DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
I could tell the minute I woke that it was Sunday. For one thing, it was daylight and the alarm wasn’t shrieking. But mostly because the songs of the birds and the September breezes coming through my open window had that Sunday morning sound and feel to them.
I rolled over and snuggled up against Rick’s warm body.
That’s when it hit me.
Rick and I were getting a divorce. There shouldn’t be a man in my bed.
I sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Who the hell was sleeping in my bed?
Good-looking, dark golden hair streaked from the sun and Lady Clairol, nice tan, complacent expression even when he was asleep.
I suppressed a groan as I came fully awake and remembered his unexpected appearance on my front porch…and everything that followed...the night before. I had clearly lost my mind.
Not that my mind ever had much control where Rick was concerned.
When I’d opened the door to see him standing there yesterday evening, feet planted firmly on my doormat with its image of Taz shrieking in bright red letters, Go away!, I’d been glad to see him. Right then I should have called 911 to request that I be declared mentally incompetent and hauled off in chains for my own protection. I couldn’t possibly be glad to see Rick when I knew he’d already moved Muffy or Buffy or whatever her name was into our house and our bed.