A book, too, can be a star … a living fire to lighten the darkness, leading out into the expanding universe.

—MADELEINE L’ENGLE

20

Each morning, Natalie awakened with her heart racing. It was ridiculous. She was like a revved-up teenager in the first flush of infatuation. She’d made out with her share of guys. The awkward teenage make-out sessions. Beer-fueled sloppy kisses in college. Grown-up kisses with men she liked, or maybe even loved. There had never been a kiss like this, though. Not in her life. Maybe not ever, for anyone. In the history of the world. When thoughts like that greeted her each morning, she knew she was in trouble.

And quite possibly delusional. Because the morning after—she thought of it as the morning after, as if they’d shared a night of raucous sex instead of a mere experimental kiss—he had shown up on the job as usual, in his workman’s garb, an oh-so-casual smile on his face. “That was nice, last night,” he’d said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I’m glad you were there,” she said.

“I came on to you in the moon garden,” he said, direct as always.

“You did. Maybe it has a romantic effect on people.”

“Maybe you have a romantic effect on me. Hope you didn’t think it was rude.”

Rude? Rude? “Nonsense, you were a perfect gentleman.”

“Good to know,” he’d concluded, echoing his words from the night before. “I should tell you, though, that I have a policy about getting involved with a client.”

Her heart sank. And her guard went up. She felt too vulnerable with him. Retreat seemed the safest course. “Very professional of you.”

“Anyway, maybe one day you won’t be a client.”

After that, he had gone about his business, leaving her alone with her angsty, adolescent thoughts. Since that kiss, every word they exchanged seemed to have a different meaning. To her, anyway.

She’d never been comfortable with powerful feelings. In her experience, they couldn’t be trusted. She was her mother’s daughter, after all, shielding her heart from a deep and dangerous attachment. When it came to men, her judgment was flawed. Rick was the perfect example, a man she’d thought she could love, yet her heart had failed her.

Maybe this was different.

Then again, maybe not.

She was determined not to let that moment in the garden become a big deal, dominating her thoughts when she was supposed to be focused on work. It was perhaps serendipitous that Peach had another historical restoration job going over in the Russian Hill District. There was still plenty to be done on the Sunrose Building, but she couldn’t afford to do it all at once. Despite the bonanza created by the Trevor Dashwood event, she’d had to order all the books in advance and cover all the other expenses involved in putting on a major book signing.