He encircled my waist with one arm and lifted me off my feet, his mouth capturing mine for a kiss that started as a tender, yielding exploration and quickly escalated to code red situation. My arms wrapped around his neck, holding him tighter, instinctively clamoring to get closer.

His big shoulder hit the doorframe as he tried to navigate his way into the house, jarring our teeth together, my top lip a casualty in our rush to reacquaint ourselves. It also had the effect of jarring me back into the present moment and why I was here.

“Are you okay?” He asked, but his eyes were on my mouth even as he pulled the door shut with his free hand.

I nodded. “Yeah, but-”

He cut me off, his lips moving against mine again, as though he planned to devour me with sensuality and his perfectly choreographed tongue tango. It was sinful, invading, and conquering, like I imagined a marauding Viking might kiss in order to establish his dominance.

Despite the delectableness of his mouth, hands, chest, sides, back, bottom, thighs, arms, features, and—let’s face it—unruly beard, I couldn’t let things progress before clarifying what was happening.

This wasn’t some neurotic need to define everything; at least, I didn’t think so. I just didn’t ever want to fall into the pit of wine, cookie dough, and fruitcake sweatpants ever again. Nor did I want Drew’s precious heart to be put in jeopardy.

I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned my head back; the rest of me was pressed tightly to his front.

“Wait, wait—first we need to talk.” I shouted this because I have no idea. Really. I have no idea why I shouted it. Just know that I did.

He stilled somewhat, his hold loosening a tad, but he didn’t let me go. Instead, he gently set me down and pushed off my jacket, biting then licking my neck.

“Talk,” he commanded.

I shivered, exhaled a sudden breath. “I can’t talk, not while you’re melting my butter.”

This gave him pause. Drew’s mouth ceased its assault, and he lifted his face from my shoulder, his eyes bright with palpable desire, but also amusement.

“Melt your butter?”

I nodded and tried to step away but failed; his hands gripped my waist like he was afraid I’d run away or disappear.

“That’s right. Put me in a pan and turn me on. Melt my butter.” I was breathing heavily, mostly because—even though he’d stopped kissing me—he was still melting my butter.

I could feel myself growing increasingly apathetic about discussing anything except whether he’d remedied his condom dearth.

On that note I blurted, “I don’t have any condoms with me.”

His eyebrows jumped and he blurted, “Well, are you clean?”

I nodded.

“I’m clean. Are you on the pill?”

I nodded.

“Okay. Next subject.”

The blurting continued. “Why did you push me away after our night together?”

His eyebrows jumped higher, but he didn’t answer; not right away. Instead, he glared at me—not with malice but with heat—and his grip on my body tightened.

At last he said, “Ash, I wasn’t trying to push you away, but I didn’t want to hold you back. Bethany told me about you many times. Granted, she called you Ash and let me think you were a man, but she was so proud. She told me about how you fought your whole life to leave this place, how it was all you talked about growing up.”

This was true. It was all I ever wanted as a child. But it wasn’t about leaving Tennessee. Tennessee was beautiful; its beauty was why I believed in magic as a child.

I wanted to escape my father’s awfulness and my brothers’ pedestrian antics. I wanted to be educated by the world, see it, and find my place in it.

“It was never about Tennessee, Drew. It was about escaping an unhappy situation and finding something else for myself other than a house full of perpetual adolescents. I was so blind, Drew. I was so blind to how you felt. You kept saying you didn’t need me, and I believed you. I thought you found nothing in me, nothing that you’d ever need.”

He shook his head before I finished speaking, his hands moving to my face, pushing my hair back from my temples. “No. No, Ashley. You weren’t blind. You were just incapable of seeing anything but your heartache. I watched you every day for six weeks as you took care of your mother. You could only see her during that time. She needed you. Your brothers needed you. And that’s how it was supposed to be. You were here for her and your family; I understood that. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure from me. I had no expectations that you would feel for me what I felt for you. I wanted to be a comfort, not a burden.”

I watched him through narrowed eyes. When he finished, I (again) blurted, “Well, start putting some pressure on me. Start needing me. Start having excessively high expectations.”

His mouth tugged to the side like he was trying to suppress a smile, and his hands threaded through my hair then stroked down my back, eventually coming to rest on the base of my spine. “Okay. I will.”

I wasn’t finished. “Like, tell me to stay.”

“Stay. Stay with me.”

“And, not just for Christmas-”

“Ash, I want you to move here.”

“Yes.” I nodded, feeling the matter was settled, and I’d work out the logistics later because I knew in my heart that this was where I wanted to be. I didn’t want to see Drew. I didn’t want to talk to Drew.

I wanted to live Drew.

Besides, I was a nurse. Nurses were needed everywhere.

“And another thing….” I grabbed the front of his shirt. “Stop making decisions for me and having discussions about me behind my back. You should have talked to me before sending me away on Quinn’s plane.”

His mouth flattened, and the trace of humor in expression transformed into mild frustration. “That was for your own good. Darrell had been making a fuss all over town about how his children had stolen from him. Your name was the one he’d shouted the loudest. We needed to get you out of town.”

“Or, I could have stayed here with you.”

He licked his lips, the frustration easing. “I didn’t know that was an option.”

“Well you would have known if you’d talked to me about it.”

Drew’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to be inspecting me.

I took the opportunity to twist my arms around his neck and press my front to his. “Just think, you could have spent the last ten weeks melting my butter.”

His hands moved to my bottom and he squeezed me through my jeans. “Your point is a good one.”

This made me smile big and wide and maybe a little smugly. Drew shook his head at my smug smile then proceeded to kiss it off my face as he walked me backward to his bedroom.

We navigated the hallway without incident and soon my scarf was off, and my shoes, and my sweater, and I was pressing myself against his hot hands as they grabbed and caressed and massaged my bottom, stomach, back, and breasts.

I opened my eyes as he knelt over me, my hands reaching for the front of his pants, reaching for him. The light was on in his room and—despite all the really wonderful and necessary euphoria accompanying Drew’s skillful fingers—my attention snagged on a photo above his dresser.

“Is that…?” I stared, blinked, then frowned at the picture.

He kissed my jaw as I tried to focus, unbuttoning my jeans, making me feel like heaven.

But the picture was so surprising, I had to ask. “Drew, is that me?”

Drew stiffened; his hands on my body stilled. Seconds passed while I stared at the picture while Drew knelt motionless above me, his face again buried in my neck.

I released a huff, pushing him away so I could see his eyes, but also gripping his arms so he couldn’t go too far.

“Drew….” I made sure my voice was soft and calm as our eyes met; he gazed at me with wary watchfulness. “On your dresser, is that picture of me?”

He didn’t respond. But after a beat, he tried to extract himself from my hold. I wouldn’t let him go; my grip tightened. When he felt the force of my fingers, his mouth tugged to the side.

“Ash, I’m not leaving you. I’m just getting the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah. Pictures.”

I released him and he gave me a quick kiss before sauntering over to his dresser and grabbing three picture frames. He returned, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the space next to him.

I scootched closer to him, tucked my hair behind my ears, and peered at the pictures on his lap. I was right. The first picture was of me. It was of me and Momma in Hawaii. I’d taken her there three years ago on vacation. We both looked happy and tan.

“Bethany gave these to me.”

“When?”

“When she figured out that I was in love with you.”

My heart flip-flopped in my chest and I looked at him. He was watching me, his features open but hesitant. I didn’t like the hesitance, so I leaned forward and kissed him, needing to remove the uncertainty from his expression.

A thought occurred to me, so I broke the kiss and rested my forehead against his, my hand on his jaw and neck to keep him close. “Drew, that day I left, when I knocked on your door and I heard the drawers open and shut, were you hiding these?”

“Yes.”

I tsked. “Oh, Drew….” I kissed him. “Is this part of the not wanting to hold me back thing?”

He threaded the fingers of one hand through my hair and tugged until our eyes met. “Ashley, I need you. I need you like lungs need air. But I need your happiness, not your obligation.”

“Well, this explains why you like Nietzsche, bless your heart….”

Drew’s gaze immediately turned into a glare, the hesitation giving way to reluctant amusement. “Did you just bless your heart me—again?”

“Bless your sexy, sexy Viking heart,” I said, my eyes moving back to the pictures.

He rubbed his jaw, handing me the frames. “If you’re going to insult me, then I’m going to go get those letters.”

My body stiffened and a jolt of anxiety shot down my spine, radiating outward to my nerve endings. I’d already forgotten about the letters. I was about to tell him to stop, and beg him to give them back to me. The thought of watching Drew reading my words and declarations of love was thrilling, but mostly terrifying.

And yet….

He was studying me, his mouth twisted to the side, his eyes still narrowed.

I cleared my throat then swallowed, inhaled slowly, and said, “Yeah. You should. You should read them. You should know what’s in my heart, because if you think having pictures of me on your dresser is going to freak me out, then you are in for a big surprise. ’Cause those letters…those will freak you out.”

Drew rolled his lips between his teeth, fighting a smile. Abruptly he leaned forward and kissed me, his mouth moving against mine, demanding entrance, tasting me like I was cake with frosting and he’d decided to lick first then take a bite.

Just as abruptly, to my infinite frustration, he pulled away. Drew was halfway down the hall when I realized that he really was going to get the letters. I braced myself even as a small, nervous laugh passed my lips.

“Fear don’t count if you really want something….” I muttered under my breath, Momma’s words again calming my thundering heart, and I glanced at the pictures on my lap.

I set the one from Hawaii to the side. The next picture was of me graduating from nursing school. I was in my cap and gown, and I was holding my diploma. Momma had been so proud, and I’d desperately wanted to make her proud.

The last picture was of me when I was eighteen, a few days before I’d left for college. I was surrounded by all my brothers. We were standing at the edge of the woods against a backdrop of spring flowers. The scene was beautiful. We were laughing. I remembered the moment; I think Beau had just done something crazy.

I stared at that one the longest. I was surprised by what I saw. Eighteen-year-old Ashley was a beautiful young woman, a smart girl, a girl with hopes and dreams who maybe still believed in fairies and unicorns—not much, just a very little bit. Yes, I looked like my father, but so what? Looking like Darrell didn’t make me Darrell any more than Cletus’s banjo playing made Cletus like Darrell.

It would be a shame if Cletus didn’t love music. It would be a shame if Roscoe weren’t charming. It would be a shame if Billy weren’t so smart.

This Ashley also loved her brothers despite their torment, and I could see on their faces that they loved her too.

When I thought about myself at that age, all I remembered was wanting to leave, wanting to escape, wanting to be different. But now I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be her. But I wanted to be more, just like a building wants to be more than its foundation. Being more didn’t mean I needed to abolish who I’d been.

And being with Drew wouldn’t be a step back; it would be coming home.

“Do you want another pancake?”

I tossed this question over my shoulder without looking up from the skillet. I wasn’t used to Drew’s fancy pots and pans or his fancy gas stove. Therefore, I was watching the pancakes like I’d watch a hawk. I was a pancake falconer.

“No, thank you,” Drew responded from someplace near my shoulder just before his hands lifted the hem of my nightshirt. It was another of his T-shirts. At some point, I would have to wash it.

Drew caressed a path from my thighs to my hips to my lower back then stomach. His hands were hot. I shivered, instinctively arching, pressing my bottom against his front.

When I spoke next, I sounded a little winded to my ears. “Shouldn’t we call the boys and get your car back?”

Roscoe, it seemed, had dropped Drew off just hours before I arrived. Drew’s truck was at the Winston Bros. Auto Shop and, despite having been there for six weeks, hadn’t yet received its tune up. Imagine that.

As well, my brothers weren’t answering their phones when we called. Neither were any of my friends. I had no idea whether they’d already left for Chicago, but I guessed that they had. We were stuck. Cut off from the world. We had no way of coming down the mountain. It was glorious.

Drew’s fingers slipped lower, dipping into the waist of my panties. I gasped. He didn’t respond to my question. Instead, he reached around me with his other hand and turned off the stove.

Drew melted my butter.

He melted it standing, sitting, crouching, leaning, reading, smiling, hugging, laughing, frowning, writing, changing a light bulb, milking a cow—basically, if it was a verb and he was doing it, my butter was melting.

I rediscovered this fact over the thirty-six hours after our big talk, while we were stuck in his house on the top of the mountain, not that he milked any cows. Yet.

I also rediscovered that he was a man of his word. When he’d told me on the porch that he wasn’t going to let me go, he’d meant those words quite literally. I don’t think he’d gone five minutes without grabbing, fondling, cuddling, kissing—basically, if it was a verb that involved touching, he was doing it.

I was still holding the spatula when, after several minutes of his clever attentions, I lost my mind. I lost it standing in front of his combination range and oven. Unthinkingly, as I came apart in his hands, I reached behind my head to grab on to him and nearly fly-swatted his face with the spatula. He deftly ducked my inadvertent attack, and I felt his chest rumble with a laugh.

My head fell back against his shoulder and I loitered in this position as I tried to normalize my breathing. He removed his fingers from my panties and rubbed his big palms from my thighs to my waist and back again in a soothing, sensual ellipse.

“You can do that anytime,” I said on a faltering exhale, staring at his ceiling.

“I will.” Drew paired this evocative, growly declaration with an earlobe bite.

I’d never looked at his ceiling before. It was covered in decorative copper tiles, at least they looked like copper. In that post-orgasm mind-randomness, I found myself fixating on the ceiling.

“Drew, can I ask you a weird question?”

He nodded, turned his lips to my temple, and gave me a kiss.

“How did you manage to buy this house? Or, I guess, how did it come into your possession? Aren’t all these places deeded such that you have to sell to the US government?”

His hands ceased their rhythmic assault and I felt him smile against my cheek. “This place belonged to my mother. It’s been in her family for generations. My sister lived here for a time, but it was pretty well neglected when I took it off my father’s hands.”

I nodded, still looking at the ceiling. Many of the tiles were beginning to oxidize from orange to turquoise; the effect was stunning.

“And it’s yours now?”

He nodded. “Yes. It’s mine now.”

I smiled. I liked that this was his mother’s house and now he was living in it, that he’d restored it. I took a deep breath, straightened from his shoulder, and turned to face him.

I was about to tell him about how much I liked the ceiling when I was interrupted by the blaring of a horn being honked loud and long from the vicinity of the driveway. We both stiffened, listening for additional sounds. The horn honked again and we were spurred into action.

I jogged down the hall looking for my pants and pulling them and my boots on in a rush. Drew, sadly for me, shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt, but he didn’t make any attempt to change out of his flannel pajama bottoms or put on shoes. He then tossed me one of his sweaters. When it was over my head, he looped his arm around my waist and pressed me against him for a quick kiss.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” I said.

We both smiled at the certainty in each other and headed for the door.

The sight that greeted us was unexpected but in no way unwelcome.

A parade of cars was pulling into the short driveway. I recognized Drew’s truck, which Beau had driven up the mountain. Roscoe, Sandra, and Alex were stepping out of the passenger side, Alex from the front seat, and Sandra from the back of the cab along with Roscoe.

Then came Jethro’s truck loaded up with the rest of the Winston boys.

Then came a police cruiser.

Drew glanced at me and wasn’t quite frowning. Rather, it was a glare of mild irritation because we both guessed that Jackson James was driving the cruiser.

The crowd unloaded themselves and started toward the steps, chitchatting with each other like today was Sunday and they’d just left church.

Jethro reached us first. He was carrying what looked like a cake container and he wore a shit-eating grin. “Well, hello, you two. My, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“Jethro.” Drew nodded at my brother once. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Christmas Eve. We thought we’d bring the party up here. Also, Ashley forgot her clothes at the house, so we brought those too.” Jethro patted Drew on the shoulder and walked into the house like he’d been invited.

Roscoe came in next. He was carrying my suitcase and looking pleased as punch. “I’ll just go put this in your bedroom. You know, the one you two share.”

Beau and Duane followed, their arms full of food, Beau shaking his head as he mounted the steps. “I swear, Drew. You need to get rid of Jackson James; let him know Ash is your woman. He didn’t say it when he pulled us over for speeding on the way up, but I’m pretty sure he’s expecting to share sandwiches with Ash here sometime soon.”

Duane nodded his agreement. “I hate that guy, always pulling me over.”

“Were you speeding?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah.” Duane paired this with a wink and a grin.

Cletus and Alex were deep in conversation as they approached the porch; I saw that Cletus was clutching his chessboard, and Alex was holding several boxes.

“Oh, hey Ash…Drew.” Alex nodded to us like it was perfectly natural for him to be there. I loved that. I loved that he felt that way.

Cletus stopped just long enough to give Drew an intense stare. “So…now can I welcome you into the family?”

Drew nodded. “Yep. Now you can welcome me into the family.”

“Okay. Welcome to the family.”

Then Cletus and Alex disappeared inside.

Sandra came next, carrying a large punch bowl full of white fluid.

“It’s moonshine eggnog,” she explained, huffing a little under the strain of the heavy bowl. “It’s not actually all that bad. Quinn didn’t like it, but then he doesn’t like anything except his wife.”

“Where is everyone? Did they fly back?” I asked, moving to help her.

“No, no—I got it. Everyone flew back that night after Jethro told us what he’d done. To be honest, it was a relief.” Sandra walked quickly inside, calling over her shoulder, “It saved us from having to plan something similar.”

Billy climbed the stairs with leisurely steps, holding bags full of wrapped presents. His expression was cool yet untroubled. When he reached Drew and me, he stopped. He glanced at me then he moved his eyes to Drew and said, “I expect you to treat her right. I expect you to make her believe in magic again—fairies, rainbows, all that shit. We understand each other?”

Drew nodded, reaching out his hand to my second brother. “Yes, sir. We understand each other.”

Billy glanced at Drew’s hand, placed one of the bags on the porch, then accepted it for a brief, firm shake. He then glanced over his shoulder as he picked up the bag and added, “Ashley, will you get rid of that guy, please?”

As Billy walked inside, Drew and I turned our attention to Jackson James. He was hovering in the driveway, standing just in front of his car. When he saw me looking at him, he gave me a little wave.

I gathered a deep breath and returned his wave with a polite smile, saying to Drew, “Do you think you can handle that crowd in there?”

“I think so…for a little while, at least.”

“I’m going to go find out what he wants,” I said, tilting my head in Jackson’s direction.

Drew nodded, his eyes tranquil and bright. “You do that.”

He leaned down and gave me a soft kiss, then walked inside to deal with our crazy family.

I eyed Jackson for a beat before I walked leisurely down the steps to meet him on the driveway.

“Hey, Jackson.”

“Hi, Ashley. I hope you don’t mind me following Duane for a stretch. When he said you were in town, I thought…well, I need to talk to you about what happened with Darrell, when you took the gun.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself against the cold. “Did I take the gun? I don’t remember that. I remember you handing me the gun.” This was the story I’d told the police on the day of the attempted kidnapping.

Jackson smiled. “Yeah. Well, thanks. And I’m sorry I went to park my car rather than come help you. I didn’t know what you were doing. I should have followed you.”

I shrugged, walking to the hood of his car and leaning against it. It was still warm. “It’s over now. Nothing can be done about the past.”

Jackson turned so that we were still facing each other, the house behind him. A troubled frown cast a shadow over his handsome features; he studied me for a beat before adding, “Well, your daddy and his buddies pled guilty, no contest. They’re doing three to five in Bledsoe County. So, at least you won’t be seeing him for a while.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Ashley,” he said suddenly, taking a half step forward, “I’m really sorry about your momma. She was a very kind woman…a good woman.”

“Thanks, Jackson. I appreciate that.” My eyes drifted over his shoulder, detecting movement from the house. Beau and Duane were standing in the window facing the driveway. Their arms were crossed. Their faces wore similarly stern expressions. They were looking at us.

Jackson, noticing the direction of my gaze, twisted to look over his shoulder. Both my brothers took this opportunity to use the index and middle fingers of their right hand to point to their faces, then turn the fingers back on Jackson in the universal symbol for I’m watching you.

They did this in unison.

I rolled my eyes. “Just ignore them.”

Jackson looked back at me and grinned. “Nah. It’s fine. They don’t like me much since Darlene Simmons and I went on a date.”

“When was this?” I remembered Darlene from high school. She was two years younger than us—same grade as Duane and Beau—and every guy’s cheerleader fantasy.

“Oh….” Jackson squinted, bent down, and picked up a rock from the driveway. “I guess about three years ago.”

I barked a laugh. “Looks like they need to get over it.”

He nodded, his warm brown eyes searching my face, a hesitant smile on his lips. A brief silence fell between us as he looked at me and I allowed him to look.

At last—seemingly shaking himself—he said, “Ashley, I didn’t want to be bugging you while you were going through everything with your momma, but I did want a chance to speak with you for just a few minutes.” He halted, hesitated, his eyes sweeping over my face.

“Sure.” I shrugged.

“The thing is,” he started, stopped, glanced at the rock in his hands, “I wanted to apologize, for the way I treated you after high school. I wasn’t nice, and I wasn’t fair, and you deserved better.”

The words were nice and they made me realize that I needed to hear them. I also realized that it’s never too late to apologize, but some apologies come too late.

“Don’t worry about it, Jackson. I appreciate the apology, but that was all a long time ago.”

He nodded, looking up at me again. “Yeah, but I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.”

I pressed my lips together and gave him a smile, which he returned. We stood quietly looking at each other for another beat before he said, “So…you and Drew Runous, huh?”

My smile grew. “Yeah. Me and Drew.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is it serious?”

I nodded, my smile morphing into a giant grin. “Yep. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a chronic condition.”

Our first Christmas together was a happy one because it was spent with our family surrounded by people who loved us.

Although, I could have done without Sandra leading the twins in a rendition of “She’ll Be Coming Down the Mountain When She Comes”—note the verbiage change.

As well, Momma’s bits of wisdom whispered in my head from time to time. Happiness and rheumatism keep getting bigger if you tell people about them. She was right. Sharing happiness with my family made it feel bigger.

With the whispered words came a big ah-ha moment. I realized that those seemingly random sayings, the ones I didn’t understand at the time, were her way of telling me everything I might need to know. They were how she tried to answer all the questions I wouldn’t be able to ask after she was gone. I was so thankful.

They gave me comfort. They gave me peace. And they made me feel like she was still here somehow, guiding me along my clumsy path.

Drew and I still had issues to discuss and details to work out. I still needed to go back to Chicago, give notice, find a job in Tennessee, and go through the motions of uprooting my life so that we could be together. So we could live each other every day.

It was a hassle. I didn’t want to leave him, but life is hard. Change takes time. And change that is lasting takes planning and care.

On the day before I was set to fly back to Chicago—since I didn’t have my truck, I wasn’t going to drive—I found Drew in our wildflower field. He was sitting on the cold ground surrounded by dead stalks and stems.

He appeared to be staring at the mountain above our valley, eyes squinting, elbows resting on his knees. His cowboy hat was in his hands, and his fingers held it lightly, like he trusted the hat to stay put without having to support its weight.

I was bundled in a blanket from the house. It was the old quilt that covered my bed, and it reminded me of my mother. She and my grandmother had worked on it just before my grandmother died. My momma had finished the quilt on her own.

“Hey, care for company?”

Drew glanced over his shoulder, a welcoming—albeit almost imperceptible—smile warming his features. “Always, if it’s you.”

I crossed to where he sat. The snow had melted then refrozen, leaving ice on the ground. It crunched under my boots with each step.

We stayed like that—him sitting, me standing—for a few minutes. The world was cold. The wind smelled like ice. The trees had lost all their leaves. The top of the mountain was covered in snow.

“Poetry isn’t for civilized society.” Drew said this suddenly, breaking the moment, but then saying no more.

I decided to prompt him when I sensed he would not continue without a push. “How so? I’ve read plenty of safe-for-work poetry.”

“I’m not talking about greeting cards and sentimentality, not the stuff that gently warms your heart or makes you feel nostalgic.” He lifted his eyes to mine, his expression stark and sober. “I’m talking about the kind that burns you, leaves scars, the kind that you regret reading because you can’t forget it. It’s a wild, feral thing. It has claws and it bites.”

I studied him as he said this, how his eyes flamed with ferocity. I wondered if the same could be said about him. He was a bit of a wild, feral thing. I didn’t doubt that he would leave a scar. I’d been given a sneak peek into what it would be like if he decided one day that I wasn’t his cup of sweet tea.

I closed the remaining distance separating us and took a seat next to him; lifting the quilt so it wouldn’t get wet and not particularly caring whether the frost covering the ground made my pants damp.

Drew glanced at me, his gaze quickly taking a survey of my face. “You look like you want to say something.”

“I wondered….” I hesitated because my thoughts weren’t fully formed. Rather than keep him waiting, I spoke what I felt. “I wondered, when I first arrived, why Momma put so much trust in you. But I think it was because she’d read your poetry. Reading it is knowing you. Poetry is the representation of feelings as words. It reveals a person’s heart.”

He studied me, his silvery eyes flashing as they moved between mine. “I’m glad you know my heart, because you are my heart.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I smiled so hard it hurt my face and I thought I might sprain something.

He didn’t seem to mind. His eyes grew soft, distracted as they moved from mine to my lips. “You ruin me with your smiles.”

I frowned, shaking my head at him.

“What? What did I say?”

“You’ve got to get the poetry under control, otherwise I’ll drag you into my room and we’ll never leave, I’ll never find a job, we’ll become sexy hobos.”

I was gratified to see a massive grin spread over his features, lighting his eyes. He lifted a single eyebrow, his voice dipping low with Texas charm. “Really? Then allow me to say….”

I cut him off by covering his mouth with my hand. “Yes, really. I’ll become a sex addict and need counseling, maybe start going to sex addict anonymous meetings.” I removed my hand and pulled it through my hair, adding as an afterthought, “Which aren’t at all that anonymous in Green Valley, Tennessee, because everybody knows everybody.”

“I’m not thinking about every body. I’m thinking about your body.”

I nudged his shoulder with mine, enjoying the way a smile changed his face. His eyes became the color of a luminous sky, his mouth and teeth framed by his bushy beard.

Without intending to, I blurted, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He said without hesitation.

My heart skipped in my chest; it was a happy heart skip. “Really? Are you sure? You know, I have trouble believing anything that’s not written down. Maybe you should write a book about it.”

“About it?”

“About how much you love me.”

“I already did that.” He squinted at me, and I could tell he was trying to fight a smile.

“I know.” I couldn’t help my grin. “Write another one. And after that one is done, write another…then another.”

“How long am I expected to write books on this subject?”

“For as long as you love me.”

“Then I guess I’ll be writing about it for the rest of my life.”