The Marriage Bed by Laura Lee Guhrke

about her, and she realized that was his biggest advantage. There were too many things about her he knew—how hungry she always got at this time of day, what foods she loved, how delightful it used to be when he kissed her neck.
    "I have no doubt," she murmured with a sigh, "that the jam you brought is blackberry?"
    He opened the tiny pot, peered inside with a thoughtful glance, then looked back at her, a smile curving one corner of his mouth. "You know, I believe it is blackberry," he said, trying to act surprised by the discovery. "Your favorite kind. What a coincidence."
    "This is a blatant ploy to soften me," she accused. "To make me like you again."
    To make me fall in love with you again.
    "True," he agreed lightly as he set aside the jam and poured champagne for himself. He leaned back opposite her, his weight resting on one arm, his legs stretched out beside her own, his pose one of complete indifference to the fact that she found him utterly transparent. "Is it working yet?"
    "Yet?" She frowned at him and took a sip of champagne. "You are assuming that your victory is only a matter of time? Awfully cocky of you to think I can be won over with such ease, especially when you employ such shallow tactics as picnics and champagne."
    He paused, giving her a look of pretended bewilderment. "Does that mean you don't want any scones?"
    She pressed her lips together, head tilted to one side, pride wavering as she glanced at the pastries in the basket. "Did you bring the cream?"
    "Of course." He set aside his glass and produced another jar.
    She capitulated. "Pass me a scone," she said, and set her glass of champagne on one of the plates beside her lap.
    He sliced the round pastry lengthwise for her and handed her both halves along with a spoon. "I knew bribery would win out."
    "On the contrary," she said as she used the spoon to slather clotted cream onto the pastry in her palm. "I am not fooled. The scones, the jam. The champagne." She took a hefty bite of her scone. "None of it will do you a bit of good."
    "Viola, take pity on me," he said as he prepared a scone for himself. "Look at what I am forcing myself to endure in order to win you over."
    She couldn't help it. She smiled as she watched him take half his scone in one bite, a scone piled high with both cream and jam. "You poor man. You look as if you are suffering terribly."
    He nodded agreement with that as he swallowed the bite in his mouth. "I am suffering. You know I prefer apricot over blackberry." He wiped a dab of jam and cream from one corner of his mouth with his thumb, then licked it off, then looked at her. "But blackberry does have its advantages."
    She saw what was in his eyes, and her mind and her body and her heart all recognized it. That heated, knowing look. She tensed as she watched him set the uneaten half of his scone aside, but she could not seem to move away as he began easing his body forward on the blanket, moving closer to her. His hip grazed hers. "You have jam all over your mouth."
    "You're making that up," she accused, her mouth full. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, verifying for herself that he was teasing as she swallowed her bite of scone. "I do not have jam on my face."
    John reached back behind him, his forearm brushing her ankles as he scooped a dab of jam from the pot onto his finger. He then turned toward her and touched the corner of her mouth. "Yes, you do."
    This was a game, their game, the one they used to play years ago. During those picnics, if no one was looking, he would dab jam on her mouth, then kiss it off. When they were married, it had become part of their morning ritual. Breakfast in bed and blackberry jam and making love. He had spoken of it yesterday, and today, he was reminding her again, making her remember how she had once felt about him, dredging up things she had forced herself to forget.
    You always liked making love in the mornings best.
    He leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to hers, that knowing