“Nay. I’ll see what I can do about your aches… in the morning, lass. Now, go to sleep.”

“Promise you’ll be here?”

“Oh, yes.”

With his words settling over her like a gentle caress, Libby snuggled against Michael and fell asleep in her new bed, content that she was safe from the storm and people-eating puddles.

Michael stared at the ceiling, listening to the gentle rise and fall of Libby’s breathing.

Sleet pelted the window as the storm continued to rage with blatant disregard for anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had just come to the end of his patience when he’d heard Libby drive into the garage. He’d been through two hours of hell waiting for her to come home, and the five minutes it had taken her to come inside had been filled with fantasies of throttling the woman for scaring him.

How the hell could he have guessed she’d go check on the chickens first? And that she’d throttle herself before he could?

Guilt was a terrible emotion but one he was sadly familiar with. He’d failed two women in his life, and he had to take extra care that he didn’t fail Libby.

Michael rubbed his chest where she’d hit him with the snowball almost two weeks ago.

She didn’t know it, but she had struck him square in the heart—and left a permanent mark that time would not only deepen but spread, until Libby was so much a part of him that he wouldn’t know how to live without her.

He already couldn’t live without her.

Stars, he thought with a silent chuckle. What had she been talking about? And a date tomorrow night? She’d planned to ask him out, and then she’d intended to bring him back here and seduce him. In her new bed. Which Santa Claus had made.

Well, Santa Claus was suddenly curious.

Michael slowly inched out of bed, carefully wrapping the quilt around Libby and putting one of the pillows up against her back where he had been. He walked softly into the kitchen, put on his boots, and headed into the garage. He closed the huge garage door to keep out the storm and then opened the back door of her truck.

The interior light came on but was shadowed by shopping bags stacked against it.

Michael whistled and shook his head in amazement.

No wonder Libby hadn’t been able to stay awake. She didn’t have a concussion, she was beat tired from shopping. It was a good thing the lady owned a full-sized truck. She needed one for her obvious buying addiction.

Michael started pulling out shopping bags and carrying them into the house, making four trips before he found the chickadees. They were perched on lamps, life-sized little critters flitting around on a birch trunk almost two feet tall. He carried the two lamps into the living room and set one at either end of the mantel. He plugged them in and turned them on, then stepped back to see how they looked.

They looked damned good to him, their light casting a soft glow on the smooth river stones. Satisfied that he’d found Libby’s chickadees a new home, Michael spun on his heel and went back out to the truck.

He tossed the rolled carpet over his shoulder and grabbed two more shopping bags. A thin, colorful package fell out of one of them. He picked it up off the floor of the truck, turned it over, and smiled.

Stars. A gross of stars, the label said, that glowed in the dark and would stick to most surfaces. Michael slid the package into the bag and went back into the kitchen. He dropped the bags onto the table on the way by and continued into the living room, setting the carpet in front of the hearth and rolling it out.

More chickadees, as well as other woodland birds. Perfect. It matched the lamps and fit nicely between the hearth and the couch.

Libby might have ruined his surprise tonight, but when she woke up in the morning, he’

d have another one waiting for her. He went back to the kitchen and started unpacking all the shopping bags, pulling out sheets, curtains, a package that said it was a dust ruffle—whatever the hell that was—and towels.

But the stars kept drawing his attention. What did Libby want with stars? He opened them, pouring them out onto the table. One hundred forty-four, all varying in size. He read the label again and slowly started to laugh. Stick to the ceiling, the instructions said.

Libby wanted to sleep under the stars. Well, dammit, she would. Tonight. Michael kicked off his boots and quietly walked into the bedroom, leaning over Libby to make sure she was sound asleep. He covered her face with the edge of the quilt before turning on the light, then carefully reached up and started sticking the stars on the ceiling.

He made the Big Dipper over the north end of the bed, then moved to the foot and laid out Orion. He clustered several of the stars in a long row to mimic the Milky Way and set out as many constellations as he could make.

He needed more stars. There was still half the ceiling to fill. He stepped off the bed and went back to the kitchen table, dumping out whatever shopping bags were left. He found six more packages of stars.

Six? Hell, had she planned on doing the whole house?

Michael sat down at the table and poured the last of the wine into his glass, took a long drink, and stared at all the stuff Libby had bought.

She was nesting. Sitting in front of him were all the signs of a woman settling in. Libby had adopted Maine as her new home and was surrounding herself with its trappings.

She won’t stay,James Kessler had said.

From the looks of the stuff she’d bought, Michael knew that he no longer had to worry about Libby’s intentions. She was roosting like an old hen sitting a nest.

He was glad. He’d been walking a fine line for two weeks, between being afraid to push her and wanting to get heavy-handed to make her stay. Michael gulped down the rest of his wine and stood up. If the woman wanted to make herself at home, he’d help her do it.

With Trouble, Guardian, and Timid more interested in playing in the empty shopping bags than helping, it took Michael nearly the entire night to finish the job. He washed and folded Libby’s new sheets, set out her towels, put her tablecloth on the kitchen table, tossed her new pillows onto the couch, placed the candles she’d bought in strategic places, and hung the huge print of the moose over the mantel.

And he stuck up every damned one of her glowing stars on every ceiling in the downstairs of the house.

It was just daybreak when he finally crawled into bed, pulling Libby up against his tired body in the hopes of getting a bit of sleep himself.

Aye, he’d done a good job of feathering her nest.

“Are ya going to pretend you’re asleep much longer? ’Cause if ya are, I’m writing to Santa and telling him not to bring ya anything for Christmas.”

Libby now knew where Robbie had picked up the habit of saying’cause all the time.

“Shhh,” she whispered, snuggling against Michael’s warm body. “I’m savoring the fact that you’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” he said thickly. “And damned thankful you are as well. Ya scared me last night, Libby. You were supposed to get here before the storm did.”

Libby finally opened her eyes and found Michael leaning on his elbow, staring down at her with an accusing glare. “My brain’s still a bit foggy, but didn’t we cover this subject last night?”

“In part,” he agreed, rolling over and pinning her in place. “But I think it’s important we go over it again. Libby, ya have to respect the weather and plan your business around it.”

“I thought I had.” She reached up and ran a finger down the side of his face. “I’m sorry I worried you, Michael. I won’t do it again. And I’ll keep the cell phone with me next time.”

He seemed surprised by her apology and a bit suspicious. He kissed her hungrily as he slid his hand under the blanket and found one of her naked breasts.