Somewhere in the back of her truck was a shopping bag containing flannel sheets that had pine tassels and pinecones printed on them. She’d even found a new quilt made of appliquéd blocks of loons, moose, black bears, and chickadees—which Libby had learned were Maine’s state bird. She’d bought a checkered dust ruffle, pillow shams, and several matching towel sets.
She’d also bought two new lamps for the sides of the bed, both made from birch tree with carved chickadees perched on the branches. There was a wool rug someplace back there, a framed print of a moose feeding in a bog in the morning mist, and new curtains that matched the dust ruffle.
But her most exciting purchases, and ironically the least expensive, were the glow-in-the-dark stars she’d found at a neat little shop in downtown Bangor. She couldn’
t wait to get home, stick them up on the bedroom ceiling, turn out the lights, and fall asleep under the stars.
Libby focused past the wiper blades as they tried to keep up with the driving rain that had been pelting the truck for the last twenty miles. It was starting to sound more like sleet than rain, and she was glad she’d made it through Pine Creek before the roads glazed over to ice. Only three miles to go. The whole ride home, the radio had said that a nor’easter was coming up the coast and that the rain would turn to snow in the mountains first, probably by nightfall. It was night now, and the weatherman was being proved right.
Michael had given her his cell phone before she’d left, and he had called her three times already today. The last time, he had been rather blunt about getting her butt in the truck and getting home before the storm hit.
But she hadn’t minded his macho attitude, simply because she couldn’t seem to get enough of the guy.
Maybe they could go out on an actual date tomorrow night. She’d spend tomorrow rearranging her room, making it pretty and romantic. She’d take a nice, long bubble bath, paint her toenails, and even dig out some of her makeup.
She was a modern woman; she would ask Michael out. She would pick him up, pay for dinner, and bring him back to her bachelorette pad so he could thank her properly for the nice evening.
She might even buy him a whopping bouquet of flowers.
Libby sighed with relief when she finally pulled into the garage. She jumped out and ran to the open garage door, looking through the wind-driven mix of snow and sleet toward the chicken coop. Damn. There was no help for it, the chickens needed tending.
She pulled up the hood on her jacket and sprinted across the yard, slamming through the coop door. She waved away a flurry of feathers from the startled birds.
“Sorry, girls. Well, aren’t we all nice and cozy in here? Got any eggs for me tonight?”
They blinked in answer and immediately started pecking her muddy shoes. Libby changed the water in their dish and refilled their food pan. She scooped up six huge eggs, tucked them into her pockets, and ran back out into the storm.
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.