Four? Michael had brought four condoms with him last night?
Every inch of Libby’s body—even her toes—instantly heated with outrage. The man had sat at her dinner table with four condoms tucked in his pocket, fortifying himself for a night of marathon sex.
Well, no wonder he’d left. She’d flopped against him like a drunkard after they’d made love and had fallen asleep before she had even finished yawning. Truth told, it had never occurred to her that he might want to do it again. In her experience with men, they’
d have sex, cuddle a few minutes, and then get up and go home—but not while she’d been unconscious and only after a sweet kiss good-bye and a thank-you.
Libby turned on her heel and marched into the house. She stomped to the trash can, lifted the lid, and dropped the three packets inside.
“There. Take that, Mr. Macho Michael MacBain,” she muttered as she headed to the bathroom. He’d have to crawl on his knees if he wanted to see her again. And he damned well better have flowers in one hand and chocolates in the other.
Libby opened the bathroom door but stepped back with a yelp of surprise to avoid stepping on Trouble.
She’d forgotten about the kittens.
All three of them went scurrying past her and out the door, and Libby blew out a resigned sigh as she watched them run into the kitchen. She’d have to make sure they knew where their litter box was.
She walked to the shower, turned it on, and dropped the quilt at her feet. She stepped under the warm spray and let it cascade over her body, determined to wash away all thoughts of Michael.
But as she lathered herself up and heat slowly seeped back into her bones, Libby remembered Michael’s strong, sensual hands touching her. She remembered waking once or twice last night to find herself pulled up against Michael’s warm body, trapped in his possessive embrace. And she remembered feeling safe and secure and anchored to something more solid than TarStone Mountain.
By the time she dried off, Libby’s anger had subsided. With only a towel wrapped around her, she walked back into the kitchen and opened the trash bin. She took out the condoms, carried them into the bedroom, and put them in the nightstand beside the bed.
Dammit. She’d give him one more chance to make this affair work. And if he didn’t start living up to her expectations, she just might visit Father Daar and ask the crazy old man to turn Michael into a frog.
Chapter Fifteen
By nine-thirty that morning,Libby had unpacked most of the boxes she’d mailed to herself, and her jewelry studio was beginning to get organized. She was sitting with her feet propped up on the desk that already occupied the store and was contemplating how she wanted to display her product.
She was also halfway through her second warm, gooey, absolutely decadent glazed doughnut, which she’d bought at the bakery next-door. If she wasn’t careful, the doughnuts and hot cocoa could become a very bad habit.
She needed displays, she decided, licking her sticky fingers and picking up her cocoa.
Maybe some glass-fronted cases she could hang on the wall and a glass and oak counter like the one the Dolans had in their store next-door. But instead of knives and bullets and rifle scopes, hers would be filled with glass birds, acorns, woodland mammals, and colorful beads.
And loons. She should work on designing a nice loon pendant to sell, since the aquatic birds seemed so popular in the Northeast. She’d seen them decorating shirts, hats, and paintings in the Dolans’ store yesterday. There had been almost as many carvings of loons for sale as there had been moose.
She should probably design a moose, too. But not as a pendant, maybe a small figurine that could decorate a wooden box or something.
Was there a woodworker in Pine Creek she could team up with? Maybe there were other craftsmen—and women—who could use an outlet for their work. She could form a co-op of some sort, and that way the studio could be open more hours, everyone taking turns manning the counter.
Libby dropped her feet to the floor, picked up her pen, and began making a list of the possibilities. Her spirits soared. She hadn’t been this excited since she’d taken a scalpel in her hand for the very first time.
But even that hadn’t been this exciting. The scalpel had been just the next step in a long line of steps to become a surgeon. Building a crafts studio was completely different.
Grammy Bea had been right. Embarking on a new and creative career was what her soul had been yearning for. There were no rules, no strict procedures she’d have to adhere to, and certainly no one looking over her shoulder and telling her what she could and couldn’t do.
It was a very liberating epiphany.
She was thirty-one years old, intelligent, but it amazed her that it had taken so long to realize that she hadn’t been happy. She’d been fulfilled as a surgeon—giving traumatized people their lives back was very rewarding—but she’d caught herself more than once over the years yearning for more, secretly searching for something that was missing in her life.
Libby’s laugh echoed off the empty studio walls. For all her surgeon’s illusion of control, she’d never really had it. The medical establishment had been dictating her every move—medicine and the people who were supposed to love her, who were supposed to want what was best for her.
Well, nowshe was doing what was best for her.
And she was damned proud of herself.
There was a knock on the door, and Libby looked up to see Grace MacKeage peering between cupped hands through the window, a young child doing the same by her knee.
Libby waved them both in, a smile of welcome on her face as she stood to greet her first guests.
“Welcome to NorthWoods Glass Studio,” Libby said, stopping in front of them. “And who have we here?” she asked, leaning down to the adorable, shy girl clinging to her mother’s leg.
“This is Elizabeth,” Grace said, pulling the young child’s thumb out of her mouth.
“Elizabeth, this is Libby. You both have the same name, but she prefers to be called Libby. Say hello.”
Instead of speaking, Elizabeth popped her thumb back between her teeth and hid her face in Grace’s plump belly.
Grace sighed when she straightened and smiled at Libby. “We’re still working on meeting new people. So that’s the name, NorthWoods Glass Studio?”
Libby shrugged. “I’m just trying it out. What do you think?”
“It has a nice ring,” Grace agreed, looking around at the bare walls. Her eyes widened when they came to rest on Libby’s torch on the workbench. “You’ve set your equipment up right here in front?” she asked, walking to the workspace, young Elizabeth shuffling along with her. “I expected you’d work out back and fill the front with displays.”
“I thought people would like to see how it’s done,” Libby explained, following Grace.
“That way, if they order something special, they can watch me make it.”
Grace turned interested blue eyes on her. “You’ll take commissions?”
“Sure. Or I’ll try,” Libby clarified. “Working with glass is not always an exact art, and sometimes I end up with some rather funky-looking pieces.”
“Jewelry only?” Grace asked, nodding at the glass blue jay Libby wore.
Libby lifted the bird from around her neck, leaned down, and placed it over Elizabeth’s head, deftly shortening the cord and settling it against the child’s jacket.
“I can make small figurines that can be displayed,” Libby explained. “Just not too big. I have to build up the glass in layers, and there’s a limit before it starts to get unwieldy or cools unevenly. Then it just shatters.”
Grace looked down at her daughter, who was busy admiring her new necklace, then back at Libby. “Could you make a sword, do you think? Not too big,” she said, holding her index fingers about ten inches apart. “With a tartan wrapped around it? Does the glass come in many colors?”