The electricity that snapped between them was so powerful Genevieve was surprised everyone in the room didn’t duck for cover.
Warmth contracted her abdomen.
He gave her a small, affectionate smile and nodded.
She returned his smile and nod, then startled when Owen tapped her thigh. The woman working the booth had knelt down to help Owen free his prize (a tiny box of crayons) because Genevieve had been unable to hear, see, or sense anything else while ogling Sam.
“Way to go, buddy,” Genevieve said.
Sam was here.Samwashere.
Owen dropped the crayons into the favor bag she was carrying for him, then outstretched his arms.
Genevieve swept him onto her right hip. “Can you say thank you for the crayons?”
“Tankoo.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” the older woman said.
Would Sam approach her now?
She’d been sure that her chances of seeing him today were shot when she’d left the farm.
Her chin kept wanting to tug back in his direction and sneak another peek. It took physical effort to resist the gravitational pull.
She carried Owen to an art station that provided dot markers plus coloring pages featuring pumpkins and scarecrows. Once she got him situated on a chair, he released the two soggy Goldfish he’d been protecting in one hand and went to work.
“Happy Halloween.” Sam’s voice. His Australian accent rippled over her like satin.
She twisted to find him standing nearby, fingers pushed into the front pockets of his jeans, a gray athletic shirt hugging his shoulders.
“Happy Halloween.” She looped a finger inside the neck of Owen’s Spider-Man costume. She didn’t want to get sucked into a Sam vortex and fail to notice her nephew toddling out of the church toward the nearest busy street.
“Are you dressed as a...” He pushed his lips to the side, considering. “Russian folk singer?”
She laughed, which felt like a gift in the face of the uneasy feeling she’d been carrying since she’d seen the yearbook photo of her parents. She indicated her braids, jewel-toned cape, full skirt, lace-up boots. “Really? You don’t know who I am?”
“Nope.”
“I’m Anna from the movieFrozen.” Her costume wasn’t a cheapknock-off. It was legit. After she and Natasha had decided to dress as Elsa and Anna, her sister had rented these costumes for them.
“Never saw it.”
“Frozenwas something of a cultural phenomenon.”
“Among who?”
“Females worldwide.”
“Anna!” a little girl called, pointing at Genevieve as she ran past.
“See?” Genevieve said wryly.
“Red!” Owen sang, stabbing his coloring page with a red dot marker.
“Is this your nephew?” Sam asked.
“Yes, this is Natasha’s son, Owen.” Owen spared Sam a skeptical glance. “Owen, this is Mr. Turner.”
