Something like a giggle leaves me. Not a sound I’ve ever made in front of Jake. I look down.

  “Your mouth,” I say, “seems to be writing checks your body can’t cash—”

  “You’re right,” he says. “My franchise is expanding into your territory.” He pulls away, taking his smoking hot hard-on with him when he goes. I bunch the covers closer, feeling the chill of not being near him. Who keeps a room this cold?

  In an effort not to see Jake naked, I roll over and grab my phone. What does “Big Day” mean in High Life-speak? Just how out of my depth and dignity will I be today? The “Home” calendar I share with Jake reveals that from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., I’ve blocked out time for something I’ve labeled “Deck.”

  What does it mean?

  On the bright side, I seem to have the day off from shooting Zombie Hospital. On the dark side, a whole day doing something mysterious with Jake, alone? Eight whole hours for him to see that I’m a fraud who only looks like the woman he married?

  I can’t let my guard down.

  “Deck” could be showbiz-related, like the visual decks made to pitch a TV show. Maybe it’s related to Jake’s podcast? I do have a few budding opinions about Clean Slate’s intended audience and scope . . .

  One certainty is we’re doing “Deck” together. It’s something he—and possibly we—are looking forward to.

  “How much time do you need to get yours ready?” Jake calls from his closet.

  When I don’t answer, he pads back into the room—bare-chested, burnished muscles, cotton pajama pants slung low. Even if I’d had an answer, seeing him without a shirt silences me.

  “Oh great, you’re totally ready, aren’t you?” Jake fills in my silence, cruelly tugging on a hoodie, which he somehow still manages to look like a sex god in.

  What’s gotten into me? It’s times like these when I could really use a best friend or my mom to reason this stuff out.

  “I’m close, I swear,” Jake says, riding his own train of thought. “Just a few last finishing touches. Five minutes and I’ll meet you, okay? This is going to be so good.”

  He laughs, taps the doorframe, and he’s gone from the bedroom. I search my phone, but nothing in my text threads, emails, or Notes app offers any clue about Deck Day. I brush my teeth and stand inside my closet, letting Jake’s casual attire inform my own selection.

  Reaching for my sneakers, my hand rustles something that feels like a satin gift bow. I kneel down, parting a rack of sweaters to reveal a box marked Deck Day.

  Jackpot?

  The box is wrapped in paper printed with lipstick kisses. Is this a gift for Jake? I shake it. Something light shimmies inside.

  “Olivia!” Jake’s excitement rings through the house. “It’s time!”

  The opening chords of Journey’s “Faithfully” blast through speakers built into the closet walls. I jump at the sound, then gather myself. I have to play along with whatever Deck Day is. I’ve got to fake it till I make it back to my bungalow downhill.

  Through the bedroom windows, I see Jake outside by the pool. He’s got a brown paper bag that looks auspiciously like takeout, his laptop opened to a Spotify playlist. Next to him stands a forty-pound sack of soil, several flats of seedlings, a power hose, and a clear Tupperware container full of rags.

  Suddenly I see how simple, how literal—how non-sexual!—Deck Day is. We’re passing our day . . . tending the garden on our deck. Together. Like married people do.

  I smile, glancing at the gift in my hands, at Jake nodding in time to the music, at the food he’s had delivered. I feel a pinch in my heart. Real Life me can handle High Life this.

  I step through the sliding door to the backyard. When Jake sees me, he throws back his head and his arms and belts out the “whoa-oh-oh”s at the end of “Faithfully.” Because I’m a Journey freak, it’s impossible for me not to sing along. I harmonize as I pass the pool, going low when he goes high, letting Steve Perry carry us through the song’s melodic peaks. It sounds so good it’s obvious we’ve done this before. By the time the song is over, I’ve come to sway by Jake. We’re endorphin-flushed and laughing.

  He turns down the music. “Remember when we saw Steve Perry in the produce section at Gelson’s?”

  Nope. “Of course,” I say.

  “You asked him to sign your squash, but we didn’t have a pen.”

  “Classic Steve Perry,” I say. “What is it with that guy and produce?”

  “Can I go first?” Jake asks, bouncing on his heels.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “By all means!”

  He opens the brown bag with a snap of his wrists. “For the girl who once told Amy Reisenbach there’s no better breakfast than a hot dog, I give you . . .” From the bag, Jake lifts three Styrofoam containers, lines them up on a teak dining table, and gently lifts their lids. “A breakfast buffet from—”

  “Pink’s?!” I finish his sentence, staring down at my real-life three favorite orders from the famous LA hot dog eatery. The Guadalajara—all those jalapeños! The Rosie O’Donnell—extra-long with sauerkraut! The Brooklyn—pastrami with Swiss!

  I have a lot of questions about the conversation Jake just mentioned—starting with who is Amy Reisenbach—but I have to let that go. I’ve got to stay in the moment. That’s not so hard. I do love the smell of mustard in the morning.

  “I love this,” I say without thinking, my eyes locking with Jake’s. I feel the whirlpool between us pull me in. I drop my eyes to the food.

  “I love you,” he says simply. “And you’re also going to love this playlist, which is all new, no repeats from Reseal the Pool Day.”

  “Better not be,” I say mock-sternly, noting our enormous pool’s waterproof flagstone. We did that? And also: He loves me?

  Like it’s no big deal.

  “And now?” Jake asks, dive-bombing a kiss between my eyes.

  I close my eyes and fold into him. The need for his affection is growing stronger and more real.

  I step away, self-conscious. “And now . . . what?”

  “What’s in the box?”

  “Yes! The box!” I look down at my present for Jake, every bit as curious as he is. I hand it over. “Knock yourself out.”

  His eyes dance across the wrapping paper. He exhales deeply. My man sure loves his Deck Day.

  He shakes the box. “I can’t wait.”

  “No need to.”

  “Okay.” He smiles. “I’m going in.”

  Jake tears into the present like it’s a conjugal visit. His eyes light up as he thrusts his hand into the remaining shards of the box, then withdraws his closed fist. He gives me a naughty grin. “You didn’t.”

  “Are you surprised?” I ask, dying to know what I gave him. Cuff links? An ID bracelet?

  Jake opens his palm and reveals . . . a pair of black satin boxer briefs.

  “Oh God, they’re butt-enhancing.” He starts laughing, holding them up to his waist, and I see the various nips and tucks in the fabric meant to accentuate a man’s parts. What the hell is wrong with High Life me?

  “I told you I would only wear these on the condition that you . . .” Jake peers inside the box again and looks up at me grinning. “Aha!”

  Looped through one finger is a black satin thong.

  His and hers.

  “Well, game on,” he says, still laughing. “It’s going to be a little distracting, but we can get it done.”

  “Hah!” I say. “I meant it as a joke. Obviously. We’re not going to . . .” I gulp. “Actually. Wear these. While—”

  Jake rips off his sweatshirt, along with his T-shirt underneath. He pulls the knot loose on his sweatpants.

  Then, my God, he’s naked, and the man is absolutely hung. Well before I’ve gotten a good enough look, he slides his new, ridiculous, butt-enhancing briefs up to his waist . . . letting his whole hot self tumble into the bulging satin pocket. The fabric clings to his thighs. I never knew male thighs could look so sensual, so curvy and compressed . . . now he’s turning to give me a view of his sculpted ass. And just wow.

  As I stand gawking, Jake says, “Aren’t you going to put yours on?”

  I’m so confused. We’re really going to attempt manual labor undressed like this? Set aside the awkwardness of hauling sod with next to nothing on, set aside the potential for sunburn on sensitive skin—how will it be possible to focus?

  How will it be possible to avoid having sex?

  I know we’re married, standing on our own secluded property, but I can’t help looking anxiously around me. Jake’s body is so obscene it must offend the trees.

  “Your turn, sex bomb,” he says and smacks my ass.

  I nod, wondering if he can tell I’m hyperventilating.

  It’s basically a bathing suit bottom, I try assuring myself. Albeit one fit for a Brazilian supermodel.

  And yet in this reality, I bought this thong and its matching counterpart for Jake. I was game to wear it. Game to let Jake see me in it.

  My chest feels like it’s on fire, and . . . funny thing: now would be a convenient time to change the underwear I have on. Because suddenly they’re wet.

  “Here goes nothing,” I say under my breath. And then, under the cover of my thigh-length hoodie, I drop my pants, my cotton briefs. I step into the black silk thong.

  Jake eyes me, hungrily, moving closer to tug on the sleeve of my hoodie. “Off she goes.”

  “But I . . . there’s no top.”

  He chews his bottom lip. “I guess the person in charge of costumes should have thought of that. Or maybe she did.”

  I close my eyes. I slowly pull the hoodie up over my head. I stand before this very hot man in my insane thong and sheer white tank, feeling exposed enough for several female-produced soft-core pornos. I think about how if I take the next step and remove my shirt, that Jake and I may end up fucking into Tuesday.

  I think about how if I don’t take off my shirt, we’ll have to discuss why. And perhaps he’ll find the truth—

  I whip off my shirt. I let it fall to the ground. I look up at Jake.

  Goose bumps rise on my bare skin. As his eyes run over my body, my nipples pinch so tight I gasp.

  “You’re beautiful, Olivia,” he says.

  Then his hand is on my waist, strong and warm and firm. And his mouth is almost on top of mine, and I can’t help closing my eyes, tilting my chin, and—

  I hear a squirting sound. I open my eyes and see Jake . . . squeezing sunscreen into his palm.

  “I don’t want your fine ass getting burned,” he says, his voice a rough whisper on my neck.

  He takes his time rubbing the cool cream into my shoulders, his hands slowly warming my skin as they massage circles down my back, across my waist, over the rounded curves where the thong leaves my palest skin exposed. I hold my breath and try to relax into how good his touch feels, how well Jake seems to know my body, how not-weird all of this is for him. I let him guide me through the experience of being cared for, being protected by him, which leaves me breathless and a little shivery.

  There’s something sweet about it, and many things sexy about it, and a wonderful dose of ordinary all at once. This, it seems, is our marriage in a nutshell. Hot and sweet and steady. And I think: this version of me sure is lucky.

  When Jake’s hands trace up my stomach, adding more sunscreen as they find their way to the sensitive skin of my breasts, I can’t help moaning. I hear Jake moan, too, which may be the sexiest thing of all. The sound—one I’ve never heard him make—startles me back to reality. I take a step away, finishing the job of rubbing in the sunscreen myself.

  “You okay?” he asks, as out of breath as I am. He tries again to put his arms around me.

  I can’t do this. It’s too big. Not just the iron in his briefs, but all the implications. I put up a hand to stop him before he kisses me.

  “Wait,” I whisper.

  “Must I quote Mistress Cherise?” Jake asks, his breath on my neck again, murdering my resolve. “ ‘Sex is not to be avoided.’ ”

  I know I’m meant to laugh at his Transylvanian-style Mistress Cherise accent, but as I look over the railing, down to the tree line of my real-life house, I say a little prayer for myself. That I can make it through this day without surrendering to my desire for Jake.

  “First, we work,” I make myself say. “Then we play.”

  “I’ve never known you to be one for delayed gratification,” Jake says, taking a step back, allowing me to catch my breath. “But you’re right, it’ll be hotter that way.”

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  An hour later, Jake has hauled the soil across the deck, while I pruned our basil plants and weeded our budding tomatoes in their raised beds. We’ve had fun getting to know the power hose, made crumbs of the Pink’s hot dogs, and I’ve committed myself to a long future of exhibitionism, which I had no idea was so exciting. I didn’t know I could be this comfortable almost naked, let alone this aroused. And since no actual sex has been had, I haven’t broken any cosmic rules.

  Yes, there were moments when we first started, when I couldn’t help wondering if my breasts looked weird from Jake’s angle, if my bikini line was groomed enough for this thong—and by the way, no bikini line can be groomed enough for this thong. But every time I caught Jake looking at me, there was so much tender longing in his gaze—part comfortable possessiveness, part unknown thrill—that I soon let all inhibitions go. Which, honestly, I’ve never done while naked with a man before. Even while having some of what I considered very good sex, I’ve still been a whole lot in my head.

  But I’m not in my head today. I’m in my body. My comfortable, titillated, nearly naked body. And it feels good.

  Soon, we’ve made our way through a flat of tender seedlings, gently ushering dill and tarragon into nourishing new homes. The sun is getting hot, but every time I look over and see my High Life husband’s spectacular ass—and see him checking out mine—I get a renewed burst of energy.

  I pat down one last seedling into soil, moving in time to “Octopus’s Garden.”

  Our sun-warmed shoulders kiss. It feels as if the whole deck is vibrating with desire. Jake hands me a damp towel to brush the soil off my hands and his elbows. Then, playfully, I brush some invisible soil off his pec, and he reaches around to brush a little off my left cheek. Then my other left cheek. He takes my hand, and we stand up and step into each other’s arms. And it feels right. Too right for me to question. Too right for me to rationalize.

  “Break time,” Jake says, his voice a sexy growl.

  Want fills my entire body, but then, I glance over his shoulder at the hill that leads to my home. My real home. I remember my goal and force myself to step away again.

  “I was thinking happy hour?” I throw out.

  Jake laughs and looks at his watch. “Already?”

  “Do you like piña coladas?”

  Jake raises an eyebrow. “I like making love at midnight.”

  “Perfect.” I back toward the kitchen. “I’ll go whip up a batch.”

  He looks at me sideways, laughs again.

  “What?” I demand.

  “You’re seriously suggesting that you, Oliva Dusk, are going to walk inside our house, enter our kitchen, and ‘whip up a batch’ of piña coladas?”

  “Um, yes?”

  “What’s the first thing you need to do?”

  “Find the rum?”

  “Then?”

  “Crack a coconut?”

  “You’re adorable,” Jake says and kisses me on the head. “I’ll do it.”

  I should be happy to have some time to think, to have a little physical space from the man I’m trying to resist. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling somehow more naked now that Jake is gone. I need to find a way to wrap up Deck Day without wrapping my legs around Jake. Is it cruel to call my assistant on a weekend, to see if her sister found Yogi Dan? Where do nudists keep their phones?

  Jake steps out from the sliding door, still wearing his briefs, now accessorized with an untied red silk robe. He has a second matching robe draped over one arm—for me. Genius. That’s where nudists keep their phones. He’s holding a tray bearing two frozen white cocktails.

  I let him slip the robe over my shoulders, but leave it untied like Jake has done with his. After so long without clothes, the brush of silk against my skin is as erotic as everything else today has been. I really need a drink.

  I take a glass from Jake’s tray, sit down at our outdoor table, and drain my piña colada in a breath.

  “Whoa there, tiger,” Jake says, sitting next to me and taking a gulp himself. “But I guess we have been working hard.” He holds my gaze and smiles. “So, now that I’ve plied you with alcohol, what should we do next?”

  He asks this rhetorically, as if there is only one answer to this question, and the answer requires no words. Luckily the rum pumping into my bloodstream is giving me just the sort of courage I need.

  “What do you say we play a game?”

  “Which one?”

  “Truth or Dare.”

  “All right.” Jake smiles. “Truth.”

  How did we happen?

  Why do you love me?

  Where’s my mother?

  What should I do?

  I can’t ask what I really want to know. But I can start small with what I’ve learned in the past two days.

  “When you think of . . . Amy Reisenbach,” I say, hoping I got her name right. “What first comes to mind?”

  Jake takes another sip, then looks at me with deep, complex affection. I want to linger in every layer of it. He’s got me on the edge of my silk-robed seat, because somehow, I’ve struck close to the heart of our story.

  “I was scared,” Jake says.

  Scared is not a side of Jake I’ve seen. I want to ask a million questions, but I force myself to wait, to listen.