“I’ll be darned,” Poppy said suddenly. “We need to take out the trash again, Sam.”

  “I’ll say. I can’t believe we loaded up so much this fast.”

  “I can’t either. Come on, we’ll get it done lickety-split.”

  This time, they actually took out the trash. Beyond the cabin was a shed that stored tools, rakes, shovels, and that kind of thing. Bins for trash were obviously kept there. That chore took all of two seconds.

  Poppy beat Sam to the back of the cabin with her arms already raised to take him on . . . to take him in.

  He’d never guessed she was a wicked, wicked woman. Or maybe he had. Something about her had captivated him from their first meeting. She had this streak of mischief. He loved it.

  She had another streak of risking things she was afraid of. Like him.

  And she made him want to risk the things he was afraid of. Like her. How much she’d come to mean to him, how unreasonably fast, how foolishly huge for two people who still barely knew each other. But he knew her fear. He knew her yearning. He knew he wanted to be there for her, more than any man ever had or could.

  “You’re asking for trouble, Poppy,” he whispered to her.

  “I know. But I’ve never asked for trouble in my entire life, Sam. I don’t want to put you at a disadvantage. I could bungle this. I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  He started to reply, but then heard two familiar female voices call from the back door. “Hey, you two. We’re all about you two being together, but you don’t have to catch pneumonia to do it. It’s freezing out there.”

  They exchanged exasperated looks, but then gave up and joined back in.

  EVENTUALLY THE DAY’S projects were finally done, the plans for the holiday feast organized. They all sat by the Christmas tree for a few minutes—just to ooh and aah over the lights and ornaments—and to bring up a few more plans.

  Sam kept an eye throughout on Poppy, but she seemed in good shape. Christmas chaos had a rhythm to it. No matter how tiring, everyone had done the same chores and jobs every year. And Poppy’d managed this crew for years. It showed.

  “We haven’t talked about Dad. We all know he’ll come for dinner,” Poppy said. “I have no idea if he’ll bring anyone, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll just add an extra chair if he does. Sam, can you come for Christmas Eve? Or have any family you’d like to include with us?”

  “My clan does Christmas on Christmas, but I’ll definitely join you on Christmas Eve.” He hesitated. “Do you three have any other family that lives nearby? Aunts, uncles? Cousins? Grandparents?”

  “We did when we were little,” Poppy said. “Mom’s mom lived close by. Gramps died young, but Grandma was in great health—until she went on a trip to the Far East, picked up a bug, seemed okay until she got home. But she wasn’t. She died awfully quickly after that.”

  “Dad has a sister who lives in England,” Cam mentioned.

  “And there are a couple cousins on Dad’s side, but they live on the other side of the country. It’s hard to stay close.”

  Sam kept thinking an echo of the same song. These three had been alone, really alone, since their mom died. And most of the stories they’d told about past Christmases had been fun and funny—but never seemed to include their father.

  Poppy suddenly jumped to her feet. “I just looked at the clock. Everybody has to be starving. I didn’t really plan for anything ahead of time, but I’ll think of something.”

  “You don’t have to feed us, Poppy.”

  “I’m not thinking about a feast. Just something easy.”

  Poppy came through with omelets. Sam hung close, willing to take orders. She kept putting things in the bowl—sausage and three kinds of cheese and a little spinach and cinnamon and other stuff Sam had never seen served with eggs before. It was delicious. And easy.

  By the time they sat down to eat, Sam offered some Christmas stories of his own. When his brothers were small, they had to make breakfast for his mom before they could open presents. They opted to make scrambled eggs in the microwave. The eggs were so tough they could probably have bounced upstairs by themselves. And there was enough jam on the toast to feed a family of five.

  Marigold was a born giggler—easy to entertain her—but it took a few more embarrassing stories to get Cam going. She liked his story about the year Sam got his first two-wheeler and had to immediately try it out in the living room. Unfortunately he ran into the tree. More unfortunately, the tree fell over, and Sam got buried in all the debris.

  Then there was the Christmas they had Irish wolfhound puppies who were supposed to be in a protected shed outside with their mama and instead ended up “somehow” in the house in the middle of everything.

  Everyone was laughing and talking through dinner, but Sam could see Poppy was starting to flag. It hadn’t been a hard day. Just an endlessly active day. It was so clear to Sam that her sisters wanted her to have a fun, stressless holiday. But at this point, even if everyone was over-the-top happy, there was such a thing as relentlessly happy.

  SOMEHOW IT WAS eight at night by the time the dishes were done. Even Bubbles was sacked out like the dead. Since no one showed any signs of leaving, Sam took on the role of bad cop and stood up.

  “I’m kicking you two beautiful ladies out,” he said, with deep regret in his voice. “I enjoyed every minute of the day with all of you. But the three of us know that Poppy’s never going to admit she’s tired. She isn’t as exhausted as when she first got here. But I think we all want to coax her to rest a little more.”

  The sisters stepped up faster than if there was a fire. “Poppy, we didn’t think.”

  “Of course we’re going, sis. We want you to rest. We’ll do the rest of the work tomorrow—”

  “Afraid Poppy can’t do anything tomorrow,” Sam said regretfully. “If either of you need help with the grocery run or getting things ready, give a shout, and I’ll chip in. But Poppy needs one complete day off—and look at her. She’s about to protest. But, Poppy, your sisters are on my side. You’re getting a totally quiet day tomorrow and that’s that.”

  “Hey,” Poppy interrupted. “Believe it or not, I can vote for myself.”

  But she didn’t, Sam thought. She never voted for herself. She swung her weight around, when it was for the ones she cared about, so it was her own fault if he was taking a page from her playbook. He had significantly more weight to swing around when it was for someone he cared about.

  She shot him a dark glance, but he knew he’d already won. The sisters allied with him.

  “We’re voting for you. And you’re getting the day off. Like Sam said,” Cam told her.

  “Nothing tomorrow at all.” Still, Marigold looked back at him. “So . . . are you going, too, Sam, or staying here?”

  “I’m leaving when you two ladies do,” Sam said firmly. Which was not what he wanted at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  POPPY TURNED ON the windshield wipers full blast. The sky had just belched out another heap of snow and, from the look of darkening clouds in the west, intended to bring on more. For the most part, she didn’t care. She was headed out, come hell or high water.

  She may not have planned to participate in Christmas this year, but obviously she was neck-deep in holiday preparations now. That meant she needed presents under the tree. Her sisters were doing the grocery trip and food prep in Madison—she wasn’t certain when they were coming back, either late today or tomorrow, Christmas Eve. It really didn’t matter. The only chance she had to shop was today.

  Madison was wonderful for shopping, but there was no way she wanted to drive that far. Google had given her an endless choice of stores and opportunities closer to the cottage—“closer” being less than an hour away.

  The snow didn’t bother Poppy, nor did the rushed shopping. But the sudden upheaval was definitely throwing her off-balance. She’d never intended to neglect her family at Christmas—she’d just planned to buy their presents after the holiday. That plan obviously wasn’t going to work now.

  At least gifts for her sisters were easy. For Cam, she’d get a copper pan—because she loved to cook on copper—and for Marigold, one of those “forever pans”—for the cook who could ruin any and everything. Both of them loved candles—cinnamon and apple scented for Cam, a saucy lemon scent for Marigold. She’d also get a gift certificate for facials, which both girls loved. And then sweaters. Cam loved a cardigan she could layer; Marigold loved something soft and slouchy.

  Her dad always wanted something exotic, but reality was, he needed shirts and socks. No matter how many he had—and could certainly afford—his clothes inevitably got paint or clay or solvents on them. He only noticed when he needed to go out in public, which meant he always needed a fresh stash.

  So that shopping would take time, but it wasn’t that challenging. Choosing a gift for Sam—now that was a challenge.

  She’d been recklessly, deliciously sure about making love with him three nights ago. But he’d downgraded to smooches ever since then. Those smooches were potent and creative and alarmingly enticing. But still. What guy put on the brakes when the lights were all green?

  Of course, maybe the event hadn’t been as reckless and delicious as it’d been for her. And of course, they’d both had two ultrafull busy days.

  But now Sam had met her sisters, spent time with them, saw what her family was like. Maybe that could make a guy instinctively put on the brakes until he was a lot more sure this was all a good idea?

  If he was unsure where they were going—Poppy felt exactly the same way. Her life was temporarily a jumble. He knew that; she’d been honest. But the absolutely last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

  Still, for a woman who’d never done anything impulsively, she knew how different Sam was. He was the first man, the only man, she’d willingly jump off a cliff for. The only man she’d instinctively trusted. This was too special—he was too special—for her to stall. She wanted every minute with him that she could get. She wanted to explore everything it was possible to explore in the short time they had together. To never feel this way again?

  She refused to throw away this chance.

  BY NOON THE roads were all slushy and crushy. People were in a hurry to get their Christmas shopping done and were zooming out of parking spaces with only a harried glance at any cars behind them.

  Poppy still hadn’t found the right gift for Sam. It had to check all the boxes—something personal, but not presumptuous. Nothing too expensive, too practical, too ordinary. It had to reflect that she cared enough to know what he’d like.

  She left the last store around two, wishing she could be a whole lot less OCD. There was no perfect present. Obviously she knew that, but it wasn’t helping her solve the problem. She had to have something for him. By then, another fresh four inches of new snow had fallen, all thick and heavy and intrusive, and the darned radio kept insisting there was more coming. Her trunk was filled with stuff, including wrapping paper and ribbons and tape.

  Everything she needed, except something for Sam. She wanted something that showed she knew him. Deep down. The man he wanted to be, the man he was, the man who always stood up for the right things, the things that mattered.

  Easy to figure that out. So for heaven’s sake. Why was that so hard to translate into a gift?

  But then, by accident—or desperation—she noticed a different type of business, isolated from the usual retail stores, and stared at the potential of it so long that the driver behind her honked. She turned in . . . and didn’t come out for a good hour.

  She didn’t make it back to the cottage until five, wiped out from head to toe. Still, she easily laughed when she turned in the drive.

  Sam had plowed her out. He’d also turned on lights for her, both inside and out. And there was a piece of paper, scrawled in his hasty handwriting, taped on the back door window.

  YES, THEY’VE BEEN HERE. WE DID A FEW THINGS, LIKE PUT AWAY FOOD AND STUFF, BUT THEN I SENT THEM HOME (WITH BUBBLES’S HELP). I CAN’T COME OVER TONIGHT . . . ACCORDING TO KRISTIN, HER MOM AND DAD ARE BUSY SO SHE AND I ARE HAVING “A DATE NIGHT.” SHE THINKS WE SHOULD GIVE BUBBLES A BATH AND DRESS HIM UP FOR CHRISTMAS.

  PRAY FOR ME.

  IF YOU’VE WORN YOURSELF OUT, YOU’LL BE IN TROUBLE WITH ME. CHINESE IN THE FRIDGE, NOTHING TO DO BUT HEAT UP.

  LOVE, SAM

  A smaller note, obviously written later than the first, was scrawled beneath the big one.

  POPPY—I NEVER ASKED FOR YOUR CELL NUMBER. THOUGHT YOU WERE TRYING TO AVOID CALLS. BUT IF YOU HAVE TIME, PLEASE GIVE ME A QUICK CALL (OR TEXT). KRISTIN AND I ARE HAVING AN ARGUMENT ABOUT DIAMONDS. I NEED YOUR ADVICE.

  By the time Poppy carted in the trunk full of presents and packages inside, she was out of breath and laughing. First, because of that “Love, Sam.” See? It wasn’t all her fault that she’d fallen so hard for him. He kept doing things and saying things that forced her to laugh. Or forced her to love him.

  He persisted in being the kind of man she’d never believed existed.

  Even shopping-tired, she microwaved the war su gai and rice, poured a tall glass of water, and slouched on the couch with her cell. She texted the number he’d scrawled on the second note.

  You’re having a problem with diamonds?

  He answered immediately. She wants a diamond collar and diamond leash for Bubbles’s Christmas present.

  Hmm. I’m with her.

  Poppy.

  He texted her name, not said it aloud, but she could still mentally see him rolling his eyes. Well . . . I suspect she means rhinestones rather than diamonds.

  The dog traipses in the woods. Digs in snow. Dives in the lake. Rolls in mud.

  Okay, okay. First tell Kristin that a glitzy collar would make other dogs jealous, so jealous they might not want to play with her. And that could hurt Bubbles’s feelings.

  Say what?

  Just do it, Sam. Then tell her that because Bubbles is such a girly dog, she’d probably want something really soft next to her neck. I’ve seen dog collars that are padded—like for serious hiking dogs—so it doesn’t chafe? But Kristin could see that it felt soft.

  DO NOT GO AWAY. I’ll be right back.

  She finished her dinner, was just about to trade in her glass of water for a short glass of wine, when he came back.

  You’re a genius, he texted.

  Uh-huh. Now you need the new collar and leash in pink.

  No.

  Or you could talk Kristin into getting one that’s the color of Bubbles’s eyes.

  Like brown.

  Yes, but don’t tell Kristin BROWN. Just suggest that Bubbles would love a leash that was the same color as her eyes.

  Okay. Okay. I might live through this yet. Just for the record . . . who knew this could possibly turn into such a traumatic issue? She was crying. Now she’s not. Which is to say . . . It’s your fault if I’m going to love you forever.

  He clicked off.

  Poppy fell asleep smiling to beat the band. Christmas carols played in her head. Until this year, she’d so so so loved Christmas. The presents and the tinsels, the baking and the messes, the candle smells and the sparkling tree and the ornaments and lights. This year there was Sam, and that meant so much more. It wasn’t all about where they ended up, but how it was now, how all the time he was with her was so darned precious.

  How could she not be happy?

  UNTIL TWO IN the morning, when her dad called.

  Poppy’s phone was now on, of course. Everyone knew where she was so there was no reason to hide anymore—no way to hide anymore. She never hesitated to answer. At that late hour, it could be a serious problem.

  “Hey, my lovely Poppy,” her dad said.

  She could hear the deep affection in his voice. She could also hear the slur of Irish whiskey.

  “I’ve missed you. I understand—more than anyone—why you needed some time alone. That’s always what I needed. Alone time. To work. To create.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “But I’m glad I know where you are again. I’ll be there for dinner—I was going to say tomorrow, but then it turned into Christmas Eve two hours ago. So today.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Honey . . .”

  A ball of lead dropped in her stomach. “What?”

  “I haven’t gotten presents for everyone. You always did that for me. You were always my wonderful, special daughter, who I could count on through thick and thin. I hope you feel appreciated. And loved. And that all the things you’ve always done were valued.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said.

  “But about those presents for your sisters—I’m working on a sculpture right now. For a church, if you can believe it—but I haven’t had a single minute to think about Christmas shopping. I just can’t do it myself, honey.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. He waited. She was supposed to offer to come through for him. She always had. This time—for the first time—she just said, “I’m glad you’re coming for dinner, Dad,” and rang off.

  POPPY’S CELL PHONE buzzed again around six. Didn’t matter by then. She hadn’t slept.

  It was Jonas—from the lab. He was just a kid. Nineteen. He loved the work, loved the apprenticeship with her, and temperamentally was an even worse workaholic than she was. His voice was shaking. “I know we weren’t supposed to call you.”

  “And I know you wouldn’t, unless something was really wrong.”

  “It’s our study that’s really wrong. The grant about the invasive species—I think of it as the Greedy Glugger because that’s how we’ve been calling it. You know, the invasive creep we’ve found in three northern lakes now—”

  “I know the one.” Obviously. It was her study; she’d nicknamed the sucker fish herself, but Jonas was clearly upset and she wasn’t about to tease him for stating the obvious.