She’d grown up in a family that put family first, and even if her father was at the fire station, the rest of them still sat down at the dining room table every night for a proper meal. Meg wanted the same for her children. Traditions were important. Stability even more so.

Gradually the dark road gave way to the lights of Petaluma, where Meg was able to jump on 101 North. From Petaluma it was another twenty minutes to home, where she lived in a newer development of big estates in northeast Santa Rosa, each home nestled on two to five acres.

Her house, a six-thousand-square-foot Cape Cod, stood on five acres, which gave the family privacy and a very long driveway. Pulling past the carriage garage into the back, she parked next to Jack’s old Saab, a car he’d had since Meg met him in graduate school.

Inside, she locked the mudroom door, set the alarm, and turned off the light over the stove before heading upstairs, where she found Jack still awake, reading in bed.

Jack looked up from his fat sheaf of papers as she entered their bedroom, his dark hair rumpled, his smile welcoming. At forty-seven, Jack was enjoying his career more now than ever. A respected architect specializing in historical preservation and traditional renovation, he was in great demand not just in California but throughout the country. Even in the early years of their marriage Meg had marveled that her husband could be so focused at work and yet so absentminded at home.

“How did it go tonight?” he asked, briefly glancing up from his reading.

“Great.”

“Wonderful,” he answered, dropping his gaze back to his reading.

Meg hesitated next to the bed, suddenly wanting, needing, more. More of Jack’s attention. More curiosity about her night. More questions about the event, and admiration for a job well done.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She had worked really hard on the party and suddenly felt depleted. She needed something…appreciation…validation.

If other men couldn’t flirt or make her feel good, she needed her man to flirt.

Or at least look at her.

Meg didn’t like the rush of emotion. She wasn’t insecure. She rarely craved compliments, but that’s exactly what she needed now.

She needed tenderness. Passion. Reassurance that her husband, her partner, still found her appealing and would marry her again, given the chance.

But Jack was lost in his document and she felt foolish hovering in her black cocktail dress next to the bed, waiting to be noticed. That’s what girls did at junior high dances. She shouldn’t wait for attention in her own bedroom, from her own husband.

She knew Jack loved her. Jack was a caring husband and a devoted father and they had a good marriage. Even after nineteen years of togetherness, two spent dating, seventeen as husband and wife, she loved Jack. Even better, she liked him.

Meg closed the distance between them, pulling her hair aside and presenting her back so he could unzip her dress. “Chad and Craig were so pleased,” she said, wondering if her black lace bra would elicit any interest. Jack had once loved black lingerie. “Everyone came. All the media, the writers, the VIP list. It honestly couldn’t have gone better.”

Zipper down, Jack patted her backside. “That’s my girl. I’m proud of you.”

A pat on the butt.