Bridget Bernstein’s hand trembled as she inserted a key into the lock of her ex-lover’s apartment door. She had to hurry. He’d be home in half an hour. She heard the whirr of the elevator down the hall and threw herself against the door. It flew open.
She stumbled inside and shut the door. If she hoped to reconcile with David, it had to be today, their third anniversary. David loved romantic surprises. Just last year, on their second anniversary, while she was still at work, he had decorated her apartment with beeswax candles and vases of pale white gardenias. To her delight, when she got home, he waited in her bedroom wearing only a gardenia behind his ear. Candles glowed on her dresser. A bottle of champagne rested in a silver bucket on the nightstand. Surely, he’d forgive her tonight for trespassing.