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“I was thinking breakfast, but you can have both.”

Didn’t she look happy, he thought, and rested—and altogether delicious. That shaggy cap of deer-hide hair mussed about her face, those big dark eyes full of fun. The little dent in her chin he adored deepened just a bit when she smiled.

There was something about the moment, he thought, moments like this when they were so much in tune, that struck him as miraculous.

The cop and the criminal—former—he qualified, as bloody normal as Peace Day potato salad.

He studied her over the rim of his cup, through the whiff of fragrant steam. “I’m thinking you should wear that outfit more often. It’s a favorite of mine.”

She angled her head, drank more coffee. “I’m thinking I want a really long shower.”

“Isn’t that handy? I think I want the same.”

She took a last sip. “Then we’d better get started.”

Later, too lazy to dress, she tossed on a robe while Roarke programmed more coffee and full Irish breakfasts for two. It was all so . . . homey, she thought. The morning sun streamed in the windows of the bedroom bigger than the apartment she’d lived in two years before. Two years married next month, she thought. He’d walked into her life, and everything had changed. He’d found her; she’d found him—and all those dark places inside both of them had gotten a little smaller, a little brighter.

“What do you want to do next?” she asked him.

He glanced over as he loaded plates and coffee onto a tray to carry it to the sitting area. “I thought the agenda was nothing.”

“It can be nothing, or it can be something. I picked yesterday, and that was lots of nothing. There’s probably something in the marriage rules about you getting to pick today.”

“Ah yes, the rules.” He set the tray down. “Always a cop.”

Galahad padded over to eye the plates as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Roarke pointed a warning finger at him, so the cat turned his head in disgust and began to wash.

“My pick then, is it?” He cut into his eggs, considering. “Well, let’s think. It’s a lovely day in June.”

“Shit.”

His brow lifted. “You’ve a problem with June, or lovely days?”

“No. Shit. June. Charles and Louise.” Scowling, she chewed bacon. “Wedding. Here.”

“Yes, next Saturday evening, and as far as I know that’s all under control.”

“Peabody said because I’m standing up for Louise—the matron of honor or whatever—I’m supposed to contact Louise every day this week to make sure she doesn’t need me to do something.” Eve’s scowl darkened as she thought of Peabody, her partner. “That can’t be right, can it? Every day? I mean, Jesus. Plus, what the hell could she need me to do?”

“Errands?”

She stopped eating, narrowed her eyes at him. “Errands? What do you mean by errands?”

“Well now, I’m at a disadvantage having never been a bride, but best guess? Confirm details with the florist or caterer, for instance. Go shopping with her for wedding shoes or honeymoon clothes or—”

“Why would you do that?” Her voice was as thoroughly aggrieved as her face. “Why would you say these things to me, after I rocked your world twice in one morning? It’s just mean.”

“And likely true under other circumstances. But knowing Louise, she has it all well in hand. And knowing you, if Louise wanted someone to shop for shoes, she’d have asked someone else to stand up for her at her wedding.”

“I gave the shower.” At his barely smothered laugh, she drilled a finger into his arm. “It was here, and I was here, so that’s like giving it. And I’m getting a dress and all that.”

He smiled, amused by her puzzlement—and mild fear—when it came to social rites. “What does it look like, this dress?”

She stabbed into her eggs. “I don’t have to know what it looks like, exactly. It’s some sort of yellow—she picked out the color, and she and Leonardo put their heads together on it. The doctor and the designer. Mavis says it’s mag squared.”

She considered her friend Mavis Freestone’s particular style. “Which is kind of scary now that I think about it. Why am I thinking about it?”

“I have no idea. I can say that while Mavis’s taste in fashion is uniquely . . .