He figured they could rewatch Father Goose any time. Maybe even once a week for the rest of their lives.

  It only took a tiny amount of shifting to relocate her on his lap. Her eyes closed even before his mouth swooped down, slow, slower than silver and softer than a whisper. Coaxing. Wooing. Her fingers climbed his neck, cautiously, carefully, then held tight. Holding on when he came back for another kiss. And then another.

  A whoosh of a sigh escaped her. But then Poppy took her turn. Not just kissing Sam back . . . but offering him a kiss of her own. Her lips were luscious, luxurious. Warming his mouth, warming some place inside him that had been hollow for a long time. Maybe forever. It felt as if he hadn’t found her in forever. As if he’d looked and looked and finally, suddenly, she was right there. After all this time.

  Her tongue found his. Her fingers reached up, combed through his hair, asking for a tighter kiss. A longer kiss. A daring kiss. His left hand was trapped, supporting her, but his right hand was free to stroke her back, to find bare skin beneath the loose sweater. She didn’t stop him. He couldn’t stop himself from savoring the texture of her skin, her back, her sides. He rained more kisses on her—midnight kisses, sunlit kisses, promising kisses.

  He imagined the feeling of her bare breasts.

  Unfortunately, a baseball bat hit his head. It was only a virtual bat. But it stopped him fast all the same.

  He didn’t have to imagine the feeling of her bare breasts, because he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra. No reason she should have been wearing one under that soft, bulky sweater. No reason for it to matter. But it did.

  Beneath his palm, he could just feel the swell of her breast. He picked up the heat of her heartbeat. At some primal level he understood if he cupped her breast, cherished it, owned it, he’d know her in an entirely different way. It was what he wanted—not just feeling her bare breasts. But of her bare everything. Of risks bared and vulnerability exposed completely.

  But not tonight. He’d promised himself. No pressure, no stress for her. No adding anything on her plate that she didn’t completely volunteer for. It just plain wouldn’t be right.

  Still, it ached not to go further. He wasn’t a boy. He had no interest in playing games. In this case, he was trying his damnedest to play for all the stakes that really mattered. Not him. Not her. But her and him.

  “Sam,” she murmured.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m afraid we’re in trouble.”

  “Believe me. I know,” he agreed.

  “Um. I meant a different kind of trouble.”

  “What?”

  “Bubbles just finished off the cracker dip.”

  “Bubb—” He startled awake. Bubbles wagged her tail so hard she almost knocked over the futon. And then the dog turned her head to face the rest of the White Russian cupcakes—which she’d already taken the cover off.

  “This,” he said to Poppy, “is not fair.”

  “I so agree.”

  “We’re going home. We’ll just take the messes we made and come back another time.”

  She started to protest, but then simply went quiet.

  “But,” Sam said, as he divested himself from her and crumbs and got ahold of the dog’s collar. “Promise me. I mean, a real swear, cross your heart and hope to die. You’ll never watch Father Goose again with anyone but me.”

  “I promise.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Poppy had just finished lunch when she heard a knock on the door. Sam poked his head in. Actually, a platter of cookies showed up before his face did. “Made ’em myself. I can’t stay more than a half hour, too much work today—and I won’t even stay that long if you’re busy.”

  Since waking that morning, she’d been reliving the movie, the old-fashioned necking, the dog eating the best cupcake . . . and the way Sam had looked at her. The way he’d touched her.

  For the first time in hours, her mind glued on something else. The cookies. “Come in . . . and who did you say made these?”

  “Okay, okay. I admit to the fib. Kristin’s mom made them—Karla’s up and around and making Christmas cookies—which means she fills up enough tins to feed the family and the neighborhood and probably all of Wisconsin.

  “These were her grandma’s grandma’s recipe. Forgot the name. She just calls them black walnut cookies. Anyway . . . she said Kristin was totally happy to meet you, happy you love her Bubbles, happy you loved her. Kristin also informed her mom that she wants hair like yours when she grows up, and heck, there was something about purple, but I can’t remember the whole list of accolades the squirt told her mother.”

  As if proving he couldn’t stay, Sam sloughed off his boots, but only unzipped his parka. So . . . maybe he hadn’t been thinking about last night. The making out. Bubbles stealing the cupcake. The way Poppy had looked at him. Well, obviously she didn’t know how she’d looked, since she didn’t have a mirror—but she knew how she felt when she looked at him. When he kissed her, touched her.

  Only now . . . he was munching on a cookie.

  So maybe his mind hadn’t been replaying every second of the night before, the way hers had been.

  “You could have let me have the first cookie,” she said mildly.

  His thick eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Were those the rules in your family? In my family it was boys first.”

  “Your poor mother. Three boys. Your poor, poor mother.”

  “That’s what she used to say all the time. And not to change the subject, but who was the first boy who kissed you?”

  Thank heavens her mind was still fast. She could almost keep up with the devil. “It was a nightmare.”

  “Oh, good. I love nightmare stories. What happened?”

  “His name was Robbie Fleck. Age six. His birthday party. He lived down the street, less than a block, and he was the bane of my life. Followed me to kindergarten. Then first grade.”

  “What was so bad about him?”

  “His shoes were about ten times bigger than the rest of him, so he clomped when he walked. And he couldn’t keep a shirt tucked in. And sometimes spit bubbled in the corners of his mouth when he talked.”

  “Wow. I’m grateful I didn’t have to kiss him.”

  “You should be grateful. It was awful. My mom made me go, said it’d be rude if I didn’t go to the party when I was invited. Only when I got there, all the other kids were boys. I was the only girl. I was supposed to sit next to him while he gobbled down ice cream and cake, and I do mean ‘gobbled.’ Then he opened my present and that’s when he kissed me.”

  “Oh no.”

  “He was all sticky with cake crumbs. And he kissed me so hard he practically knocked me off the chair.”

  “Hey, we could make a Hitchcock movie out of this, without even trying hard.”

  Poppy grabbed the plate of scrumptious black walnut cookies. Sam had already had two. And he’d almost been here a half hour. “You can have one more. After you tell me about the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you in middle school.”

  He looked at her. “Just one story, right? If I tell you, I don’t have to tell you any more.”

  “That depends on how many cookies you want.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you a story. But you need to remember that blackmail goes both ways.”

  She waved off this objection, then lifted a cookie—the biggest in the tin—in front of him.

  Sam snatched it. “Well, pretty sure I told you my mom’s terrific. But it could be that three boys in the summer could tip her patience level. When she threw us outside to play, we all knew not to come back unless we were either bleeding, half dead, or it was almost lunchtime. I think she was having a bunch of women over for a shower or a coffee get-together. Can’t remember exactly.

  “Anyway. It was hot and we were bored. I was the oldest—nine, maybe. So Brer was almost eight and Conan around six or so. Our place had a lot of land in the back, mostly just woods, with a creek running through it. But down near the creek, there was this old shed. Hadn’t been used for anything in years. We weren’t supposed to go near it, but hey, like I said, it was hot and we were bored.” He frowned at her. “This is not a funny story. It’s a mortifying story.”

  “I got that.” She made a motion, to wipe the smile off her face. “Keep going.”

  “So. We did what boys do. We broke in. Found heaps of cobwebs, scraps of wood, a petrified mouse. Or we thought it was a petrified mouse. That’s what we told Conan anyway. It occurred to me, because I was the oldest and someone had to be the boss, that we could do something really helpful for Mom.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “We could burn it down. It was just an eyesore. No one wanted it. Mom had been a little crabby that morning and we all thought doing something helpful would cheer her up.”

  “O. M. G.”

  “I had matches in my pocket. Because I was nine. And when you’re nine, you never know when you’re going to need matches or a flashlight. The wood came down in nothing flat—it was all half-rotten and dried out. We had a blast pulling it down, piling it together, getting twigs and little stuff to get a fire going. I lit the match. And poof.”

  “O. M. G.,” Poppy said again.

  “It went up in a big, beautiful blaze. Smoke billowed everywhere. The fire shot sparks everywhere. We were so proud of ourselves, we could hardly stand it. It was fantastic. But then Mom and all these women came running from the house in their fancy dresses and heels, all screaming. And that was before the firetrucks came. And then, unfortunately, my dad came home from work, shot out of his car, leaving the door wide open and the engine still running.”

  Sam sighed. Took a bite of his cookie. “It seems our fire had taken off. Not many hardwoods along the creek line, but a lot of scrub, and it was all dry. A few sparks is all it took to bring on a blaze.” At her expression, he motioned that it was all okay. “The blaze was out within a half hour. No good trees harmed. Just some of the scrub. Everyone went home. Except for family. Conan immediately claimed credit for the whole idea. Conan, being the youngest, never got in trouble for anything. Which was why he always owned up to anything we guys did. And also why the parents never believed him.”

  “Good grief, Sam . . .” Poppy didn’t know what she wanted to say. Good thing, because he was already rounding up the story.

  “My dad never hit us. Neither did my mom. Brer was the next one in line, and he was told to get to the house, get out of his sooty clothes, take a shower, and that they’d talk later to him. Then it was my turn. I was the oldest. I was always the one who was responsible. My dad . . . he never pulled the mean card. Never. Never heard him say an angry word either. But when he was disappointed in me, I invariably felt lower than a worm. A worthless worm. A worm who’d let him down. This time was worse . . . oh, darn.”

  “Darn?”

  “I just saw the clock.” Sam shot to his feet, started zipping up.

  “Sam, you can’t just leave. You have to finish the story—”

  “I can’t. Honest to Pete. I’m already five minutes late for a meeting with the bank, and it’s all your fault. Not that I care—the banker’ll still be there—and besides, glad we got all that past history out of the way so we don’t have to bring it up again.” He leaned forward, stole another cookie, then stole a kiss—a direct, soft landing on her startled lips—and he was gone.

  Poppy stood in the window, watching his truck pull out, thinking she wanted to kill him. Shake him to sugar with her bare hands. Drown him in a bucket of purple Kool-Aid. Viciously thrash him with a wet towel. Sam knew perfectly well she was dying to know what his punishment was, what his dad had said and done.

  He’d left her hanging and he’d done it deliberately. He was a horrible man. Insufferable. Sneaky. Unpredictable.

  She tried to think up alternative terrible fates—all of which he deserved—yet in spite of herself, Poppy wanted to laugh. She was still standing at the window, watching his truck lights until they disappeared, and grinning like a goofball. Half laughing . . . and half feeling like warm butter, deep down on the inside.

  Her feelings for him were exploding. And it was all his fault.

  Chapter Nine

  THE NEXT MORNING Poppy headed out to the skating rink. Sam didn’t show up this time, nor his brothers, but that was just as well. She vented heaps of energy just skating and swirling around . . . until she realized there was a handful of girls poking their fingers through the fence, all decked out in skating gear.

  “Hey. Come on in. I don’t need the whole rink. I was just playing.”

  “You really skate good,” said one.

  “We were wondering if you’d skate with us. Or help us learn some things.”

  “I don’t know. What would you like to learn?”

  She wasn’t sure who they were, but obviously they lived around the lake and were used to skating here. It wasn’t hard to pick up their names. Amelia was ten, had the jazziest skating outfit. Josie was six, wanted to know how to skate backward. Heather was nine, had a full mouth of braces, claimed that she fell a lot and wanted to know how to fall so you couldn’t hurt yourself. Petra was nine, like Heather, but she’d been skating for a couple years and wanted to know how to do a camel.

  Poppy had a blast with the kids. All of them fell but then they got right back up again. After an hour passed, she figured they were getting tired, and for sure she was . . . but she suggested they make a slow figure-eight snake. She led the crew, but everyone held on to the next girl’s hand, then the next girl’s, forming a slow-moving snake that curled into an eight. No one fell. They all screamed—about how much they loved it.

  When it was over, she realized there was a row of neighborhood moms, hanging over the fence, watching the skating. “You’re Poppy, aren’t you?” one called out.

  Another said she’d heard that Poppy could skate like the wind. Another mentioned that Sam Cooper was the lake catch that never got caught, but gossip had it he was interested in someone now. Someone who skated.

  The kids piled off the ice, took off skates, headed for the bathroom, piled back out again. Poppy enjoyed the exchanges—and for sure, the kids—but was a little startled how much the adults knew about her. And how much they were assuming.

  Everyone was cold, though, and eventually they all headed to their cars, Poppy included.

  She barely made it back to the cottage, though, before hearing an alert beep on her cell. A Madison neighbor had called—the lady who lived two doors down from her—said they’d lost power the night before for several hours. She knew Poppy had a spare freezer that she usually kept filled, so the neighbor thought Poppy would want to know.

  She did want to know. Her extra freezer was filled with peaches and blueberries and apples and strawberries from the summer, not counting the corn and beans and veggies. Dripping ice cream wouldn’t be pretty either.

  Poppy wanted to waste the afternoon driving to and from Madison like she wanted a case of hives, but it wouldn’t kill her. She changed clothes, poured a mug of coffee, and aimed for the highway. Annoying or not, it was probably a good idea to make sure the snowplow folks she’d hired had done the job, that no pipes were broken and that the blizzard hadn’t caused other damage.

  TRAFFIC WAS RAMBUNCTIOUS, but it wasn’t that long before Poppy was turning in to her driveway. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. Her neighbors had their Christmas decorations out and trees in their windows—obviously she hadn’t done decorations this year—but her drive and walkways were neatly shoveled. The neighborhood looked like a traditional college town, not where the students lived, but where profs and other university people wanted a shaded, quiet street. Location was perfect, she could walk to work, pretty much anywhere on campus, and take advantage of easy shopping as well.

  Every home had its own character, and at this time of year, with snow snuggled on every roof and windowsill, it looked fairy-tale charming. Her house was a small redbrick bungalow, with a tall arched gable over the front porch, and a pretty arched door. Poppy remembered the first time she saw it—and fell in love—and still remembered that incredible feeling of accomplishment when the deal was signed and sealed. She’d actually done it. Bought her own home.

  Yet when she unlocked the front door, went in, and switched on the lights, her heart felt an odd thud.

  No matter how tired she was after a long day’s work, she’d always loved turning the key, walking in, closing the door on all the day’s pressures.

  Today she just heard the echo of emptiness. Dusty silence. Granted, she’d never had spare time to think about serious decorating, yet now the smoke-gray couch in the living room seemed downright austere. The hearth was cold. When she’d bought the wall paintings, she thought the pale blues and grays looked dreamy. Now they just looked bland. Not her character. Not anyone’s character.

  Maybe it should have occurred to her before that it was her house, but she wasn’t really living there.

  Trying to shake that troublesome thought, Poppy surged into the task she came for—checking on the freezer first, then the thermostats. She ran water in the kitchen, checked the fridge, found no problems anywhere. The stainless steel appliances were sterilized clean, the walls a cheerful pale green, nothing wrong, nothing bad. Just nothing personal.

  The downstairs bathroom had so much character that it never needed any of hers. Or so she’d thought. A toilet “room” hid behind a closed door; the shower and claw-foot tub were separate; a stained-glass window provided both light and privacy. An ample linen closet held shelves of tissue, bath products, neatly folded towels in rainbow colors—why not, when the room was tiled in white? Only she’d thought the bathroom was adorable. Still did. Only now it seemed obvious that the architect had been creative and interesting. She hadn’t really added anything to make it “more.” To make it hers.