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the feeling of being looked after.
    She glanced at his strong features, illuminated by the dash lights. He looked calm, despite the snowfall growing heavier outside, the windshield wipers slapping along trying to keep up.
    Nate Hathoway might not smile much, but Morgan suddenly knew if your back was against the wall and barbarians were coming at you with knives in their teeth, he was the one you would want standing right beside you.
    It was weariness that had allowed an independent woman such as herself to entertain such a traitorous thought, Morgan defended herself. And then, as if to prove it, the warmth inside the vehicle, the radio, the mesmerizing fall of snow—and the sense of being safe and taken care of—made it impossible for her to think of clever things to say. Or even to keep her eyes open.
    When she woke up, it was to absolute stillness. Thesound of the radio was gone, the vehicle had stopped moving, the dashboard lights were off, and the vehicle was empty.
    She realized there was a weight on her shoulder, and that it was his hand, not shaking her, just touching her.
    Even through the puffiness of her parka, she could feel his warmth, and his strength. It made her want to go back to sleep.
    â€œMorgan, we’re home.”
    For home to be a place shared, instead of a place of aloneness, felt like the most alluring dream of all.
    Recognizing her groggy vulnerability, Morgan shook herself awake. He was standing at her side of the SUV, the door open.
    A quick glance showed the back was empty of every parcel and package. Ace was gone.
    â€œPut her in bed,” he said before Morgan asked.
    â€œThought you might wake up as I moved stuff and the vehicle cooled off, but you were sleeping hard.”
    Morgan felt herself blushing. She’d obviously slept like a rock. She hoped she hadn’t drooled and muttered his name in her sleep. Had she dreamed of the smile she had tried so hard—and failed—to produce?
    And then suddenly, when she least expected it, it was there.
    He was actually smiling at her. A small smile, but so genuine it was like the sun coming out on a dreary day. He reached out and touched her cheek.
    â€œYou’ve got the print of the seat cover across your cheek.”
    And then his hand dropped away, and he looked away.
    â€œMiss McGuire?”
    â€œMorgan.”
    He looked right at her. The smile was gone. “You gave my daughter a gift today. I haven’t seen her so happy for a long, long time. I thank you for that.”
    And then, he bent toward her, brushed the print on her cheek again, and kissed the place on her cheek where his fingers had been. His lips were gloriously soft, a tenderness in them that belied every single thing she thought she had ever seen in his eyes.
    And then Nate turned away from her, went up the walk to his house and into it, shut the door without once looking back.
    She sat in his truck stunned, wondering if she had dreamed that moment, but finally managed to stir herself, shut the door of his vehicle and get into her own.
    The night was so bright and cold and star-filled. Was she shivering from the cold, or from the absence of the warmth she had felt when he had touched his lips to her cheek?
    It wasn’t until she was nearly home that she realized that while she slept he had done more than empty his vehicle of parcels, and carry a sleeping Ace to her bedroom. Morgan saw he had put two more of the coat hangers on her front seat.
    And she remembered she still had not gotten the permission slip for The Christmas Angel signed.
    And she knew it was weak, and possibly stupid, and she knew it went against every single thing she had decided for herself when she had moved to Canterbury. It challenged every vow she had made as she devouredchapter after chapter of Bliss: The Extraordinary Joy of Being a Single Woman.
    But Morgan still knew that she would use that unsigned permission slip as an excuse to see him again.

CHAPTER THREE
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