“And you worry about us wearing a helmet,” he said with a laugh. “You’re a bit accident-prone, aren’t ya?”

“I am not. This shower wasn’t built for two people,” she sputtered, finally giving up and stepping out of the tub. She peeked back past the curtain at Michael. “Not when one of those people is a giant.”

He quickly rinsed off, having to duck to rinse his hair, and stepped out beside her.

“Your turn now,” he said, holding the curtain back. “I’ll just stand here and watch, to make sure ya don’t kill yourself.”

A loud knocking suddenly came from the kitchen.

Libby gasped and grabbed a towel to wrap around herself.

Michael just closed his eyes. “I know that sound,” he said with a sigh. “That’s a cane knocking against your door.”

Libby didn’t gasp again, she shrieked. “Oh, my God. You have to hide,” she said, shoving at Michael. “No. Wait. Get dressed, and crawl out the bedroom window.”

He gave her an incredulous look. Then he took his time wrapping his towel around his waist before he sauntered into the kitchen to greet their urgently knocking, uninvited visitor.

Libby ran into her bedroom and disappeared inside her closet, not coming out until she was fully dressed. When she walked past a mirror on her way to the kitchen, she noticed her hair was standing on end and she still had soap in one ear.

Dammit. Why did Father Daar have to come to breakfast this morning? If he really was a wizard, he wasn’t a very bright one. He was always popping up at the most embarrassing times.

Libby stared at herself in the mirror, watching her face suddenly fill with horror. Oh, God. He knew. Father Daar knew about her gift—and he was in the kitchen, with Michael, whodidn’t know about it.

And he never could know. Michael would think she was a freak or something—an aberration. And he’d probably never let her anywhere near his son again.

She had to talk to Father Daar before he said something. Michael still had to get dressed, and that was her chance. Libby took a deep breath, rubbed the soap from her ear, and ran her fingers through her hair. Suddenly, having Michael greeting the priest wearing only a towel was the least of her worries. So, as calmly as possible and with a smile plastered on her face, Libby finally walked into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Father,” she said, going to the counter and starting the coffee. “Did you weather the storm okay?”

Both men eyed her suspiciously.

“Michael, why don’t you get dressed while I make breakfast?” she instructed as she sliced the bread. “And could you go check and see if the girls gave us any more eggs?”

He appeared to be rooted to the floor, water dripping from his hair, his arms crossed over his chest, and his towel barely clinging to his hips by one small tuck of its corner.

“I already checked yar girls,” Father Daar said, pulling eggs from his pockets. “And I only found these three,” he said, glaring at Michael as if he were the uninvited guest.

“I’m hoping ya got more in the fridge, ’cause I’m mighty hungry this morning.”

Libby shot her own glare at Michael, nodding her head toward the bedroom, silently telling him to go get dressed. He smiled, tucked his thumbs into the waist of his towel, and slowly strolled into the bedroom.

Libby waited until the door shut, then went up to Father Daar just as he was opening the fridge. She grabbed him by the arms, forcing him to face her. “I don’t want you to say anything to Michael about my gift,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to know.”

Daar raised one bushy white eyebrow. “And why would that be?” he asked, not bothering to whisper at all.

“He’ll think I’m crazy.”

“MacBain?” he asked in surprise. “Nay, girl. He’s the last person who would think such a thing.”

“I’m not taking that chance. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

Both of his brows rose. “Do ya truly think ya can keep something like that a secret?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “Libby, hiding yar gift from MacBain will cause ya far more trouble than the gift itself. Do ya have any idea what the man is capable of if his temper gets riled?” He visibly shuddered and stepped back, out of her grip. “I’d rather not be a party to that, if ya don’t mind.”

“I’m not trying to deceive him. I’m trying to protect him.”

“From what?” Daar asked, frowning.

“From me. From whatever this is I’ve got.”

“It’s not a disease,” he snapped. “It’s a gift.”

“It might as well be a disease,” she snapped back, getting a bit angry herself.

He sighed, scratched his beard, and studied her with sagacious regard. “Libby,” he earnestly began. “Trying to hide it from MacBain will only compound your troubles. It takes a powerful lot of energy to keep a secret. Energy that could be better spent understanding your gift instead of trying to ignore it.”

“What are ya trying to ignore?” Michael asked, tucking his shirt into his belt as he walked out of the bedroom and over to the counter. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“What should Libby ignore?” he repeated when neither of them answered. He turned and looked at Libby, lifting one brow in question.

“Ah—the mystery of who made my bed,” she quickly prevaricated, shooting a glare at Daar when he snorted.

“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.