After a moment, she spoke. “I think that was enough for today.”
He nodded, springing to his feet again. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I can show you how to avoid that in the future.”
She tipped her head, awkwardness emanating from her every pore. “That would be ... desirable.”
At the word, his pulse leapt again. Desirable. Yes, Amara Mattersley was oh-so-desirable. He wished she’d chosen a different word, so he could get his mind out of the gutter and back to where it belonged, which was not on Amara’s body. Though his hands longed to be there.
He yanked his phone out of his pocket. “I’m, uh, going to check in with the Coopers.” He turned his back to Amara as he typed, not willing or able to handle looking at her anymore. After some quick back-and-forth texting, he returned the phone to his pocket, emitting a loud sigh. “Looks like they still want you to spend the night with me. That okay?”
A choking noise came from her, and he swung around. Her eyes were wide, but she stood, snapping her shoulders back and tugging on her sweater dress. That all-too-seductively-short dress. “Of course. I shall not bother you. I will remain in my room and read.”
Without waiting for his response, she walked into the hallway. He could have sworn a cold wind followed her.
Chapter 12
As she climbed into his truck, Matthew said, “We can either grab a bite to eat, or pick something up to make at home.”
She longed to simply return to his apartment, to hide in her bedchamber. The whole day she’d been in the company of newness: new people, new technology, new surroundings. At the mention of food, however, her stomach growled. She hadn’t had anything since breakfast. Food was a necessity. Perhaps the market would not be too taxing. “Something for home would be nice.”
He nodded as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I agree. I’m not much of a chef, but I can manage chicken and potatoes.”
They wound their way through the streets to the large, crowded road Amara recognized from the mall excursion. As the cars inched along, she commented absent-mindedly, “This feels much the same as London.”
“London?” A noise suspiciously like a snort emerged. “I don’t think Charlottesville is any comparison to London, in size or looks.”
She stiffened. She’d meant the traffic, the slow-moving vehicles, though it wasn’t as if she could say London in 1813, with its horses and carriages. She had no clue what the London of today was like, but did he have to speak in such an arrogant tone?
“Have you been?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“No, but London’s about ten times the size of this town.”
She swallowed, saying nothing. Ten times? Not that she’d seen much of Charlottesville, and London was a huge city, but ten times? “How many people live there?”
If he thought her question odd after she’d challenged him, he didn’t say so. “Eight or nine million, I think.”
She pulled at the material on her dress. Good Lord, that was enormous. Would she recognize any of it if she went back?
“Here, we’ll zip into Kroger.” He turned into a large lot full of other vehicles and found an empty spot. Shutting the engine off, he walked around the truck to open her door. Amara liked that. While she was sure she could manage the door herself, she enjoyed the courtesy.
The building before her loomed large. As they entered, Amara sucked in a deep breath. She’d never seen so much food in one place. London’s markets had been vast but spread out, and though the banquets at Clarehaven fed upwards of a hundred people at a time, neither could compare to the bounty before her.
She followed Matthew mutely, her eyes trailing over food items in jars and metal tins of varying shapes and sizes. As they neared a row of meat packaged in a curious, clear material, the cold pulsating from the shelves hit her. So that’s how they kept it from going bad. Capital!
People passed them pushing carts piled high with items. “There’s so much. Everywhere,” she commented.
Matthew set a package of chicken in the cart, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Restaurants on every corner. A shop this size full of food. So much food, instantly available.”
A wry grin twisted up one corner of his mouth. “It’s the American way.”
“How do you keep from going to fat?”
He chuckled, waving an arm. “Look around. The American stereotype in action.”
Amara did as told. A few of the customers were as lean as Matthew, but many more had extra flesh, some in considerable amounts. Not that there hadn’t been larger people in her era—there certainly were. The Prince Regent, for one.
“But you?” she asked again, scanning him up and down. “There is no extra on you.” Her skin heated as she spoke. She should not be appraising his person so intimately.
His eyes sparkled. “Thank you. Good metabolism, I guess. And I hit the Aquatic and Fitness Center daily.”
“Fitness Center?”
“Yeah, the gym? Where people go to work out?”
“Work out?”
He snickered. “Are you kidding?” When she shook her head, he poked her lightly in her side. “Working out is exercising. You’re a strange one, Amara Mattersley, with the stuff you don’t know.”
She pinched her lips, crossing her arms over her midsection. He was right, but the frank words hurt, in spite of the teasing grin he’d sent her when he finished speaking. At least she knew what exercise was. She walked over to a shelf, examining its contents, refusing to look at him.
After a moment, he approached. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I often speak without thinking.”
He rubbed a hand along one of her arms. The surprising touch stirred goosebumps, and she looked up. He was close, the heat of him tickling her skin. His ice-blue eyes were warm but troubled.
“No, you are right. I must seem ... peculiar ... to you.”
It wasn’t his fault. Not really. Half of her wanted to blurt out the truth of her origins, but she couldn’t risk it. He’d have her hauled off to an asylum.
Eliza had used her phone to convince Deveric of her claims. But Dev had also been here. Because of the story Cat wrote, he’d come forward, albeit briefly, to meet Eliza, to kiss her, or have her kiss him, rather, which sent them both back to 1812. He’d seen things, things that forced him to be more open to Eliza’s confessions.
Amara had no such advantage. True, she had Eliza’s phone, which held several photos of Eliza, Deveric, and Amara. But how could she prove said photos were from the nineteenth century when the technology that’d made them hadn’t existed and wouldn’t for nearly another two centuries?
Matthew dropped his hand and took a step back, his expression impossible to read. “Let’s finish up. I’m starving.”
“Me, too.” She gave him a tremulous smile.
After picking up some potatoes and green salad in a clear box—in a box!—he navigated towards the front of the store. Grabbing something in an orangish-red wrapper from a shelf, he added it to the other items. “Do you want one? Kit Kats are my vice.”
What in heavens was a Kit Kat? “No, thank you.”
When the counter on which he’d unloaded the food moved, she ducked her head so he wouldn’t note yet another reaction to something unfamiliar.
Once back in the truck, Matthew opened the Kit Kat’s wrapper. A luscious smell wafted Amara’s direction, reminiscent of the chocolate drink their cook, Rowena, made for her. Her mouth watered as he took a bite.
Glancing at her, he stopped mid-chew. “You want some, don’t you?” He broke off a piece and handed it to her without waiting for her answer. “Told you you should have gotten one. I hate those women who say they don’t want dessert but then steal mine.”
Her hand paused mid-air. She was fairly sure he was joking, but why did the idea of him hating her pain her so? It’s not as if others hadn’t disliked her. Lord knows, they had. But, she was startled to realize, she liked him. She liked Matthew Goodson. Underneath his
occasional brusqueness, he had a considerate nature. He’d opened his home to her, asked after her welfare during the day, was even going to make her dinner. What wasn’t to like?
Nothing. And that’s the problem. She turned away, watching the scenery pass as she sampled the delicious Kit Kat. His lips are even better. Oh, her traitorous brain. She sneaked a peek at him, but he paid her no attention as he drove—which she supposed was a good thing, considering the numerous vehicles crowding the road.
“How long did it take you to learn how to drive?”
He shrugged. “Not long. My mom let me practice in parking lots, and then I took Driver’s Ed in tenth grade like everyone else.” After a second, he spoke again. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume you don’t drive?”
Amara nibbled at a fingernail. “Not this type of vehicle.” At his raised eyebrow, she clarified. “I have driven carriages, with horses.” There, let him make of that what he will.
His other eyebrow joined the first. “Horse-drawn carriages? Are you Amish?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“A religious group of people who live as if they were in the eighteenth or nineteenth century—they reject most modern technology. You know, like you.”
Amara’s hackles rose. “There’s more to life than technology,” she said with a huff, crossing her arms.
They coasted into his apartment lot, and he brought the truck to a stop in the same place as before. “There is? My mom keeps telling me that, too, but somehow I’ve yet to believe her.” He chuckled as he hopped out and walked around to her door, helping her down with his warm, almost familiar hand. The contact eased her perturbation a bit.
“Where do your parents live?”
“Not parents. Mom. Just north of Washington, D.C. About two hours from here.”
It only took two hours to travel from Charlottesville to the capital? Geography had never been Amara’s strongest subject, but she was pretty sure that was a great distance. Then again, cars traveled very fast. Too bad Deveric wasn’t here, with his fondness for speed.
“I am so sorry for the loss of your father,” Amara said. She and her own father hadn’t seen eye-to-eye, but she’d still mourned his passing.
“He’s not dead.” His abrupt tone caught Amara off-guard. He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. “But he’s also not worth talking about. Haven’t seen him since I was nine.”
He grabbed the bag of groceries from the floorboard and together they walked to the apartment, a silence between them.
“Lovey, I’m home,” he called as he opened the door. The feline leapt down from the sofa, vocalizing her displeasure at his absence. “Yeah, I know, I’m late. We’ll get you your foodies.” He set the groceries on the counter.
Foodies? A grown man used such a child-like word? It was rather endearing, how much Matthew adored this cat. It reminded her of Deveric and his dogs—and her nephew, Frederick, whose love for his puppy, Pirate, knew no bounds.
“Lovey. How did you pick the name?”
“I named her after Ada Lovelace, one of the first computer scientists. Lord Byron’s daughter.”
“Yes. I know him.” She nearly clapped her hand over her mouth. She should have said, “know of him.” Would he wonder at her words?
Matthew handed her a can and a spoon. “Can you scoop some of that into her bowl?” He pointed to a shallow dish on the kitchen floor.
Thank heavens. No questions. Amara took the can. How was she to open it? She could ask, but the thought of being inept at one more thing, at showing her differences again, ate at her. There was a flat ring on the can’s top. Maybe that? Using a fingernail, she slid a finger under the ring and pulled, exhaling a sigh of relief when the can opened. The sigh turned into a noise of dismay at the smell emanating from the can. Ugh.
Taking the spoon, she emptied the can into the bowl and placed it on the floor, amid Lovey’s loud purrs. The feline rubbed herself against Amara’s legs twice before wolfing down the food.
Matthew, who’d been unloading the bag of purchased foodstuffs, leaned over. Another chuckle escaped. “I didn’t mean for you to give her the whole can, but you’ll be her best friend now, for sure.”
Amara grinned at him as she rose, enjoying the easy camaraderie. Matthew set a pan on the stove, then poured some sort of oil in it before adding the chicken. Amara watched in fascination. She’d been in Clarehaven’s kitchens, of course, but had never learned to cook. She hadn’t needed to.
Did everyone here know how? Taylor had implied people often ate at restaurants, but Matthew moved in the kitchen as if accustomed to it, scrubbing the potatoes in the sink before dicing them and laying them in a separate pan. He drizzled the same oil over them, then grabbed a different bottle and shook its contents over the chicken.
“What is that?”
“Basil. I’m sorry, I should have asked—do you like it?”
Amara dipped her head in a yes. Whether she liked basil or not, she wasn’t going to nay-say this gentleman when he was cooking for her. Her stomach rumbled, and she set a hand over it. The bite of Kit Kat, while tasty, wasn’t enough.
“I know, I’m hungry, too,” Matthew said. “Want a beer while we’re waiting?”
Beer? Her mother frowned upon women drinking beer. Which of course meant she wanted one. “Yes, please.”
Opening the cold box he’d called a refrigerator, he pulled out two bottles, then grabbed some sort of contraption and popped the lids off before handing her one. She took a sip. Not the best-tasting drink, but not the worst, either—that had been her brother’s whiskey, of which she’d once stolen a gulp. She nursed the drink slowly.
Within twenty minutes, Matthew was dishing the meal onto plates and gesturing for her to sit. “It’s nothing fancy,” he said, a sheepish grin on his face, “but I hope it’ll do.”
She set her hand over his briefly as he took a chair next to her. “No man has cooked for me before. Thank you, Matthew.”
Amara took a bite of chicken, her eyes closing and a smile hitting her face as she chewed.
Matt watched, his hand trembling from her touch. His response to her unnerved him. She unnerved him. She’d never had a man cook for her? How could that be? She was a puzzle that made no sense as if he were trying to solve something for which he’d been given the wrong key.
He ought to have come straight home after office hours. Lord knew he had enough to do. Instead, he’d relished every minute he’d spent in this woman’s company. And he wanted more time with her.
That disturbed him.
Not that he never thought about giving relationships another try. He did. Occasionally. Late at night, when the screens were off and he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, insomnia his only companion. In those wee hours, loneliness edged its way in. But come morning, he pushed that aside and got back to what he was good at: work. Relationships, whether friendships or something more, had never come easily to him. When Wendy left him for his brother, he’d sworn that was the end, that life was more pleasant, less confusing, without another person in the mix.
But his time with Amara had been easy. Mostly, at least. He’d take the batting average, in spite of his few missteps. And Lord knew chemistry raged between them, a silent electricity leaping back and forth whenever they were in the same space.
His gaze dropped to her lips. A hint of oil from the chicken lent them a glossy sheen, and it made him want to lick them clean.
He liked that she wore no makeup, that her face, as gorgeous as it was, was one hundred percent natural. No subterfuge in her. He frowned. Physically, at least. He had the sneaking suspicion there was way more to Amara Mattersley than what he’d seen in the last twenty-four hours. She had secrets, he was sure of it. Everybody did.
What were hers?
Chapter 13
After dinner, Amara excused herself to her bedroom. She didn’t wish to be rude, she’d assured Matt, insisting the meal was divine, but she was exhausted and wished to sleep.
An unexpected sense of bereftness hit him in the chest as she walked into her room, shutting the door behind her. Hadn’t he wished for time to himself, to focus on his work? Why, then, did he feel her absence so keenly?
Luckily, sitting down in front of the screen erased all of that, and it was with surprise that he looked at the clock to discover it was past midnight. Standing, he patted Lovey, who’d taken up her usual perch on the edge of the desk, then arched his back to work out the kinks.
“That’s how the evening is supposed to go,” he mumbled to the cat. “Lots accomplished, no distractions, and no confusing mixed signals.”
Because Amara sent him mixed signals, that was for sure. She’d kissed him twice, responding actively each time, then had turned around and played the demure miss. She’d talked with him animatedly at dinner, only to excuse herself shortly thereafter, pleading fatigue. At times, he’d sworn the desire coursing through him reflected back in her eyes, but then she’d move, change, and it was gone.
This was why he didn’t bother with women most of the time. He’d never understood all the subtleties, the signals he was supposed to pick up on. Much easier to just hook up once in a while and leave it at that.
He smoothed his hands over his thighs, ignoring the tightening in his groin at the thought of hooking up with Amara. He’d like to. He’d really, really like to. But the complications that could bring with the Coopers weren’t worth it.
And if Amara were to expect more? A tenured professorship had been his life goal since his first high school computer science class, and nothing and no one, not even a woman as perplexing, as mesmerizing, as Amara Mattersley would pull him from that.
Amara lay in bed, watching lights flicker across the ceiling. She knew they were headlights from passing cars, but if she didn’t focus on them, if she let them be background, she could pretend it was candlelight, someone moving by in the hall, perhaps. Except of course it wasn’t.
The Magic of Love Series Page 68
