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thinking it through. “Can we at least take our clothes off?”
    “No.” He drops me on the bed. I cry out and laugh at his fierce expression. He stands with his hands on his hips. “I’m not a bloody saint, am I?”
    “It won’t work in the morning.”
    “We’ll try.”
    “This is not how I saw the night ending.” I close my eyes and the bed spins and my head spins and I groan. “You’re either the best or worst boyfriend in the world and I am too drunk to figure out which.”

LOVE
    Eggs sizzle and pop in the skillet, my mouth waters and I hum along with the boom of the stereo. I slot more bread into the toaster – feeding Jamie and me is like cooking for a football team. I smile, enjoying the sunlight filtering through the trees beyond the kitchen window. I’m warm to the core and it has nothing to do with the winter sun.
    Waking half-suffocated beneath Jamie’s arm, his soft snore warming my ear, had been a thrilling surprise, though it quickly turned to alarm. How on earth had we gotten away with a whole night together without Miriam charging across the hall to murder us in our bed?
    Memory loss was the only part of the hangover to hit me. Jamie had grumbled that I deserved to puke my guts out while nursing a blinding headache. By the sound of things he’s right and I’ve never been so grateful for my turbo-charged metabolism. When he talked me through the details of the table jump and cheerleader episode it was like hearing a story about somebody else; I can’t picture myself saying or doing any of it. He asked me if I remembered
anything
about when he brought me home, a wry curving of his lips at my blank expression. Suddenly hot-faced, I’d taken subtle stock of my body. I still had underwear on and my brown shorts. Jamie had only removed his boots. I didn’t
feel
different. Would I if we had …? Laughing, he’d kissed my lips with a resigned sigh.
    I shake my head as I collect the toast and stack it on a plate. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved over the missed opportunity or embarrassed at Jamie’s account of my attempt to persuade him. I hug his shirt around my body, glad I thought to steal it when he got in the shower. He’ll have to come and find me to get it back. Inhaling his diffused scent it’s hard to concentrate on scrambling the eggs, but it’s my one kitchen triumph and I don’t want to ruin it.
    Behind the blare of music, I can make out the sound of the water running upstairs. Jamie – a thought to get lost in. Running water tends to blunt Shield senses but I strain to hear, trying to pick through the layers of noise: sizzling eggs, squawking crows in the trees outside, the Saturday morning sounds of children playing in their yards, a vehicle on the street, a car door slamming somewhere, feet on gravel, electric guitar, thundering water … there it is, Jamie’s tenor. I grin as he butchers the lyrics and graze my knuckle on the hotplate. “Ouch.” I hiss and suck the burnt skin then a loud clatter makes me freeze, spatula in hand.
    Miriam stands in the back doorway, her overnight bag in one hand, camera case over her shoulder, and her expression changing in seconds from weary smile to livid glare as she takes in Jamie’s shirt over my Tomb Raider shorts and black lace bra, the table set for two and the incriminating sound of the shower overhead. She goes to the stereo and flicks the music off, a frightening silence.
    “I take it that’s not Kitty in my bathroom.”
    I can’t feel my lips. “So … this probably looks bad.”
    “You know exactly how it looks.” She dumps her bag and case on the long wooden table. She stares at me. Her dark hair sits over her shoulder. We’re so alike. She’s just shorter and a little older with brown eyes. At thirty-eight, and with genetically engineered DNA, Miriam is in great shape and probably quite capable of kicking my ass and Jamie’s too.
    I swallow and try to find my voice. “I thought you were going over