She was almost to the garage when she slipped. She windmilled her arms and shuffled her feet for balance, and still she fell with a bone-jarring thud, flat on her back in the middle of a muddy puddle of slush. She heard something crack, and it took Libby a full minute to realize that the eggs had broken, not her bones.
Her head throbbed. Her shoulders hurt almost as much as her teeth did. Her hands were scraped. And when she tried to wipe the mud out of her eyes, she was nearly blinded by sleet.
“Well, hell. Welcome home, Libby,” she muttered, rolling over and slowly inching her way back to her feet.
She squished into the garage, took off her muddy shoes, and squished into the house.
Blessed warmth greeted her. Warmth, candlelight, and the smell of burnt food.
Libby couldn’t seem to move—either because she was too busy gawking at Michael or because the room wouldn’t stop spinning.
He was sitting at her kitchen table, half hidden behind a vase of roses sitting between two glowing candles burned nearly down to their nubs. An open bottle of wine stood beside his fist, which was curled around a nearly empty crystal flute.
“Ya had five minutes left before I came hunting for ya,” he said softly as he slowly stood up. “Ya’re damn lucky, Libby, that ya got home when ya did.”
Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms. But instinct made Libby want to run back outside rather than face the storm brewing in here. She stood where she was, dripping all over the floor, and fought back tears.
“I-I fell down,” she hoarsely whispered. “And you ruined my surprise. I’m supposed to call you and…and ask you out and buy you flowers and take you to dinner,” she continued, even as he rushed over and snapped on the kitchen light. “And I was paying for it, and you were supposed to pay me back—here, in my new bed.”
He silently started running his hands over every inch of her freezing, muddy body, nodding agreement with every declaration she made.
“I had it all planned,” she continued, awkwardly trying to help him strip off her clothes. “I was going to paint my toenails. I’ve got stars. We were going to sleep under them. In the pinecones. With—with the chickadees.”
“Ya’ve hit your head,” he said, running his fingers through her scalp. “Aye. That’s a bump. Come on, lass, I’ve got to get ya cleaned up.”
The room started spinning again when he swept her into his arms. “You spoiled my surprise,” she said, trying to remember if she’d told him that already.
“Nay, lass,” he softly contradicted, setting her on the hamper in the bathroom. “Ya spoiled mine. Hold on here,” he said, wrapping her fingers over the sink so she wouldn’t fall. He started the shower and turned back to her, getting down on his knees and gently feeling the bump on her head again.
“Now you kneel,” she whispered. “You were supposed to do that tomorrow night.”
“I will,” he promised, brushing his thumbs across her muddy cheeks. “How did ya fall, Libby?”
“I nearly drowned in a puddle. I broke my eggs.”
“But not yar beautiful neck. That’s all that matters.”
“Who made my bed?”
“Santa Claus.”
“I’m writing him a letter. I want a bureau for Christmas. You have a beautiful chest.”
He’d taken off his shirt while keeping an eye on her, still kneeling in front of her. Libby reached out and touched his chest. Then she sighed and leaned forward, intent to kiss his right nipple.
He gently cupped her head, catching her before her lips could land. “Ya have a concussion,” he told her.
“I do not. I’m a doctor. I would know that.”
“Well, something’s rattled yar brain, lass. Come on, into the shower ya go,” he said, lifting her off the hamper and standing her in the tub.
Libby yelped when the warm water hit her, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her up. But she settled down when the heat slowly started to penetrate her bones, and the fog in her head finally cleared as the heavenly spray washed rivers of mud down the drain.
“I-I’m okay now,” she whispered, suddenly embarrassed to find herself being bathed like a child. “I can finish.”
He ignored her petition and squirted shampoo into her hair, gently working it into a lather, being careful of the bump on her head.
“I’ve been calling the cell phone for the last hour,” he said as he worked, his voice soft, but Libby could still hear the bite in his words. “Why didn’t ya answer?”
“I thought I heard it ringing. It’s in the back of the truck, in one of the shopping bags, I think.”
His sigh raised goose bumps on her skin. “Libby, ya should have stopped and found it. Ya scared the hell out of me, lass.”
Keeping her eyes closed so she wouldn’t get soap in them was making her dizzy again. Libby held on to Michael’s belt with one hand while she foolishly held her other hand over her breasts.
The water suddenly stopped, and Michael lifted her out of the tub and quickly wrapped her in a towel. He threw another towel over her head as he swept her against his chest and carried her into the bedroom.
Candlelight flickered through the room, and dozens of roses tucked into vases sat on every available surface. Libby’s tears finally spilled free at the realization that Michael really could be romantic.
Michael set her on the bed, pulled the towel away, and tenderly kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t ya dare cry,” he whispered, slowly rubbing her hair dry. “You’re not hurt, I no longer want to throttle ya, and Santa Claus won’t bring ya a bureau if ya cry all over his bed.”
“I ruined your surprise,” she croaked, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. “You bought me flowers. And candles. You do know how to be romantic, and I ruined it.”
“Shhh,” he crooned, laying them both down on the bed and gently tucking her up against his side. “Only supper is ruined, lass. The rest of the night is ours to enjoy. Do ya still have stars in your head?”
“No. They’re in the truck.”
He pulled back, his eyes probing and suspicious. “In the truck?” he repeated.
“With the chickadees,” she added, snuggling against him and closing her eyes. She yawned and patted his chest, letting her fingers rest in the silky hair around his nipples.
“You have a beautiful chest.”
He threw one leg over her hip and pulled her against him. “You have a beautiful chest, too,” he said with another sigh. “You may sleep, Libby, but I’m going to wake you up every hour.”
“The condoms are in the drawer.”
“To see if ya have a concussion, lass,” he said with yet another sigh, this one exasperated.
“I don’t.”
“I’m glad. But I’m waking ya up, anyway.”
Libby lifted her head. “Are you going to sneak out again before morning?”
He tucked her back against his chest and held her there. “Nay. Robbie is staying at the Dolans’ tonight. He’s going with Leysa and Rose to Bangor tomorrow to do some shopping.”
“I shopped in Bangor. My truck’s full.”
“Aye. Full of stars, ya said.”
“And other stuff,” Libby mumbled, stifling another yawn.
Michael rearranged her so that her mouth faced up and her breasts pushed against him instead.
“Are ya warming up?” he asked, pulling the quilt over her back. “And are ya hurt anywhere else, other than your head?”
“No, but I am going to ache in the morning.”
“Nay. I’ll see what I can do about your aches…in the morning, lass. Now, go to sleep.”
“Promise you’ll be here?”
“Oh, yes.”
With his words settling over her like a gentle caress, Libby snuggled against Michael and fell asleep in her new bed, content that she was safe from the storm and people-eating puddles.
Michael stared at the ceiling, listening to the gentle rise and fall of Libby’s breathi
ng. Sleet pelted the window as the storm continued to rage with blatant disregard for anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had just come to the end of his patience when he’d heard Libby drive into the garage. He’d been through two hours of hell waiting for her to come home, and the five minutes it had taken her to come inside had been filled with fantasies of throttling the woman for scaring him.
How the hell could he have guessed she’d go check on the chickens first? And that she’d throttle herself before he could?
Guilt was a terrible emotion but one he was sadly familiar with. He’d failed two women in his life, and he had to take extra care that he didn’t fail Libby.
Michael rubbed his chest where she’d hit him with the snowball almost two weeks ago. She didn’t know it, but she had struck him square in the heart—and left a permanent mark that time would not only deepen but spread, until Libby was so much a part of him that he wouldn’t know how to live without her.
He already couldn’t live without her.
Stars, he thought with a silent chuckle. What had she been talking about? And a date tomorrow night? She’d planned to ask him out, and then she’d intended to bring him back here and seduce him. In her new bed. Which Santa Claus had made.
Well, Santa Claus was suddenly curious.
Michael slowly inched out of bed, carefully wrapping the quilt around Libby and putting one of the pillows up against her back where he had been. He walked softly into the kitchen, put on his boots, and headed into the garage. He closed the huge garage door to keep out the storm and then opened the back door of her truck.
The interior light came on but was shadowed by shopping bags stacked against it. Michael whistled and shook his head in amazement.
No wonder Libby hadn’t been able to stay awake. She didn’t have a concussion, she was beat tired from shopping. It was a good thing the lady owned a full-sized truck. She needed one for her obvious buying addiction.
Michael started pulling out shopping bags and carrying them into the house, making four trips before he found the chickadees. They were perched on lamps, life-sized little critters flitting around on a birch trunk almost two feet tall. He carried the two lamps into the living room and set one at either end of the mantel. He plugged them in and turned them on, then stepped back to see how they looked.
They looked damned good to him, their light casting a soft glow on the smooth river stones. Satisfied that he’d found Libby’s chickadees a new home, Michael spun on his heel and went back out to the truck.
He tossed the rolled carpet over his shoulder and grabbed two more shopping bags. A thin, colorful package fell out of one of them. He picked it up off the floor of the truck, turned it over, and smiled.
Stars. A gross of stars, the label said, that glowed in the dark and would stick to most surfaces. Michael slid the package into the bag and went back into the kitchen. He dropped the bags onto the table on the way by and continued into the living room, setting the carpet in front of the hearth and rolling it out.
More chickadees, as well as other woodland birds. Perfect. It matched the lamps and fit nicely between the hearth and the couch.
Libby might have ruined his surprise tonight, but when she woke up in the morning, he’d have another one waiting for her. He went back to the kitchen and started unpacking all the shopping bags, pulling out sheets, curtains, a package that said it was a dust ruffle—whatever the hell that was—and towels.
But the stars kept drawing his attention. What did Libby want with stars? He opened them, pouring them out onto the table. One hundred forty-four, all varying in size. He read the label again and slowly started to laugh. Stick to the ceiling, the instructions said.
Libby wanted to sleep under the stars. Well, dammit, she would. Tonight. Michael kicked off his boots and quietly walked into the bedroom, leaning over Libby to make sure she was sound asleep. He covered her face with the edge of the quilt before turning on the light, then carefully reached up and started sticking the stars on the ceiling.
He made the Big Dipper over the north end of the bed, then moved to the foot and laid out Orion. He clustered several of the stars in a long row to mimic the Milky Way and set out as many constellations as he could make.
He needed more stars. There was still half the ceiling to fill. He stepped off the bed and went back to the kitchen table, dumping out whatever shopping bags were left. He found six more packages of stars.
Six? Hell, had she planned on doing the whole house?
Michael sat down at the table and poured the last of the wine into his glass, took a long drink, and stared at all the stuff Libby had bought.
She was nesting. Sitting in front of him were all the signs of a woman settling in. Libby had adopted Maine as her new home and was surrounding herself with its trappings.
She won’t stay,James Kessler had said.
From the looks of the stuff she’d bought, Michael knew that he no longer had to worry about Libby’s intentions. She was roosting like an old hen sitting a nest.
He was glad. He’d been walking a fine line for two weeks, between being afraid to push her and wanting to get heavy-handed to make her stay. Michael gulped down the rest of his wine and stood up. If the woman wanted to make herself at home, he’d help her do it.
With Trouble, Guardian, and Timid more interested in playing in the empty shopping bags than helping, it took Michael nearly the entire night to finish the job. He washed and folded Libby’s new sheets, set out her towels, put her tablecloth on the kitchen table, tossed her new pillows onto the couch, placed the candles she’d bought in strategic places, and hung the huge print of the moose over the mantel.
And he stuck up every damned one of her glowing stars on every ceiling in the downstairs of the house.
It was just daybreak when he finally crawled into bed, pulling Libby up against his tired body in the hopes of getting a bit of sleep himself.
Aye, he’d done a good job of feathering her nest.
“Are ya going to pretend you’re asleep much longer? ’Cause if ya are, I’m writing to Santa and telling him not to bring ya anything for Christmas.”
Libby now knew where Robbie had picked up the habit of saying’cause all the time. “Shhh,” she whispered, snuggling against Michael’s warm body. “I’m savoring the fact that you’re still here.”
“I’m still here,” he said thickly. “And damned thankful you are as well. Ya scared me last night, Libby. You were supposed to get here before the storm did.”
Libby finally opened her eyes and found Michael leaning on his elbow, staring down at her with an accusing glare. “My brain’s still a bit foggy, but didn’t we cover this subject last night?”
“In part,” he agreed, rolling over and pinning her in place. “But I think it’s important we go over it again. Libby, ya have to respect the weather and plan your business around it.”
“I thought I had.” She reached up and ran a finger down the side of his face. “I’m sorry I worried you, Michael. I won’t do it again. And I’ll keep the cell phone with me next time.”
He seemed surprised by her apology and a bit suspicious. He kissed her hungrily as he slid his hand under the blanket and found one of her naked breasts.
“Ah…did we…you and I…did we make love last night, Michael?”
He reared back, both brows lifting in question. “Ya don’t remember?” he asked, running a hand over the bump on her head. “You really did take a terrible fall.”
“I remember how you took care of me. But I fell asleep. You…you said you’d wake me up every hour. Did you?”
He let out a sigh that moved her hair. “I think I’ve just been insulted.” He shook his head. “Ya don’t remember anything? Not even telling me where ya’d put the condoms?”
Libby looked at him in horror. “I…we did…you usedall of them? Even the two in my purse?”
She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Dammit, they’d
finally christened her new bed, and she didn’t remember. “Do—do you have any more?” she whispered.
“I might. Why?”
“I thought we could…ah…do it again. I’m wide awake, Michael. I’ll remember this time, I promise.”
“I don’t know,” he said, lifting his gaze to the headboard as if he were thinking about it. “I’ll probably disappoint ya so badly that you’ll forget again.”
Libby reached up, grabbed his hair, and forced him to look at her. “You’re lying,” she accused, watching him closely. “You didn’t touch me last night.”
His expression turned wounded. “I touched every inch of ya last night, lass,” he whispered gutturally, sending shivers down her spine. “I distinctly remember kissing that cute little birthmark ya have on your left hip.”
Her shivers turned to prickles of heat as erotic visions rose in her mind. Oh, why couldn’t she remember?
Maybe she did have a concussion.
“Will you kiss it again?” she asked, running her finger down the side of his face, stopping at his mouth and tracing the curve of his bottom lip. “And this one?” she said, pointing to the little mole on her right shoulder. “I’m sure I would have remembered if you had kissed that one. I’m particularly sensitive there.”
His deep pewter eyes lit up, reflecting laughter that finally escaped as he rolled over, taking her with him, until Libby found herself sitting astride his waist.
“Maybe it would work better if you kissed my sensitive places,” he said thickly, lifting his hips, causing Libby to gasp when his erection touched her intimately. “That way, ya might remember.”
“But we used up all the condoms…didn’t we?”
He nodded toward the nightstand, and Libby leaned over and opened the drawer. Four rows of packets sprang out.
The man had stuffed a dozen condoms in her nightstand?
She sat up and looked at him, her own eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are we expecting company?” she asked softly. “Or are you just optimistic?”
“Now, lass,” he said, rolling them over until she was pinned beneath his body. Shaking with laughter, he said, “I don’t want them at home where Robbie can find them and start asking questions. I swear, that boy has more questions than a whole classroom of kids.”
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