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things, and sure he expected me to follow them. But that was because his way was the right way. It wasn't his fault I kept screwing things up. I was trying hard to be worthy of him, and it was mean and childish of her to try to undermine that.
    Abuse. I scoffed at the word. I knew abuse. Abuse was when my father trapped my mother in the corner, shouting at her until she wept and pleaded. Abuse was when my mother locked the front door on Andy, forcing him to spend the night outdoors. Abuse was when I had to throw myself on top of Andy to keep my father from beating him bloody. What I had with Robert was nothing short of true love.
    The doors swooshed open and I sat up with my heart in my throat. "Hey babe, you're home!" I called, hurriedly twisting myself around so that I was seated on the couch properly.
    He walked past where I sat and headed straight into the kitchen without a word.
    I paused. I never knew if he wanted me to follow when he did this. I waited a beat and then made my way behind him.
    His broad back was towards me. The dark blue of his crisply tailored dress shirt showed off the wide expanse of his shoulders perfectly. I let my eyes wander down his arms and settle on his trim, narrow waist. His suit jacket was folded over one strong arm and the other was lifted as he poured himself a tumbler of single malt Scotch. I hesitated in the doorway, waiting until he had his liquor in him before I spoke.
    "Why are you hovering?" he sighed, his back still turned to me.
    "I'm not, I just..." I ran over my options in my head. He didn't look like he wanted a bubbly greeting. Maybe a shoulder rub? I stepped towards him. "Bad day?"
    He snorted and knocked back a long swallow of the Scotch.
    "Anything I can do?" I stepped backward and pressed my back to the wall, taking up as little space as I could.
    He scoffed again. "Do what you always do. Nothing."
    My stomach dropped. There were two ways I could approach this. I could leave and give him his space, hoping he would come to me later. That was the riskier option. I could very easily earn the silent treatment that way , and have to beg his forgiveness for being cold and abandoning him when he needed me. But the other option was risky too. Stay and try to wheedle him out of his bad mood. If I did that, I risked being relentless ball and chain who never gave him space. I would then have to apologize for being up his ass the minute he walked in the door.
    I studied the tenseness in his shoulders and the vein at his temple, hoping for some kind of sign.
    "Here," I tried. "Let me at least take your bag."
    When he didn't protest, I decided to go for the second option. I took his bag from the counter and trotted to the front closet and hung it on its designated hook. Then I hurried back to where he still stood in the center of our gleaming gourmet kitchen. Carefully, I placed my hands on his shoulders, barely letting him feel my presence.
    He didn't say anything, but he didn't swat me away. I began to knead the tense muscles, digging my fingers into the rock-hard muscles of his back. I stroked my hands up his neck to the base of his skull and threaded my fingers through his chestnut waves, scratching my nails across his scalp like he liked. The slight floral scent hit my nose, spicy yet sweet.
    "Don't mess up my hair," he barked. "I might have to go back in."
    I snatched my hands away and moved them down to the small of his back. I wasn't going to think about the perfume. That would be a bad idea. I smoothed my palms over the small rise of his buttocks, and let out a small sigh. His warm, unyielding bulk felt good under my hands. I untucked his shirt from his waistband and let my fingers wander under his T-shirt to find the smooth, tanned skin underneath. "You feel nice," I whispered into his back, pressing my lips to his spine.
    He sighed and lowered his shoulders, allowing me to dig my thumbs into the rigid muscles. When I reached his shoulders, I slid my palms back down each arm