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to myself—nothing. On the other hand, I had a very real fantastic something peering at me questioningly with smoky eyes.
    “You’re on,” I said.
    “On is good,” Geoff responded. “Actually, I have a feeling on will be exceptional this evening.”
    • • •
    It was. Geoff was a pleasure maven, an expert. It wasn’t just the sex, which was spectacular. It was much more.
    Home from dinner, he stood at my kitchen window, one hand clutching a chilled bottle of Foster’s, the other, warmer, creeping under my sweater to stroke my back as he stared at the cherry tree on my front lawn. Its blossoms were lit iridescent by a full moon.
    “Bloody glorious, isn’t it? And look, a rabbit!” There was indeed a small brown bunny sitting under the tree.
    What knocked me out about Geoff was that he took pleasure from what slipped by most people. He’d point out to me how savory garlic smelled when the olive oil was at a perfect temperature in the pan. The rough elegance of some hip-hop artist spinning street poetry. “Come,” he’d call, “you have to see this.” And
this
would be a battalion of ants marching across the kitchen table. I’d run for the Raid and he’d marvel at their strange little bodies working together to haul crumbs.
    Maybe because when I was a kid and the world around me didn’t offer me much of anything I wanted, and too much of what made me scared or sad, I’d gotten into the habit of blanking it out with music and books. But Geoff Birdsall had the luck of a happy childhood and he’d evolved into that rare creature, a happy man. Pretty soon I began to see small wonders the way he did, and lately I’d been edging toward happy myself.
    How long would it last? I hadn’t a clue. After my nasty breakup with Charlie and the hasty, weird marriage to Todd, I’d dismissed the possibility of anything permanent. And Geoff was king in the land of the uncommitted, so we were a perfect match. I took the relationship for what it was, as something I understood: Geoff and I made beautiful music together, but music fades. I decided to appreciate his easy charm, inexhaustible energy, and sky-high libido for whatever time we had together. He also made a succulent lamb stew. The man could cook. Who could ask for anything more?
    Now he kissed the pulse in my neck and held the kiss for two beats.
    “I’m thinking we could go to Japan this summer,” he said, seemingly out of the blue, but I got the drift: cherry blossoms/Japan. “Not Tokyo, which is just another big, crowded city, but a country inn with the shoji screens and futons. How’s that for my birthday gift to you?”
    “A trip is a wonderful gift, Geoff. But Japan?” I wrinkled my nose. “Not to be piggy, but do I get a choice of where?”
    “Your birthday, your choice.” He pulled me tight against him. “I’m up for anything.” Yes, I could feel he was. He pressed harder to underscore the point.
    We were facing an exhausting schedule at the orchestra. “Maybe just kick back on an island somewhere? Antigua. St. Martin. Only a few hours’ flight and the pace is easy and slow.”
    At the mention of slow, his hand tugged my skirt up to bunch around my hips, then traveled to my thighs. “Right, I like easy and slow.” His voice had gone silky.
    “Beaches.” I was into it now. I heard my own response, thick with desire.
    “Good beaches on the Riviera.”
    “Too many fat Russian mafia in Speedos.”
    “Hmm. The Greek islands? Santorini. White sand. Cliffside nightclubs where we’ll drink ouzo and dance in the moonlight. Maybe we can get in some hang gliding.” Forget that. “And long afternoon naps where I’d . . . and you’d . . . and we’d . . .” He whispered a menu of appetizers more spicy than taramasalata. “How does that sound?”
    It sounded exactly like Geoff. Felt like him, too, after I unbuttoned his shirt. He worked out and his chest was as glossy and muscular as those airbrushed pecs on the covers of romance