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.

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.”