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Not tonight.
He frowned. His presence was supposed to be a happy surprise, not cause for complaint. “I don’t get it.”
She lifted a desultory hand and waved it in the direction of the master suite. “My bedroom’s a mess.”
He cast a look over his shoulder. That much was true. Not only did the elegant retreat look as if a tornado had gone through it, spilling everything from lacey undergarments to high heels in its wake, but there was a good deal of Christmas stuff, too. Gift catalogs. Lists. Even what appeared to be the makings for homemade holiday cards and ornaments.
Not about to be sidetracked, when he had missed her so damn much, he caught her around the waist. Anxious to make up for lost time now that they were finally alone, he trailed a string of kisses down her silky-soft neck. Lingered at the sensitive place behind her ear. Felt her quiver in response. Satisfaction roared through him.
“So we’ll throw a few pillows on the floor,” he teased, reaching for the zipper of her dress.
Stiffening, she wedged her elbows between them. “No.” She wiggled free. “Trace...”
Not about to push her into anything, he dropped his arms and stepped back. Looked down into her face. “What’s wrong?”
Her dark brown eyes took on a troubled sheen. She brushed past him into the mess that was her bedroom. “When we agreed to get married, we said this wouldn’t change anything.”
He followed lazily, making sure to give her the space she wanted. Lounging against the bureau, he surveyed the soft blush flooding her cheeks. The turmoil twisting her sweet lips. “You not wanting to make love with me is definitely a change.”
Hand on the bed, Poppy bent to remove her high heels. “Don’t you see?” She let her skirt fall back into place, but not before he’d gotten a tantalizing glimpse of her long legs.
Trace felt his body harden in response.
Poppy shook her head. “After everything we’ve just been through the past six hours—”
“Seven,” he corrected. That was way too long. Usually, after months apart, they were in bed within minutes of reconnecting, which was why they usually met up at a hotel first.
Poppy frowned. “Okay, seven hours,” she corrected with an exasperated scowl. “If we were to make love now after all of that...”
He saw where she was going. “The vows?”
She nodded in what abruptly seemed like regret. “And the toasts and the cake-cutting and the first dance.” She went around the room, snatching up discarded clothing and stuffed it into the hamper so the lacy unmentionables were out of view. Whirling to face him, she swallowed. “Can’t you see it would be too confusing?”
For her maybe. Not for him.
With effort, he ignored the ache in his groin. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said. As far as he was concerned, vows or not, absolutely nothing between them had changed. They were still free to do whatever and to be whomever they wanted.
She folded her arms beneath the inviting lushness of her breasts. “Right now, everything feels pretty traditional. And you’ve never wanted that. And...” She hesitated slightly before continuing even more stalwartly. “Neither have I.”
Once again their gazes collided.
As was their custom, neither wanted to be the first to look away.
He jerked off his bow tie and loosened the first couple of buttons on his shirt. “So what are you telling me?” he rasped. Feeling pretty damn stifled, he let his uniform jacket go by the wayside, too. “That now that it’s properly sanctioned, we’ll never hook up again?”
She blushed at the ridiculousness of that notion.
“Of course we will,” she said softly, her desire for him momentarily shining through. She paused to wet her lips; her defenses sliding stubbornly back into place. “Just not tonight. Not when we’re both so tired. And confused.”
Trace was confused, all right. He’d pulled every string it was possible to pull, and come an awfully long way, to get turned down cold. On their wedding night, no less!
Sweeping past him, she went back to trying to get the stack of linens off the top shelf. Stumbling slightly, she managed to grab hold of the bottom corner and pull them toward her.
He caught her in his arms as she caught the linens in hers.
Inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair and skin.
Felt another tidal wave of desire ripple through him.
Damn if he didn’t want her all over again.
That was, assuming he had ever stopped.
Which, of course, he hadn’t.
“Thanks.” Arms full, she wiggled free, pivoted and rustled toward the only other bedroom on the top floor of her bungalow.
Currently a home office, it also housed a sofa bed for guests.
When he visited her in Laramie and bunked at her place, it was always opened up and the covers dutifully rumpled every morning. But only for show. In case someone in her family happened to drop by, unannounced.
Although he doubted anyone really believed they were, or had ever been, just good friends.
No, his place was in her very comfy queen-size bed. Like her, sans clothes.
But, apparently, not tonight.
* * *
POPPY KNEW SHE was disappointing Trace. But, really, she reckoned as she entered the guest room to make up the bed while he went downstairs to get his suitcase, she was doing them both a favor, giving them each a little breathing room.
The last thing she had ever wanted was for him to feel as trapped as his dad apparently had, whenever he was married, or to ever do anything that would spoil their relationship.
Come morning, he’d be thanking her for it.
Meantime, where was he?
Getting a bag couldn’t possibly take that long.
Nor could she hear any sounds of him moving around.
Perplexed, she called out. “Trace?”
No answer.
Grabbing the skirts of her wedding gown, she rustled down the stairs.
Trace was sprawled in the oversize club chair she’d brought into the house just for him. His long legs were stretched over the matching ottoman and his chest moved with deep, even breaths. It looked as if he had sat down, just for a second, and fallen fast asleep.
He was more handsome than ever, in repose.
Tenderness swept over her and she knew she couldn’t wake him. Instead she eased off his shoes and took a throw from the back of the sofa and spread it over him.
As expected, he didn’t stir.
She stood there another long moment, just drinking in the sight of him, realizing all over again just how much she missed him when he was away.
In need of a little comfort herself, she slipped into the kitchen and extracted the nearly empty peppermint ice cream container from the freezer. Taking that and a spoon, she headed back up the stairs, suddenly feeling near tears again.
What was with her these days? Poppy wondered as she moved into her bedroom and sat to finish what was left of the ice cream. Was it the prospect of adopting the twins that had her so emotionally overwrought? The knowledge that while she was getting part of what she wanted, she was still eons away from getting it all? Or just the fatigue?
Poppy had no answer as she let the minty, holiday flavor melt on her tongue and soothe her yet again. Finally she put the empty container aside. Then, taking a moment just to chill, she laid back against the pillows.
The next thing she knew sunlight was streaming in through the windows. It was just after nine in the morning. And—was that her doorbell ringing?
Poppy sat up with a start.
Thinking it must be some sort of emergency, she rushed down the stairs. Too late, Trace had already awakened and moved to open the door. Mitzy Martin stood on the other side of the threshold, work bag over her shoulder.
If Poppy’s childhood friend was surprised to see them still in their wedding finery, she managed not to show it. “Hey, sorry to intrude. But I really need to talk to both of you.”
Gallantly, Trace ushered the social worker inside.
The vivacious Mitzy pulled out a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard and pen. “The Stork Agency wants an amended home study done ASAP.”
Hence, Poppy thought, the surprise visit. One of several she’d endured during the past few years. “Why?”
“You’ve already interviewed us both extensively,” Trace pointed out.
Mitzy looked around, bypassing the chair with the throw still on it, and took a seat on the sofa. “You weren’t married then. Or planning to marry.”
Feeling a little self-conscious to be caught, still in her wedding gown, her hair askew, Poppy snuck a furtive glance Trace’s way. He looked as bedraggled as she did. His once-pristine military uniform was wrinkled, and from the look of his bloodshot eyes, it appeared he’d had a pretty rough night.
Clearing her throat, Poppy shook off the rest of the cobwebs. “But they asked us to do this!”
“Exactly my worry.” Mitzy sobered. “Is that the only reason you tied the knot last night?”
Poppy locked eyes with Trace, not sure how to answer that.
“Yes,” he said, blunt as ever.
“So if the Stork Agency hadn’t required it?” Mitzy took a clipboard full of papers, and pen from her bag.
Trace shrugged and took a seat in the same chair where he’d spent the night. “I wouldn’t be here today. I’d be back in the Middle East.”
Mitzy wrote on a preprinted form. “Is it your intention to be in this marriage for the long haul? Or just until the adoption is final?”
“Until the kids are grown,” Trace said firmly. He glanced at Poppy. “Or longer.”
Mitzy turned to Poppy. “And you?”
“When Trace and I decided to adopt children together, we agreed we would behave as a family from this point forward.”
“So there was no end date?” Mitzy challenged.
Aware her knees were suddenly a little shaky, Poppy perched on the wide arm of Trace’s chair. “No. Being a parent is a lifelong commitment.”
Mitzy looked at Trace. “Do you agree?”
He nodded. “For better or worse. Just like marriage.”
“Are you expecting the worst?”
Trace returned, “Are you?”
Ignoring his insolence, the social worker rose. “Are you going to live here?”
Poppy and Trace nodded in unison.
Mitzy continued to study them. “Mind if I take a quick look around the premises?”
“You’ve already done that,” Poppy protested. When the upstairs wasn’t such a total mess!
Gaze narrowed, Mitzy paused. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to look around?”
Yes, Poppy thought, knowing if the social worker went up there, she would quickly realize that neither bed had been slept in. “No,” she said out loud.
Her manner all business, Mitzy made her way through the dining area and into the kitchen, which, unlike the upstairs, was neat as a pin. From there, she peeked into the powder room then took the stairs. Poppy and Trace were right behind her.
She paused in front of Poppy’s bedroom, which was still a mess, the covers rumpled from where she’d slept.
“Where will the babies sleep?” Mitzy asked, still making notes.
“In here.” Poppy pointed to the office-cum-guest room.
Wordlessly the social worker took in the perfectly made-up sofa bed, Poppy’s desk and computer.
“Obviously, everything’s happened so fast, we haven’t had a chance to set up a nursery,” Poppy said in a rush. “But I’ll get it done in the next couple of days.”
“Call me when you do. I’d like to add it to the report,” Mitzy told her. “Where are the two of you planning to sleep?”
Trace quirked his brow at Poppy as if he’d like to hear the answer to that, too.
Flushing, she pointed to her bedroom. “Exactly where you’d expect. In my—er, our room.” There wouldn’t be a whole lot of choice once the nursery was set up.
Mitzy turned back to Trace, her expression as poker-faced as his. “Does that square with your plans, too?”
“Unless she relegates me to the sofa,” he replied in a joking tone.
