Then he reached down, around the side of my front porch flowerpot with the petrified geraniums in it, and produced a warm Starbucks cup. I looked at it and held my breath. “That’s so thoughtful.” I raised my eyes to his. “But I can’t have caffeine this late.” He smiled. “I know. It’s decaf.” I had to clutch a hand over my heart. “You realize that repeatedly bringing me my favorite coffee is comparable to feeding a stray cat, right? You might never get rid of me now.” “Good,” he said, pulling me close to kiss me with an enormous grin. “I was hoping for something like that.”
