A normal conversation that would take minutes at home over morning coffee or a wee spot of pillow talk could span a day or more.

 

Me: I’ve been thinking about pet names. When we’re married, we should have pet names for each other.

Him: What? Really? Like Honey Boo?

Me: Not that one.

 

And his mobile phone, the instrument with which he conducted business constantly, the device that often distracted him in my presence, became the very vehicle he’d use across the miles to flirt with and tease me.

The irony was not lost on me.

 

Him: Wifey? Little woman?

Me: Only if you want me to remove your man parts. Painfully.

Him: Ouch. Okay… Your Majesty? Love Bug? Sweet Bumps?

Me: Sweet Bumps? For real?

Him: Okay, maybe not. But they -are- sweet. Your bumps, I mean.

Me: Definitely not Sweet Bumps.

 

To accept this man into my life, to love this man, was to take him in with his flaws and foibles as well as those qualities that made him the closest match to perfect for me. So, with no other choice, I turned my enemy—his phone—into my ally.

I sent him a headless shot of those very sweet bumps he’d been extolling.

He reprimanded me, as he usually did, whenever I sent him a naughty photo.

“Security lapses, blah blah. Not safe. Blah blah.”

My fiancé was a computer nerd. I’d take the risks because if I wasn’t safe sending him dirty pictures, who was safe?

His answer—predictably—was no one.

He got back to the subject at hand a few hours later when I was in class.

 

Him: How about I call you Goddess?

Me: Getting warmer.

Him: What will you call me? I suggest Iron Man. I would answer to Iron Man.

Me: Hmmm…

Him: Or RoboCock.

 

My mouth was full of tea when that text chimed on my phone, hours later, during my study time. I almost sprayed the full contents of my mouth all over my phone screen and my open textbook.

Typical Adam. He’d probably sent that in the middle of some boring think tank meeting.

 

Me: Dude, No way am I calling you that.

Him: :( No?

Me: Nope…that one, you’ve got to earn.

Him: That’s what our honeymoon is for.

 

A snappy answer to everything. No wonder we suited each other so well. Which reminded me of another ongoing object of conversation between us. The honeymoon.

 

Me: And we are going…where?

Him: It’s still a surprise.

Me: You and your secrety secrets. You’re sadistic.

Him: I definitely could be. I’m a billionaire with a troubled past. Isn’t that the perfect recipe for sadistic?

 

I almost forgot to take his rolled-up t-shirt out of bed before he returned home. Every day, our housekeeper quietly made up the bed and tucked the shirt underneath my pillow. This made it all ready for cuddling purposes the following night. But damned if I was going to let Adam find it again. He didn’t need any more ammunition to tease me with. He did perfectly fine without it.

That afternoon, when I got home from my virology module lab, I plopped down at my desk and stacked my notebooks on the corner. As I’d done every day since Adam had placed Glen Dempsey’s large manila envelope there, I stared at it, wondering if this was the day I’d finally open it up and see what was inside. Would it hurt to look and see what kind of information my half-brother had gathered for me?

I wouldn’t even have to read the personal letter, would I?

Fingers tapped against the sleek marble desktop. The chair squeaked as I fidgeted in it, speculating for the ten thousandth time about what was in there. What was I afraid of?

Ovary up, Mia. Time to be a big girl.

I sat up straight, snatched the envelope, and tore it open before I could fret for another second. The contents of the envelope made it fairly thick. I pulled them out and laid them in a neat stack beside my textbooks. I immediately took the letter, which lay at the top, and turned it facedown before poring over the rest of the stack in order.

It contained not only Glen’s full medical chart, but also that of my father, Gerard. And there were also notes about my two half-sisters.

Under the law, Glen was free to share his own medical information with me. But how had he gotten Gerard’s? I pondered that question only until I noticed Gerard’s signature on the consent form for release of the medical chart. Glen’s father—our father—must have finally consented to give it to me. What had changed his mind? When Mom had informed him of my cancer, he hadn’t budged.

I frowned, scanning through the papers. For his age of sixty, Gerard was a fairly healthy man, with some history of diabetes and heart disease from his father’s side of the family.

When I got to the bottom of the stack, I was stunned to see the results of full genetic testing on Glen—and that of his sisters—along with handwritten notes about what came from their mother and what from their father.

It was a massive amount of information that had probably taken him a great deal of time to collect, collate, and annotate. I knew Gerard’s hadn’t put this information was in my hands.

I was absorbing it all, tapping the stack of papers idly with the eraser tip of my pencil, when I heard the front door open and close downstairs. I set the papers down, laying them carefully so that I wouldn’t lose my place. Then I sprang out of my chair.

Adam took the stairs at his normal breakneck speed, two at a time, and I met him in the hallway outside our bedroom. He dropped his luggage and pulled me into his arms.

“Sweet Bumps,” he said after a long, lingering kiss.

I lost it, laughing. “Don’t even start with me, Drake.”

“I made you laugh, didn’t I?” He scanned my face, as if taking in every inch for the very first time—from my forehead to my chin, from my left ear to my right. I pulled him into another fierce kiss. God. I’d missed him. “And she rewards me with another kiss. It’s good to be the king.”

“I thought you were Iron Man?”

“You can call me anything you want, just don’t call me late to bed—or dinner.”

I grinned—I couldn’t help it. Adam had discovered the secret to keeping me head over heels in love—make me laugh every single day. “Speaking of which, Chef left dinner in the oven. You hungry?”