down to hers. He lurched toward her, catching himself with one hand on the back of the couch before they bashed noses. Their lips met instead and she reveled in this next kiss: the sure thrust of his tongue, the heat of his body, the flame that set fire to her blood. Her fingers curled into his shirt just as she thought about taking off hers, because she was hot, so hot, and—
An icy trail of moisture hit the back of her head, ran down her neck.
Startled, Poppy jolted, then jerked her head upward, only to receive an eyeful of freezing water. “Wha—?”
More trickled into her mouth and both she and Ryan came off the couch in a rush. He shoved the furniture away from the narrow stream that now seeped steadily from the seam between an exposed beam and the ceiling plaster. She ran to the kitchen for a pot to catch the leak.
Another sprang before she returned.
Poppy’s mood plummeted as she watched Ryan bend to slide one of the glasses they’d been drinking from beneath the new drip. He looked disheveled and aggravated and absolutely gorgeous.
And completely the wrong man with whom to be satisfying her curiosity after five-plus years of celibacy.
“What is wrong with me?” she said aloud. Her dwelling was damaged, her vehicle was damaged and she’d been playing kissy face with some rich, great-looking stranger who from the beginning had put up her back. Yet she’d almost been on her back! “How did this happen?” she demanded.
Ryan spared her a glance and she could see he was as displeased by the situation as she. “It’s March,” he said with a grimace. “Fucking March.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FROM YOU SEND ME, a screenplay by Linus Hamilton:
FADE IN:
EXT. STREET—DAY
A luxury convertible pulls into a parking space in front of the log cabin-style post office in a tiny, isolated Southern California mountain town. Twenty-nine-year-old LINUS HAMILTON’s head turns from side to side, taking in the flanking businesses: a minuscule grocery and an even smaller real estate office. A summer breeze plays with LINUS’s wealth of dirty-blond hair.
A woman in shorts and hiking boots exits the post office, catching his attention. She shades her eyes with her hand, as LINUS, in slacks and T-shirt, steps from the vehicle.
WOMAN
Are you lost?
LINUS
Nope.
He grins, an easy smile that is boyish and charming.
LINUS
Just exploring the area. Do you happen to know how many post offices there are in these mountains?
Bemused, the woman shakes her head.
LINUS
Only slightly fewer than the number of rodent-size dogs you can spy on a stroll down Rodeo Drive. In other words, a lot. I’ve made it my goal to mail my brother a postcard from each and every one.
He ambles past the woman, who turns to watch him as he reaches for the door handle.
INT. POST OFFICE—DAY
Inside the narrow space, a short wooden counter is directly ahead. The left and right walls are covered with old-fashioned post office boxes, their glass faces painted with gold numbers edged in black that look Western in design. Behind the counter is twenty-four-year-old CHARLOTTE “CHARLIE” WALKER, her head with its pixie-cut of flaxen hair lowered as she organizes something on the shelf below. When the door opens, she looks up with a smile. It fades as LINUS crosses the threshold.
CHARLIE
Are you lost?
Staring at CHARLIE, LINUS’s hand creeps up to his chest. Then he shakes himself a little, pulls in a breath and beams out another trademark grin.
LINUS
I think I just found exactly what this summer’s been lacking.
* * *
THE COLD BROOK, California, post office provided counter service for its small community from 3:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Charlotte Walker passed a book of stamps over the scarred wooden surface and flashed a farewell smile for her friend Janelle, who clerked in the deli/grocery next door. It was Monday, which meant Charlie hoped to be seeing the other woman again a couple of evenings from now in Blue Arrow Lake. The two of them and some other girlfriends had a standing date in the bigger town twelve winding miles down the highway—weather permitting. A fierce March storm had been raging on and off but if it let up, then Charlie was going to have a relaxing couple of glasses of wine with her friends later this week.
A girl, even a born-and-bred mountain girl, had to get out and see a little more of the world sometimes.
Charlie took a peek at the wall clock. Fifteen more minutes then she’d slide and lock the metal grille that secured the counter area and back room. She expected one or two of Cold Brook’s eight hundred residents would rush through at 4:58 p.m. with the urgent need to get a package weighed or a letter sent off, so she occupied herself by tidying the carousel of postcards that sat
