By Appointment Only by Janice Maynard

smartass teasing comments. She loved his wicked sense of humor and their sexual banter. But the solemn gravity of his words took her completely by surprise. And she hated being surprised. She didn’t know what to say. How could she put into words what he made her feel? It would be like trying to describe the Grand Canyon to a blind person.
    She curled into his side, her right hand resting over his heart. Surely he could understand how she felt. She was wearing his ring. That said something, didn’t it?
    The opportunity for a lighthearted reply on her part passed, and now they were left with an awkward silence. Finally he sighed and stroked her back. “It’s not all that late. We could watch a movie if you want.”
    Suddenly she was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the evening. She yawned and wriggled sideways to pull the covers over them. “Do you mind if we just go to sleep?”
    He flipped the comforter into place and wrapped one strong arm around her, cocooning her in the dual warmth of man and material. “Not at all,” he said, his words already tinged with drowsiness. “It’s been a long week.”
    Sunday afternoon Hannah hovered near the computer, checking and rechecking her in-box. Finally the Hurst e-mail address popped up. She opened it and printed out her questionnaire. When she was done, Morgan switched to his mailbox and did the same.
    They took chairs on opposite sides of the room and got down to business. Hannah was surprised right off by two things. One— the survey was about a million questions long. And two—the questionnaires weren’t at all what she had expected. Or maybe she simply hadn’t known what to expect.
    Do you feel safe when you are in bed with your fiancé?
Do you feel safe in general when you are with your fiancé?
Do you think about marriage often?
Do you feel pressured to do things you don’t want to do?
How old were you when you lost your virginity?
    That question stopped her cold in her tracks and filled her with distress. She’d been fifteen. And she’d done it to get her mother’s attention.
    It had hurt. A lot. Her membrane had been fully intact, and there had been lots of blood. Even now the memory shamed her. She’d tried to keep it from Grammy, but the old woman had the instincts of a hunting dog. She’d found Hannah crying in the bathroom late at night, and with one sharp glance had pegged the situation.
    To Hannah’s utter mortification, Grammy had made her go see a gynecologist, both for a physical confirmation that she was okay and to make sure Hannah received a pointed lecture about the ramifications of sexual activity.
    Grammy had called Hannah’s mother and asked her to accompany them. Vivian had declined. Hannah had cried herself to sleep that night for a whole laundry list of reasons that were far more complicated than losing her virginity.
    She didn’t have sex again for six years.
    The brief trip to the past made her stomach churn. Her hand hovered over the question. No one would ever know if she lied. She wrote the number twenty-one. Then she stared at it. No one would believe that. She erased it and wrote eighteen.
    Then she glanced over at Morgan. His head was bent, his attention focused on the list of questions. Were his similar to hers? They had never talked about past lovers or boyfriends or girlfriends.
    Grinding her teeth and feeling her face heat even though no one was watching, she erased the number eighteen and wrote in the accurate digits.
    On Monday morning Hannah delivered the questionnaires in person. One of her elderly clients had a doctor’s appointment in the same building as the Hursts, so after getting the frail woman settled into the waiting room, Hannah rode the elevator once again up to the now-familiar suite of offices.
    The envelope in her hand was sealed. She had wanted badly to rip it open and see Morgan’s questions and answers, but she didn’t follow through on the childish impulse. If this sexual