“You’re sure everyone will fall in line.”

Now she turned to him, fully. “Confidence is the first step to getting what you want, or need. But we’ll say I’m hoping Layla and Cyb will agree it’s efficient, practical, and would be more comfortable to share the house for a few months than to bunk at the hotel. Especially considering the fact that both Layla and I are pretty well put off of the dining room there after Slugfest.”

“You don’t have any furniture.”

“Flea markets. We’ll pick up the essentials. Cal, I’ve stayed in less stellar accommodations and done it for one thing. A story. This is more. Somehow or other I’m connected to this story, this place. I can’t turn that off and walk away.”

He wished she could, and knew if she could his feelings for her wouldn’t be as strong or as complex. “Okay, but let’s agree, here and now, that if you change your mind and do just that, no explanations needed.”

“That’s a deal. Now, let’s talk rent. What’s this place going to run us?”

“You pay the utilities-heat, electric, phone, cable.”

“Naturally. And?”

“That’s it.”

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“I’m not going to charge you rent, not when you’re staying here, at least in part, because of me. My family, my friends, my town. We’re not going to make a profit off that.”

“Straight arrow, aren’t you, Caleb?”

“About most.”

“I’ll make a profit-she says optimistically-from the book I intend to write.”

“If we get through July and you write a book, you’ll have earned it.”

“Well, you drive a hard bargain, but it looks like we have a deal.” She stepped forward, offered a hand.

He took it, then cupped his other at the back of her neck. Surprise danced in her eyes, but she didn’t resist as he eased her toward him.

He moved slow, the closing together of bodies, the meeting of lips, the testing slide of tongues. There was no explosion of need as there had been in that moment in the clearing. No sudden, almost painful shock of desire. Instead, it was a long and gradual glide from interest to pleasure to ache while her head went light and her blood warmed. It seemed everything inside her went quiet so that she heard, very clearly, the low hum in her own throat as he changed the angle of the kiss.

He felt her give, degree by degree, even as he felt the hand he held in his go lax. The tension that had dogged him throughout the day drained away, so there was only the moment, the quiet, endless moment.

Even when he drew back, that inner stillness held. And she opened her eyes, met his.

“That was just you and me.”

“Yeah.” He stroked his fingers over the back of her neck. “Just you and me.”

“I want to say that I have a policy against becoming romantically, intimately, or sexually-just to cover all my bases-involved with anyone directly associated with a story I’m researching.”

“That’s probably smart.”

“I am smart. I also want to say I’m going to negate that policy in this particular case.”

He smiled. “Damn right you are.”

“Cocky. Well, mixed with the straight arrow, I have to like it. Unfortunately, I should get back to the hotel. I have a lot of…things. Details to see to before I can move in here.”

“Sure. I can wait.”

He kept her hand in his, switching off the light as he led her out.

CAL SENT A DOZEN PINK ROSES TO HIS MOTHER. She liked the traditional flower for Valentine’s Day, and he knew his father always went for the red. If he hadn’t known, Amy Yost in the flower shop would have reminded him, as she did every blessed year.

“Your dad ordered a dozen red last week, for delivery today, potted geranium to his grandma, and he sent the Valentine’s Day Sweetheart Special to your sisters.”

“That suck-up,” Cal said, knowing it would make Amy gasp and giggle. “How about a dozen yellow for my gran. In a vase, Amy. I don’t want her to have to fool with them.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. I’ve got Essie’s address on file, you just fill out the card.”

He picked one out of the slot, gave it a minute’s thought before writing: Hearts are red, these roses are yellow. Happy Valentine’s Day from your best fellow.

Corny, sure, he decided, but Gran would love it.

He reached for his wallet to pay when he noticed the red-and-white-striped tulips behind the glass doors of the refrigerated display. “Ah, those tulips are…interesting.”

“Aren’t they pretty? And they just make me feel like spring. It’s no problem if you want to change either of the roses for them. I can just-”

“No, no, maybe…I’ll take a dozen of them, too. Another delivery in a vase, Amy.”

“Sure.” Her cheerful round face lit up with curiosity and the anticipation of good gossip. “Who’s your valentine, Cal?”

“It’s more a housewarming kind of thing.” He couldn’t think of any reason why not to send Quinn flowers. Women liked flowers, he thought as he filled out the delivery form. It was Valentine’s Day, and she was moving into the High Street house. It wasn’t like he was buying her a ring and picking out a band for the wedding.

It was just a nice gesture.

“Quinn Black.” Amy wiggled her eyebrows as she read the name on the form. “Meg Stanley ran into her at the flea market yesterday, along with that friend of hers from New York. They bought a bunch of stuff, according to Meg. I heard you were going around with her.”

“We’re not…” Were they? Either way, it was best to leave it alone. “Well, what’s the damage, Amy?”

With his credit card still humming, he stepped outside, hunched his shoulders against the cold. There might be candy-striped tulips, but it didn’t feel as if Mother Nature was giving so much as a passing thought to spring. The sky spat out a thin and bitter sleet that lay slick as grease on the streets and sidewalks.

He’d walked down from the bowling center as was his habit, timing his arrival at the florist to their ten o’clock opening. It was the best way to avoid the panicked rush of others who had waited until the last minute to do the Valentine’s thing.

It didn’t appear he’d needed to worry. Not only had no other customers come in while he’d been buying his roses and impulsive tulips, but there was no one on the sidewalks, no cars creeping cautiously toward the curb in front of the Flower Pot.

“Strange.” His voice sounded hollow against the sizzle of sleet striking asphalt. Even on the crappiest day, he’d pass any number of people on his walks around town. He shoved his gloveless hands into his pockets and cursed himself for not breaking his routine and driving.

“Creatures of habit freeze their asses off,” he muttered. He wanted to be inside in his office, drinking a cup of coffee, even preparing to start the cancellation process on the evening’s scheduled Sweetheart Dance if the sleet worsened. If he’d just taken the damn truck, he’d already be there.

So thinking, he looked up toward the center, and saw the stoplight at the Town Square was out.

Power down, Cal thought, and that was a problem. He quickened his steps. He knew Bill Turner would make certain the generator kicked on for the emergency power, but he needed to be there. School was out, and that meant kids were bound to be scattered around in the arcade.

The hissing of the sleet increased until it sounded like the forced march of an army of giant insects. Despite the slick sidewalk, Cal found himself breaking into a jog when it struck him.

Why weren’t there any cars at the Square, or parked at the curbs? Why weren’t there any cars anywhere?

He stopped, and so did the hiss of the sleet. In the ensuing silence, he heard his own heart thumping like a fist against steel.

She stood so close he might have reached out to touch her, and knew if he tried, his hand would pass through her as it would through water.