She might as well be a basketball player being tapped by a coach.

She smiled faintly and, turning around, dropped a kiss on his forehead, the only bit of skin available to her, before stripping her dress off and heading for their adjoining walk-in closet.

The closet was massive, as big as a guest room, and finished in warm rich wood, but far from crammed with clothes.

Neither Meg nor Jack was a clotheshorse. Meg preferred classic pieces in neutrals like black, bone, and navy, while Jack lived in his uniform of creased chinos or faded jeans paired with his favorite worn button-down shirts. Jack liked soft and worn—it killed him to buy new clothes—and if he had his way, they’d still be living in the 1908 farmhouse they spent ten years restoring before Meg refused to go through one more winter in a house without forced air, insulation, or double-paned windows.

In the closet she stepped out of her shoes, unhooked her bra, and struggled out of her Spanx. It was a relief to be free of the snug undergarments and Meg deliberated between her favorite cotton pajamas and a black slinky nightgown. Pajamas were more comfortable, but if she wanted Jack’s attention, the slinky nightgown would be better.

“Chad and Craig want me to go to London for the trade show,” she said, sliding the satin gown down over her shoulders and then her hips. She emerged from the closet, sucked in her stomach, and passed close to the bed. “Craig thinks I’d do a better job schmoozing in the booth than he would.”

“And you would,” he answered, head still buried in his papers.

She waited a moment. “I haven’t been to London since our fifth anniversary. Can you believe it’s been twelve years since then?”

He made a sound, turned a page, continued reading.

Meg disappeared into the equally lavish bath with thick marble counters and creamy Italian marble tiles covering the walls. Beneath the expensive light fixture, the rich, pale stone gleamed like thick fresh cream. Opulent. Decadent. New. Jack hated it. She loved it. Even two years after moving into the house, Meg was still so very glad to be living among pretty things and nice finishes instead of historically accurate and painstakingly renovated surroundings.

Swishing the whitening prerinse wash in her mouth, Meg squeezed whitening toothpaste onto her toothbrush, more vigilant than ever about taking care of her teeth since she was drinking—and selling—more red wine than white.

“They’re paying all expenses, but it’s in two weeks,” she said, spitting out the prerinse to talk. “I’d be there for the eighteenth.”

“Okay.”

“But, honey, it’s your birthday.”

“What?”

“I’d be gone on your birthday.”

He hesitated only a moment. “No big deal. We’ll celebrate when you get home.”

But once it had been a big deal. Her toothbrush hovered in midair as she remembered how sacred birthdays and holidays had once been. They were special occasions, events to be celebrated together. “I head to the beach house in the morning, and am just not sure I should be heading away to London days after I get back from the coast.” Meg popped the brush into her mouth and began scrubbing.

“Why not? Capitola is a girls’ weekend with your mom and sisters. London is business. And I think it’s wonderful Craig and Chad want you to go and represent Dark Horse Winery. I think you should do it.”

This was one of the things she’d always loved about Jack, Meg thought, leaning over the sink to spit. He had always been supportive of her career, and proud of her success. He never made her feel guilty for working.

Rinsing her mouth, Meg caught a glimpse of her reflection—light brown eyes and brown hair against pale skin. She’d inherited the Brennan square jaw and broad brow and her mother’s coloring. Her mother, Marilyn, was half Irish and half Italian and 100 percent strict Catholic. You didn’t swear around Mom without saying a Hail Mary or two.

She spit again and paused, inspecting her face, seeing the faint lines at the corners of her eyes and the barely perceptible droop near her mouth.