeat.

“Yes. Another girl.”

I look her straight in the eye. “No. Never.”

“Ever?”

“Never. Not once. Not even a kiss.”

“The entire time she—I was gone?”

“Before, during, and after. You’re the only woman I’ve ever made love to or touched in any kind of intimate way. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

Her eyebrows arch up. “So, for all those years, you were alone here in this big house?”

“Yeah. Except for Kenzi.”

“Didn’t you want to start over?”

I’m doing that now.

“No. I only wanted you. Us.”

She looks down at our hands and takes a deep breath. “Some of the nurses at the hospital said someone like you would have hidden women. One of the other patients said you were taking advantage of my memory to lie about affairs. Her husband has a girlfriend.”

“Hidden women? That’s a total lie. I’ve never had a hidden anything. Or any kind of affair. I won’t even pose with women for album art or music videos.”

“Don’t be mad. I just—”

“I’m not mad at you, babe. I’m pissed people would say something like that to you. Especially in a hospital. To someone with amnesia. What the hell were they thinking?”

I feel sick and disgusted. How long has she been thinking about this, wondering if it’s true? No wonder she’s so leery of me all the time.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess most men wouldn’t wait.”

“I’m not most men.”

“I’m learning that,” she says quietly.

Why do people assume a man can’t have patience or live without sex? Is it really so friggin’ bizarre that a man could love his wife so much that he wouldn’t want to touch another woman?

I can’t be the only guy on the damn planet who values commitment when life gets rough, and if I am, that’s pretty twisted and disappointing.

“To me, marriage isn’t for now, it’s forever.”

“Even with us…this way?”

“Especially with us this way.”

Her eyes droop, and her grip on my hand loosens as exhaustion pulls her in.

I raise her hand to my lips for a moment, and she watches me with drowsy eyes.

“You should go to sleep,” I whisper. “We can talk about all this tomorrow.”

She tugs my hand as I move to climb off the bed. “Asher? Will you play the songs for me while I fall asleep? I feel a little scared here.”

Hope blasts through me.

“I’d love to. I’ll go grab a guitar.”

I trot down the hall to the master bedroom to grab my acoustic. When I return to her room, she’s under the covers. The television and lights are off except for a small, dim lamp on her nightstand.

Being in a dark bedroom with her is a torturous vortex of temptation and emotion, but eclipsing all those thoughts is the most important one of all: she trusts me enough to be alone with me.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I play her favorite songs, singing softly. She turns on her side and watches me, her eyes fluttering closed and then straining open again.

She’s fighting to stay awake. Why? To watch me play?

I can only hope.

For over an hour, I play and sing, not sure if she’s fallen asleep or just stopped struggling to keep her eyes open. Not that it matters. All that matters to me is that we’re together, and every moment together is a step toward the future I want us to have…and hopefully she does too.

When my leg starts to cramp, I ease off the bed and creep toward the door as quietly as I can so I don’t wake her.

“Don’t go.”

Her voice—her words—stop me, and I turn back toward the bed.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper, putting the guitar down near the door.

“Stay next to me?” The quiver in her voice completely shatters me as I edge back toward the bed.

“Do you want me to stay with you while you sleep?”

She nods, and I’m on cloud nine as I lie next to her, grabbing a throw blanket from the foot of the bed to cover myself. Being under the same covers with her, bodies almost touching, seems too intimate. We’re not there yet.

“It’s so quiet here,” she says. “I feel alone.”

It didn’t occur to me that she’d be so used to the nightly noise and activity of the hospital that being here might seem too still.