Page 111 of The Blonde Identity

And then he laughed—she actually felt it in her chest and on her lips. “Thank goodness.”

“What if...” But she couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t worry. Couldn’t wonder. So she said, “What if I have to get home to my husband?”

He bristled and glared, but managed to say, “Pretty sure Alex would have mentioned if you had one of those.”

“Or my boyfriend. My big, brooding, territorial—”

“I can take him.”

“How about my seventy-two cats?”

“I love them.”

“My nine iguanas?”

“Not a problem.”

“What if I’m addicted to knitting and blew all my money on extremely high-end yarns?”

“I have savings. And I look amazing in sweaters.”

Yeah. He probably did, she thought as he wrapped her in his arms and blocked the rain she didn’t even feel anymore. The jerkface.

“I don’t know what your life was, sweetheart. We’ll figure that out together. I just have one question. What do youwant your life to be?”

Zoe must have had an answer to that question at some point. A dream home and a dream guy and a dream life. She’d made her whole life about the pursuit of happy endings, but as she looked into the eyes of a man who had thought he’d never have one, she saw her blank past and empty future for what they were: clean slates. And fresh starts.

So they stood there—a woman with no history and a man with way too much—and there was really only one thing to say. “I think I’d like to be Mrs. Michaelson?”

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver ring. “That can be arranged.”

A Few Months Later

Zoe

“They’re here!”

Zoe rolled over and felt the cool sheets beside her. It had been months since she’d woken to a cold, empty bed, and she had to admit she didn’t like it. One of her favorite things about her new life were the mornings. Waking slowly beside Sawyer who, it turns out, was a cuddler. Who knew? They’d lie side by side for hours, talking about their lives before and their life after, but on that particular morning, the bed was empty and the loft was cold, so she wrapped herself in an old quilt and padded, barefoot, to the stairs.

She could feel the cold air from the open door, but he had a cardboard box in his hands and was grinning up at her like it was Christmas morning.

“Close the door,” she called, and he kicked it shut before carrying the box to the fire.

“Get down here!”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Let me find a—”

He was already pulling a knife from his boot because he was still Sawyer and she wouldn’t have had him any other way.

She nestled beside him on her side of the sofa. Because they had sides. They had routines. And habits. And inside jokes and fights and making-ups and everything. They had everything. And Zoe didn’t think about what she didn’t have and couldn’t recall.

It was coming back. In pieces. She’d remembered her mother, who taught English at a fancy boarding school in France, and her father, an American engineer who did something with luxury German automobiles. They’d had their daughters late in life and then one ofthem had almost died. Zoe. Zoe had almost died. And her mother’s full-time job had become keeping her alive.

Don’t run, Zoe.

Don’t fall, Zoe.

Don’t die, Zoe.

---