“Father Daar said I should just let it go. That it probably really was made by Santa, and if I keep pushing the issue, I’ll never get my matching bureau.”
She was blathering like an idiot, probably because she knew Michael knew damned well she was lying. He sipped his coffee, eyeing her over the rim of his cup, and then turned back to the counter and popped the bread into the toaster.
“I take my coffee black,” Daar said, sitting down at the table. “In case ya forgot how I like it,” he added, giving Libby a pointed frown. “Did ya get your mama on the plane yesterday?”
“Yes. She said she’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”
“Well, that will give ya a few days of privacy,” the old priest said with a snicker, looking down at the table. “I like yar tablecloth. Is it new?”
Libby had just started to pour his coffee when he asked his question. She turned toward the table and gasped when she saw the blue checkered tablecloth that was decorated with tiny green Christmas trees and bright red balls perched on their points.
“Wh-what is that doing here?” she asked, looking at Michael. “Where did you find it?”
“In your truck,” he told her, buttering the toast. “I unloaded everything for ya last night.” He popped two more slices of bread into the toaster and pointed the butter knife at the ceiling. “And I put up all your damned stars,” he said, turning fully to face her, setting his hands on his hips, the butter knife in his fist. “Do ya have any idea how many seven gross of stars are?”
Libby looked up, and her mouth fell open. Her kitchen ceiling was covered in stars.
They were barely visible in the morning light, but come nightfall, they’d probably blind her. She turned her gaping stare on Michael, who was grinning like a boy waiting to be praised, his arms opened slightly, as if he expected Libby to throw herself at him in gratitude.
“You—ah—you put them all up? All seven packages?” she whispered. “In my kitchen?”
“And the living room and your bedroom. Hell, I even put some in the bathroom.”
“B-but why?”
“To help ya nest.”
“Nest?”
“Aye, nest,” he told her, sounding a bit defensive. “Ya went shopping for women’s stuff, so that means ya’re nesting.”
One or both of them were confused, and Libby was afraid it was her. “Nesting?” she repeated.
“I think he means he’s trying to help ya settle in, girl,” Father Daar said, standing up and grabbing his forgotten cup of coffee out of her hand.
“Settle in?” she parroted, shaking her head as she continued to gape at Michael.
“Wh-what else did you do?” she asked, scanning the kitchen.
“I set up yar lamps over the mantel, and put the rug in front of the couch. And I hung that picture of the moose over the hearth.”
Libby walked into the living room, stood behind the couch, and stared. There was the print of the moose, hanging over the fireplace, with her chickadee lamps on either side of it. The bird rug was on the floor, right where Michael said it would be, and the quilt she’d intended for her bed was lying folded across the back of the couch.
She looked up. The ceiling was covered with stars.
Libby didn’t know whether to weep or laugh. She’d planned to use two packages of stars in her bedroom, and the rest were Christmas gifts for Robbie and the MacKeage girls. The tablecloth was another Christmas gift, for John Bigelow. And the candles that Michael had thoughtfully placed on the end tables—helping her nest—were for Grace.
“Ya bought some beautiful things, lass,” Michael said, moving up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her against his chest. “And now you’ve turned this house into your nest.”
“Y-yes, it seems I have. With your help,” she quickly tacked on, relaxing into him and covering his arms with her hands. “Thank you.”
There was nothing else she could say. He must have worked all night putting up, what?
More than a thousand stars. She didn’t have the heart to tell him the difference. So she turned in his embrace, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed his throat—since that was all she could reach.
“The toast is burning out here,” Father Daar hollered.
“And the frying pan is smoking.”
“Wasn’t there something ya wanted to ask me this morning?” Michael said, ignoring Father Daar, not letting her go. “Ya mentioned dinner last night.”
“Oh, yeah. I thought we could go to dinner and maybe dancing or a movie or something,” she whispered, looking at his third shirt button. “If—if you’d like.”
“Are ya asking me out on a date, Miss Hart?” he asked, lifting her chin.
His eyes were a deep, warm pewter, filled with a laughing tenderness that bolstered Libby’s courage. Why was it so hard to ask the man out, especially considering how intimate they’d been less than an hour ago? She moved out of his embrace and headed into the kitchen, giving him a sassy smile over her shoulder.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” she told him. “Dress casual.”
Father Daar was standing by the door, putting on his coat and glaring at her. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he grumbled. “I hate burnt toast.”
“Oh, come sit down,” Libby said, moving the smoking frying pan off the burner. “I’ll make you some new toast.”
“I don’t know,” he said petulantly, running his hand over the top burl on his cherrywood cane, his old, weathered face set in the pout of a recalcitrant child.
“I’ll show you a wonderful surprise if you do,” Libby offered next. “Something I think you’ll find interesting.”
That piqued his curiosity, as she knew it would. He might be old, and he might be a wizard, but he was still human—wasn’t he?
“What is it?” he asked, taking off his jacket and hanging it back on the peg. He walked over to the table, got his coffee cup, went to the counter, and refilled it. He suddenly stopped on his way to the table and eyed her suspiciously. “It’s not one of them blasphemous books on magic, is it, that ya found in a bookstore?” He shook his head.
“There’s only one book that’s worth anything, and I already got it.”
Libby moved out of the way so Michael could wipe out the frying pan and start the eggs. “You have a book?” she asked, intrigued. “Of spells?” She ignored Michael’s snort and sat down at the table beside Daar. “Will you show it to me?”
“I might,” Daar said, his chin lifted in challenge. “If yar surprise really is interesting.”
Libby looked down at the cane he’d hooked over the edge of the table. “Did you make that?” she asked.
He frowned at her, his expression guarded. “Aye. From a sapling that grew on Fraser Mountain. Why?”
“Do you suppose that’s where my cherrywood stick came from?” she asked Michael, turning to look at him.
“The one Mary brought me?”
She quickly turned back when Daar gasped. “What stick?” he all but shouted, standing up. “Robbie’s pet brought ya a cherrywood stick?” he asked, looking around the kitchen. “Where is it? What does it look like?”
Libby was confused by his reaction. “It’s on the mantel,” she said, heading into the living room. “It’s about two feet long, it’s thick, and it looks very old.”
Daar all but ran over her trying to get to the mantel first.
Libby jumped up onto the bottom hearth to get the stick, but it wasn’t there. She looked down at Daar, who was wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot.
“Well?” he said, excitedly. “Where is it?”
“I—er—it was right here. Michael,” she shouted to the kitchen. “Did you move the stick when you decorated last night? Where did you put it?”
Michael stepped back from the stove to look into the living room. “It wasn’t on the mantel last night,” he said softly.
“Where is it?” Daar repeated, going through the living room and looking in every nook and cranny. He stopped and glared at Libby. “Tell me again exactly what it looked like.