“Good thing traffic was light.” Dench checked his watch and climbed out of the truck. He knew they were cutting it close, planning to leave the house by two, but it was the best he could do. “Got to make that four o’clock flight and my baby is amazing, but being on time is not one of her gifts—I’d better get in there and light a fire under her.” Reaching back, he fumbled for his traveling bag, found the handle and hefted it from the cab of his truck. The shoestrings of his cleats were tied together and he tossed them over his shoulder. He checked his hip pocket and found the computer printouts—itinerary, gate assignments, and reservations. Assured they were in place, he took a deep breath and tried not to do his personal happy dance—pulling this off felt like a major victory, and if he’d been the receiver on the field, he would have done a victory dance and spiked the ball. “A week alone on a tropical island with the woman I love, and if we’re lucky, we’ll make a baby.”
