Play My Game by J. Kenner Page A

breath. “It’s wonderful.”
    I’m looking at a table draped with white linen, atop which sits a number of covered trays and a very large pot that I assume is filled with coffee. Tiki-style torches have been placed at each of the four corners of the mat upon which the table sits, providing a relatively sand-free surface. The sun has barely started to peek above the horizon, and the torches cast a golden glow over the tableau, making it seem all the more magical.
    “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Damien says. “Since we’re spending most of the day traveling, I thought we should start off with something special.”
    I smile up at him, feeling sappy and loved. “Every moment with you is special, Damien. Don’t you know that?”
    He doesn’t say anything, but the tenderness I see on his face answers for him.
    I take his hand and let him lead me to the table. And as we enjoy a breakfast of eggs and coffee and flaky croissants, we watch the sun rise on our first Valentine’s Day together.
    Because of our early departure and the time difference, we arrive home not long after noon. Damien has been checking social media since the sun rose in California, and so far he has seen no evidence that the photos or tape have been leaked.
    We are cautiously optimistic.
    Unlike the plane ride to the Bahamas, during which I’d managed to sneak in some work on my Valentine’s Day present to Damien, I had no secret project on the return trip. So I spent the flight reading, napping, and trying to do a little bit of coding.
    “Try” is the operative word, though, because Katie kept the mimosas flowing, and since it’s Valentine’s Day, I didn’t hesitate to take them as fast as she wanted to bring them.
    Which meant that the napping part of the plane ride soon overtook all other activities. And now, as we walk through the doors of the Malibu house, I am very well rested.
    Damien takes my hand as we head up to the third floor, and as soon as we are high enough on the stairs to see the room, I gasp.
    The entire space is filled with flowers. Not only that, but our bed—the lovely iron bed that was a prop for the portrait of me and that now lives in our bedroom—is back in this open area where Damien and I spent so many delicious hours together.
    I turn to him, my smile so wide it hurts. “How did you do this?”
    “Gregory. Sylvia. I have my ways.”
    “It’s a wonderful Valentine’s Day surprise.”
    His mention of Sylvia makes me wonder if with this minor redecoration she still did what I asked and left the package for Damien on the bed. From here, I don’t see it, and I wonder if she put his present on the dresser in the bedroom.
    But as we get closer, I see that the box is there, so flat and white that it blends in with the bedclothes, the only splash of color being a thin red ribbon.
    Damien sees it, too, and glances at me curiously. He moves to the bed and lifts the package, then checks the tag. I know what it says, of course. Sylvia may have arranged to have the present wrapped, but I’d written the tag.
    For my husband. For my love.
    “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who had the help of Valentine’s Day elves.”
    I shrug innocently.
    “Can I open it?”
    “Of course.”
    He sits on the edge of the bed, and I climb on beside him. To be honest, I’m curious myself to see how it turned out. I’d managed to sneak time on the flight to Nassau to go over all the images that Sylvia took for me. I’d found my favorite, manipulated it in Photoshop to heighten the contrast so that my silhouette is even darker against the backdrop of the city, and to clean up the lingering glare from the glass.
    Finally, I’d added text, a caption in lovely script on the left-hand side of the space so that it balanced my image on the right:
    Anything you want. Anything you need.
    I’d emailed the file to Sylvia with specific directions as to how to print it and frame it.
    Now I can only hope that the end product is as lovely in real