Then…

Twenty – eight – year – old Liz Tyler woke in the dark moments before her alarm clock would have chimed. Reaching over to the nightstand, she turned it off. She lingered for a moment, enjoying the warmth of her husband, who slept soundly next to her, half hoping that he'd wake up and make love to her.

She'd never been more in love with him in their seven years of marriage. There'd been a rough spot three years earlier-a meaningless fling with the cliche tennis instructor to get even with her husband for his workaholic hours as a stockbroker-but he'd forgiven her and understood that he'd played a role in her infidelity. Wading through a flood of tears and self-recriminations, they'd reached a new level in their relationship and were stronger and more loving as a result. They'd conceived a baby, Rhiannon, named in memory of their first meeting at a Fleetwood Mac concert, and the child, now two, had cemented them to each other still further.

Sighing but getting no response, Liz decided to move on. This was her favorite time of day-just before the dawn, a precious few minutes to be alone with her thoughts before the demands of mommyhood and domestic engineering drove all other considerations from her mind until after the last bedtime story.

Liz slid from bed and into a sports bra, baggy sweatshirt, running shorts, socks, and running shoes. She walked around to his side of the bed and leaned over to kiss his cheek, rough with a day's growth of beard.

"Going running?" he mumbled, finding and stroking her long muscular leg with the hand that hung off the bed.

"Yeah, lazybones, want to join me?" She didn't really want him to go-this was her time-and knew he wouldn't but it was polite to ask.

"Maybe next time." He sounded more than half asleep, but his hand had continued to explore up her leg until it was reaching suggestive levels.