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Chapter One
He woke because he smelled French toast.
Oh, there was no mistaking it—cinnamon French toast. Lying in bed, he could just about see it. The big, thick slices his mother used to make on Sunday mornings. Heavy and yellow on both sides from the butter. Deep, brown rivers of cinnamon ringing their way through each juicy piece. The fleck of burned grease that would dangle off the corner, looking like stray crust and tasting, gloriously, of the bottom of the frying pan. Yep, that was the smell all right. Cinnamon French toast . . . and fresh coffee.
As he blinked his eyes open, Henry knew he'd arrived at the weekend. It was brighter and warmer in the bedroom than it ever was on weekday mornings. There was no alarm clock beeping at him, and the late spring sun had wrapped its fingers around the drawn curtains just enough to let him know it was out there, waiting for him, whenever he was ready. Henry rolled over onto his back and smiled. She was downstairs, waiting for him too. And she'd made French toast.
Still in his pajamas, he descended the stairs, knowing his footfalls would let her know he was coming. It was just after nine A.M., and she'd probably been up for more than an hour. She was always up before he was, even on the weekends.
He smiled again as he walked into the kitchen. Layla sat at the far end of their white rectangular table, still dressed in her running shorts and shirt. Her light brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. One perfect leg was crossed over the other as she sipped her coffee and looked up from her crossword puzzle. Her toes were painted pink.
"Good morning," she said.
"Morning," he replied, and looked over to the stove, where two fat slices of cinnamon French toast were sizzling. "You sleep okay?"
"Sure," she said, looking up to receive his kiss as he made his way to the refrigerator. "You?"
"Like a baby," he said, and wondered for a second why she giggled.
"That's good," she said.
He poured a glass of orange juice and walked over to the stove. He picked up the spatula and pressed down, slightly, on one of the slices. The grease bubbled up to the surface. He smiled again.
"To what do I owe this?" he asked.
"Just felt like something different," she said, back now to her crossword. "They're probably done, if you want them. I already had mine."
"And what? You were making these in case I came down right this second?"
"I kind of figured the smell might get you . . . eventually."
She knew him well, which was one of the reasons these mornings felt so good. Sure, they saw each other in the mornings during the week, but it was always hectic. She hustling out to work in the morning, he pecking her on the cheek as he began his own workday at the computer, already in his zone. But on these mornings, on Saturdays, it always felt more comfortable. Saturday felt like you'd made it to something—like the workweek was worth it. Saturday was a reward, and he enjoyed sharing it with her.
"So," she said, still looking at the paper.
"Mmm-hmm?" Henry asked through his first forkful of French toast.
"Do you know what next Saturday is?"
He did know, and as soon as he swallowed his food, he answered proudly.
"Jack and Gina's wedding," he said.
"Well, right," she said, looking up at him now. "But do you know what else next Saturday is?"
And he didn't. Not really fair, a quiz this early in the morning. And especially not if the French toast was a trap. He wasn't ready for this. Not fair to wreck a Saturday in the first few minutes. Not fair at all.
"What?" he asked, oblivious.
"Henry," she said, and she might have looked sad if she hadn't looked triumphant. "You really don't know?"
And he set his mind to a frantic scramble. June 5. What was June 5? Why was June 5 an important day? What was it about June . . . oh.
"Oh," he said. "Of course. June fifth."
It was Layla's turn to smile. Of course, she'd been fishing for this. It hadn't been a quiz at all, but a segue to the next part of her Saturday morning surprise. She'd just wanted him to get there on his own, before springing it on him.
"June fifth, six years ago," she said to him.
"I remember," he said.
"You took me to that little sandwich place in Georgetown, the one down near Wisconsin Avenue."
"Booeymonger's."
"Right. Booeymonger's."
"Our first date," he said.
"Our first date. Do you remember? You had to borrow money from your roommate?"
"From Brian. He let me borrow his credit card. He didn't have any money either, but he had something like a hundred left on this one card. He was a good roommate."
Layla chuckled a little. And now he was beginning to worry. She'd been sitting completely still this whole time, the pen lying across the crossword, the coffee on the table in front of her, her hands folded in her lap. She was looking him directly in the eye.
"Do you know why I bring this up?" she asked.
And he didn't know this one either. He was really getting his ass kicked on this conversation, and he couldn't figure out why. It had been years since they'd given each other gifts on June 5, years since he'd even sent roses. They always marked the occasion with a nice dinner for two, somewhere simple, and a bottle of wine. Last year they'd had champagne.
All he could offer was a blank look.
"Well," she said, making him wonder when she'd lapsed into her lawyer tone of voice. "I bring this up, Henry, because next Saturday will mark the six-year anniversary of our first date together. And Henry, I think it's about time we made it official."
The Ultimatum. Copyright © by Dan Graziano. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from The Ultimatum by Dan Graziano
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