She realized she was nodding her head like a fool and made herself stop. ‘‘I’d like that.’’

‘‘I’ll come by for you. About six-thirty?’’

There went her head, bobbing again like a spring robin drunk on worms. ‘‘Fine. That’d be fine.’’

‘‘I can’t stay now because they’re expecting me at the boatyard.’’

‘‘That’s all right.’’ She wondered if her eyes were as huge as they felt. She could have devoured him with them. ‘‘Thanks for the flowers. They’re lovely.’’

‘‘You’re welcome.’’ And with his eyes open, he leaned over, laid his lips on hers very gently, very softly. He watched her lashes flutter, watched the green of her irises go misty under those tiny flecks of gold. ‘‘I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.’’

Her muscles had turned to putty. ‘‘Tomorrow,’’ she managed and breathed out a long, long sigh as he walked away and out her front door.

He’d brought her flowers. She clasped the stems in both hands, held them out and waltzed through the house with them. Beautiful, fragrant, soft-petaled flowers. And if some of those petals drifted to the floor as she danced, it only made the scene more romantic.

They made her feel like a princess, like a woman. She sniffed them lavishly as she circled back into the kitchen for a vase. Like a bride.

She stopped abruptly, staring at them. Like a bride.

Her head went light, her skin hot, her hands trembly. When she realized she was holding her breath, she let it out with a whoosh, but it caught and stumbled as she tried to pull air in again.

He’d brought her flowers, she thought again. He’d asked her to dinner. Slowly, she pressed a hand to her heart, found that it was pumping light and fast, very fast.

He was going to ask her to marry him. To marry him.

‘‘Oh, my. Oh.’’ Her legs wanted to fold, so she sat down, right on the floor of the kitchen with the flowers cradled in her arms like a child. Flowers, tender kisses, a romantic dinner for two. He was courting her.

No, no. She was jumping to conclusions. He would never move that quickly to the next step. She shook her head, picked herself up, and found an old wide-mouthed bottle for a vase. He was just being sweet. He was just being considerate. He was just being Ethan.

She turned on the faucet and filled the bottle. Just being Ethan, she thought again, and found her breath gone a second time.

Being Ethan, he would think and he would do things in a certain manner. Struggling for calm, for logic, she began to arrange the precious flowers, stem by stem.

They’d known each other for . . . she could hardly remember not knowing him. Now they were lovers. They were in love. Being Ethan, he would consider marriage the next step. Honorable, traditional. Right. He would believe it right.