Page 113 of Bidding War

She slugs my shoulder and giggles. “You asshole!”

I clutch her to my chest. “But I’m your asshole.”

“Ew.”

“That was supposed to be romantic and took a turn for the worse. Sorry.”

She giggles again, and I drift off to that perfect sound. In the morning, I wake up to the sunlight refracting in the diamond on her hand. Gotta get used to that. I hope to have fifty or sixty years of practice. A tug of sadness hits me, though.

Fifty or sixty years is just not enough. I need lifetimes with this woman. But, for now, I’ll take what I can get.

She stirs in her sleep and mumbles, “Morning.”

“It is. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Coffee is for ladies who leave the bed.”

She whines but scoots off the bed for her robe, and I follow suit. Sunday mornings had been for cuddling and doing the Times’ crossword together. But today, I feel good. Like I have too much energy. After last night’s fun, I am refreshed and invigorated.

June, however, appears to have lost energy during her sleep.

“You okay?”

“You fucked the daylights out of me last night.”

I grin as I make coffee. “Why don’t you go sit on the couch, and I’ll bring the coffee when it’s ready.”

“Okay. But only if you promise to be less chipper when you bring it.”

I laugh. “Promise.”

She toddles off to the living room, still half asleep, and I turn my attention to my task. She likes her coffee light and sweet when it’s regular and not espresso, so I set out the cream and sugar. I’m in such a good mood I find myself humming as I do so. On rough mornings, she tinkers with her ratios of cream and sugar, and I can’t assume anything. So, I set everything on the tray she used to bring me my meals for weeks.

Fuck. I owe this woman everything. Which works out since I want to give her everything.

Once the coffee is ready, I set the mugs on the tray and tote it into the living room. Just as I come around the couch, she gasps. “Fuck!”

“What—“

But she points to the screen. She has it on the news, which I always advise against. It’s nothing but sensationalism?—

Why does that dock look familiar?

“A grim discovery at the docks is our lead story this morning. Johnny Green is live on the scene, where homicide investigators are searching for answers.” The newscaster speaks to the onsite reporter on a split screen. “What can you tell us, Johnny?”

“I am here at the Marina Bay dock of Squantum Channel where police have identified the body of Neil Johnson, a missing hedge fund manager from Nebraska?—"

The tray slips from my hands as I lose my grip. It crashes to the floor, but neither of us moves to clean it.

“… Police suspect foul play due to the injuries found on the body. At this point, there is no word on the person or persons who may have been involved.”

They show a blurred image of his body on the shore, and even with the blurs, I recognize that fucking green sweater.

“How was the body discovered?”

“Police say it washed ashore sometime in the night. Fishermen were aghast at what they saw, though sadly, this is not the first time they have found such a gruesome discovery.”

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