I picked up the booklet and dog-eared the page I’d been reading, setting the thing aside. “It’s very interesting. I’m discovering all your sordid secrets. Your pink poodle fetish, for instance.”

He busted out one of his signature cocky grins. “Just you wait.” He approached, sinking down onto the ottoman across from me.

I eyed his bare legs. “You better put some clothes on, or our neighbors will be pulling out the binoculars. Trish Sinclair did inform me that you are very easy on the eyes.”

He laughed. “I’m sure I look particularly fetching right now.” He ran his hand through his respectably thick beard. God, it was a disgrace to cover up that face, but it wasn’t like I could demand he shave every day while he was sick.

“You hungry? Chef left you some dinner. I’ll warm it up.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “In a few minutes. I’ll get it.”

I stretched my legs out straight, settling my feet gently in his lap. He took one in his strong hands and gently massaged the arch. Shocks of awareness zinged up my legs from that simple touch.

“You seem quiet,” he said, sending me one of his careful looks under his thick, dark eyelashes.

I reclined, enjoying his touch even though it had aroused me in seconds. Of course, these days, going without, I got aroused from passing him in the hallway, from smelling him. It didn’t help that he was so goddamn sexy all the time. And that beard held no small appeal. It was driving me half to distraction—especially when he wore his glasses. An…interesting look for him.

Relaxing in my chair, I sighed. “Mm. That feels good. And I’m quiet because I don’t have much to say. There’s a lot to take in. I didn’t realize that getting married was going to remind me of studying for the MCAT all over again.”

His brow twitched. It had been a joke, of course, but as always, Adam picked up on every tiny subtlety—in the tone of voice, body language…

Should I tell him about my concerns or give it a pass? He’d fought like a dragon from his game to prevent me from having to do this. He’d put everything on the line. I didn’t want to confirm that his fears had been right. That I wasn’t ready to face this after all.

“You need to eat,” I declared, changing the subject. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’ve still got these to tempt you with.” He grinned, flexing his biceps.

“I’m already a puddle of lust due to the outfit you’re wearing. Boxer briefs and t-shirt. Man lingerie. Mangerie?”

He chuckled, but his eyes returned to the booklet. “I’ll go eat in a minute. Come with? We can talk about all that if you want.”

I worried my lip, but nodded, getting up. Adam disappeared into his closet and came out in a clean shirt and pair of sweat pants. I gave him a smooch on his hairy cheek.

“I’m proud of how you’re handling this no-work challenge,” I told him.

He shrugged. “I still don’t really feel well enough, to be honest. And…I’ve been philosophical about it. Thinking about why it happened and what you said when I was diagnosed. That it was my body’s way of telling me to slow down. I mean…it could have been a lot worse than mono. It’s been a challenge to remember that work-life balance thing.”

“Of course. You’re a natural-born overachiever.” I smirked, holding up the thick disclosure document as we made our way down the stairs to the kitchen.

I pulled the tray that Chef had prepared for him out of the fridge and followed her directions for reheating. He flipped through the document that I’d left on the counter near where he sat.

“You took a lot of notes,” he murmured as I set his plate down in front of him and went to pour him some ice water to drink with dinner.

“Well, I figure you can’t be the only overachiever in the family. I’m going to have to run to keep up with you. That’s the realization I came to today as I was poring over that.”

“Well, it takes one to know one.”

I shook my head, laughing. “You’re no average overachiever, Adam Drake. You’re in, like, the one percent of overachievers. I mean…I don’t even understand half the stuff in that portfolio. Those notes you saw are stuff I had to Google on my phone to figure out what was being listed—the mutual funds, the venture capital shares, the vested funds, the charitable institutions, the licenses, the NPOs. It’s endless. No wonder I hardly ever see you.”

He shook his head. “Most of that stuff takes care of itself. I don’t deal with it on a daily or even a monthly basis. That’s all stuff for the financial managers and whatnot. Did you…did you get a chance to go over the contract?”

I nodded grimly. “Yeah, I have objections there.”

His brows knitted, and he appeared disappointed. “Really? Well, we can rework it however you need.”

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the counter in front of him. “Good, because there’s no mention whatsoever of a free lifetime subscription to DE in the event of a divorce. I might someday have to learn to live without you, but I’m not going to live without DE.”

His jaw dropped before he started laughing. “Ahhh, I think I can work that out.”

I nodded. “And sex?”

He raised his eyebrow, but didn’t speak as he slowly took in a forkful of herbed mashed potatoes.

“Guaranteed number of orgasms per week?”

He choked on his food. I pushed the glass of water forward so he could reach it easier. Once he was through coughing, he sucked down a gulp and replaced the glass, watching me with narrowed eyes.

“I didn’t think you could put that kind of stuff in there.”

I waggled my eyebrows at him. “You can put anything in those. Another factoid I learned from Professor Google today.”

He took another bite and then—taking care to swallow first before continuing—he continued, “I’m going to make sure I ask this with a clear windpipe but…anything else you’d like to add?”

I rested my chin in my hands and stared off into space, thinking. “Workweek hours limitation. Definitely.”

His expression turned skeptical.

“No more than forty-five hours a week, I think? Sixty under special circumstances.”

“Jesus. I hope you’re kidding. And how would I even prove special circumstances?”