The bed was huge, located across from a large flat screen TV bolted above a low dresser. He put my luggage down before it, but then something else caught his eye.

When I returned from the restroom, he’d poured two glasses of champagne.
“Hey, now, you know I don’t drink.” I teased.
“A toast,” he declared. “You won’t get drunk from a toast.”
I smiled and sat across from him at the small round table, took my glass and raised it.
“To our book; may it become bigger than those authors who didn’t deserve it.”
I chuckled and took a sip.

“You didn’t put something in here, did you?”
“All these years and you still don’t trust me!” He frowned and smacked the table, pushing himself back from it, away from me.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that, well..”
“What?” he snapped, he looked like nothing I could say would take back his hurt.
“I’m afraid of you.” I looked straight into his eyes. I watched them go from hurt to confusion.
“I’d never hurt you.,” he said softly. “I love you.”

“I know.”