Page 62 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I play with a lock of his hair. I love that I can do this now. “Good morning.”

He nuzzles in closer, reaching down to draw my idle hand to his lips and place a tender kiss on the back, though he flinches when he lowers my hand to let it rest on my chest.

“Did I do that?” he asks.

I look down to see four distinct fingerprint-size bruises on my wrist. They’re faint and will likely be gone in a day or two. They also make me smile at the memories they conjure. In the shower. In the bed. Against the wall halfway between the shower and the bed.

“I think so.” I trace a row of red scratch marks that run down his arm. “Did I do that?”

He glances down, his cheeks dimpling. “Definitely.”

I roll toward him, remember my hip is black and blue from my sledding accident, roll onto my back again, and draw him in my direction instead. He props himself up on his forearms and hovers over me, wedging himself between my legs and letting his warm, smooth belly rest against mine. We’re touching in other places as well, but our contact feels more comfortable than sexual, like we’re agreeing not to edit or hide from each other, but to be whole and raw and messy. To let ourselves be fully known and fully felt. It’s both real and unreal, waking up with him like this. I half expect to blink and find myself in my own bedroom, all of this relegated to a dream.

“I don’t want it to be just one night,” I tell him.

He shakes his head at me, frowning slightly. “I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back.”

“I also don’t know what it means right now.”

“It means whatever it means. We can put it into words another time.”

I brush his cheek with the back of my hand, enjoying the texture of his stubble against my knuckles, and the clarity in his dark eyes. He knows what I’m really saying. I’m not looking for words. Dating. Boyfriend. Partner. Lover. I’m looking for the scale, the largeness, the how-much-does-this-matter-ness as we figure out what happens next. But he’s right. It means whatever it means, and when the time comes to make decisions, maybe we’ll just know.

“I still can’t believe you got miles of road plowed for me,” I say.

“I knew a guy. And watching you leave that morning in three feet of snow stressed me out.” He nuzzles my neck, my cheek, my ear. “I can’t believe you went on a date.”

“I didn’t really. My mom had big ideas. I think she liked that she could call him doctor.”

Dylan pauses his nuzzling. “Because he is a doctor?”

“Because he has a PhD, like me.”

“Doctor Philippa Flynn.” He tests the words out on his tongue. “God, that’s hot.”

“Is it? This is news to me.”

“So hot.” Dylan tugs at my lip with his teeth. Then he shows me just how hot he thinks my title is by skipping his morning run to linger in bed with me as we take our time to find the ticklish spots, to draw out the little gasps and moans and yeses, to taste, to tease, to watch each other ride a slow build toward a rush of pleasure, to love each other with everything but words.

After sex, after showers, after breakfast, I suggest we head up to the office and see if we can tackle the manuscript with renewed vigor and collaborative effort. Dylan suggests we give ourselves a full day to let it rest, and we can resume our planned schedule first thing tomorrow morning.

“You at least have to let me give you your Christmas present,” he says.

I spin around to glare at him from the sink where I’m washing our tea mugs.

“A, it’s not Christmas yet. B, we agreed. You weren’t getting me anything. Not after all you’ve done for the boat. C, I can’t return the gesture until we figure out where your shed goes.”

Dylan slides me a sly smile as he finishes wiping down the kitchen table. “A, it’s the twenty-second. Close enough. B, I don’t care what we agreed. I found the perfect gift, and I think you should have it today. And C, my gift will help with yours.” He tosses the washcloth into the sink, gives me a quick kiss on the temple in passing, and strides with purpose toward the hall. “Bundle up. Bring the coffeemaker. I’ll see you outside.”

I watch in stunned silence as he leaves the room. What the hell . . . ?

With no clue what he’s up to, I do as I’m told, and I find him a few minutes later out by the collapsed carriage house. His motorcycle is parked against the house, where deep eaves provide partial shelter. In his hands is an oblong, irregular package about the length of his arm, badly wrapped in dated holiday paper he probably found in one of the closets.

“If you bought me a peg leg . . .” I warn, without a good way to finish the threat.

He holds out the gift, grinning with anticipation. I hobble over, set down the boxed coffeemaker that I’ve now confirmed also makes an array of fancy coffee-based beverages, and take Dylan’s gift, nearly dropping it when the weight surprises me.

“Is it a peg leg?” I ask. “One made of concrete? Or solid lead?”