He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, holding her close for a long moment while the smoke drifted between them.

“Did you reserve the table at the steakhouse on Lane Avenue?” Mark asked her, his tone slipping back into its normal polished cadence.

“Seven fifteen,” Sloan said, sliding her car keys out of the marble dish near the microwave.

“And I’d like to leave early so we don’t have to sit in this kitchen any longer.”

“We’ll get our coats,” Mark said, walking toward the front closet without a glance behind him.

The door to the garage clicked shut behind them, cutting off the low sound of their footsteps on the concrete floor.