“Two centuries wouldn’t be enough,” he agreed quietly, and his arms slid around her and tightened.

They watched the snow for hours, it seemed, and then they went back to the bed. There was no lovemaking; they were too tired for that.

When Shay was prodded awake by hunger, she sat up in bed and yawned. It was dark outside and the fire was almost out. She squinted at her watch and was shocked at the time; it was after midnight!

She prodded Mitch with one hand. “Wake up!”

He stirred briefly and then rolled over, hauling most of the covers with him and burying his face in his pillow.

Shay swatted his backside. “I said, wake up!”

He muttered something and burrowed deeper.

Disgusted, Shay scrambled out of bed and hop-danced to the window because the floor was so cold under her bare feet. The snow was deep now and it glowed in the moonlight, so white and glittery that Shay’s throat went tight as she looked at it.

Her stomach rumbled and she remembered that she was hungry. She found her robe and slippers and put them on, then began ransacking the kitchen, making as much noise as she possibly could.

Mitch woke up reluctantly, grumbling and groping for his jeans. “What the—”

Shay shoved a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich into his hands and began wolfing down one of her own. “I challenge you to a duel, my good man,” she said, eating and putting on her clothes at the same time.

“Name your weapon,” Mitch muttered with a disgraceful lack of enthusiasm.

Shay stepped outside the door for a moment, wincing at the cold, and then let him have it. “Snowballs!” she shouted as the first volley struck Mitch’s bare chest.

Chapter Fourteen

On Sunday morning the snow began to melt away, leaving only ragged patches of white here and there on the ground. In a like manner, Shay’s dreams seemed to waste away, too. She had hoped that Mitch might propose to her again—she felt ready to accept now—but as the time for them to leave the cabin drew closer, his mood went from pensive to distant to downright sullen.

Shay watched him out of the corner of one eye as they drove past the small country store on the highway—the proprietor had been the one to build the fire and turn on the lights in the cabin before they arrived—but she didn’t ask Mitch what was wrong because she thought she knew. He probably dreaded the inevitable return to the realities of the relationship as much as she did.

When Mitch reached out for the radio dial on the dashboard, Shay gently forestalled the motion.

“You’ve almost finished the Roget book,” she threw out, to make conversation. “What’s next?”

Mitch tossed one unreadable look in Shay’s direction and his jawline tightened as he turned his attention back to the road. “I suppose Ivan will sift through the dregs of humanity until he finds some other scum for me to write about.”