Gold eyelashes rested against his cheeks. His skin already showed the glow of a tan. Now and then, when he was poring over a book, I caught the ghost of a line forming over the bridge of his nose, the first sign of an impending wrinkle. Not surprising, considering he was forty-two. Werewolves age slowly, and Clay could pass for a decade younger. Yet the wrinkle reminded me that we were getting older. I’d turned thirty-five last year, right around the time I’d finally decided he was right, and I-we-were ready for a child. The two events were, I’m sure, not unconnected.

My stomach growled.

Clay’s hand slid across it, smiling, eyes still closed. “Hungry already?”

“I’m eating for two.”

He chuckled as my stomach rumbled again. “That’s what happens when you chase me instead of something edible.”

“I’ll remember that next time.”

He opened one eye. “On second thought, forget it. Chase me and I’ll feed you afterward. Anything you want.”

“Ice cream.”

He laughed. “Do we have any?”

I slid off him. “The Creamery opened last week. Two-for-one banana splits all month.”

“One for you and one for-”

I snorted.

He grinned. “Okay, two for you, two for me.”

He pushed to his feet and looked around.

“Clothing southwest,” I said. “Near the pond.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let’s hope so.”

I stepped from the forest into the backyard. As clouds swept overhead, shafts of sunlight slid over the house. The freshly painted trim gleamed dark green, the color matching the tendrils of ivy that struggled to maintain a hold on the stone walls.

The gardens were slowly turning the same green, evergreens and bushes interspersed with the occasional clump of tulips from a fall-gardening spree a few years ago.