It was all Amara could do to keep from clapping her hand over her mouth, half to hold the surprisingly delicious taste of his lips on hers, half to keep herself from casting up her accounts.
She was here. It had worked. She’d done it. She was in 2012, or somewhere near, she assumed.
She glanced around at the bookshelves. This must be the Treasure Trove, Cat’s bookstore. She’d seen photos of it on Eliza’s phone. That much, at least, was vaguely familiar. Everything else?
Her eyes flew to the ceiling, where disarmingly bright lights shone from numerous glass domes. The books on the shelves were bound in quite colorful covers, and the covers themselves looked paper-thin.
And the clothing people wore. Cat had on form-fitting trousers—trousers, like a man!—of a blue material the likes of which Amara had never seen. Her top was a thin fabric of some sort, with a flag painted on it resembling the American flag Amara’d once seen, only with far more stars and the words Old Navy underneath. Had Cat served at sea? Were women allowed even into the military in this century?
Cat’s husband wore similar trousers, with a shirt of Scottish-looking plaid that buttoned down its entire front.
Then there was the man she’d kissed. This Mr. Goodson. His trousers were of a similar color to the breeches her brothers wore, though looser. Still, they accentuated his backside rather nicely. She fought to pull her eyes away from his derriere—how shocking to be staring there! Then again, the men in her era donned coats that concealed that particular part of their anatomy. Was it any wonder she wanted to look now?
Nevertheless, she forced her gaze up, then almost wished she hadn’t as he turned toward her. He wore a shirt of a similar style to Cat’s, though it was plain white in color, and cut close to his body. She couldn’t help but admire his arms, shockingly bare and distractingly muscular. The leanness of his torso was evident through the thin material, its attractive shape sending unexpected, unwelcomed desire through her. Desire to touch.
“Good God,” she murmured under her breath. It could be worse. She glanced at his thighs. He could be wearing what Eliza had called shorts, displaying naked flesh. Or maybe that would be better.
Her mind spun and her knees weakened as the enormity of all that had just happened hit her. Her insides hummed with energy, whether from the time traveling or the kiss she’d shared with a stranger, she wasn’t sure. Probably both.
This Mr. Goodson was watching her, unsmiling, though his eyes were warm. Why hadn’t he reacted more strongly to her bizarre advances? Likely women often foisted themselves upon him. He was undeniably tempting, and women were far more ... expressive in this era. Or so Eliza had promised. Amara had only kissed him to fulfill Cat’s requirements, though. She didn’t have intentions of pursuing Mr. Goodson in any serious manner. No, she had enough with which to contend, having miraculously leapt two hundred years into the future.
On the other hand, perhaps a mere physical association?
The “fun” to which Eliza had referred?
Amara’s cheeks tingled at the scandalous thought, even as she peeked at him again. His dark hair was cropped quite close to his head, with none of the tousled locks her male acquaintances prized. His jaw was squarely cut, reminiscence of her brother, but whereas Deveric’s eyes were green, this man’s were of a blue so light it was nearly ice. Slight hollows in his cheeks emphasized his cheekbones, and his lips looked as if some master sculptor had carved them.
He was beautiful. There was no other term for it. Her eyes returned to his again and again, as if some hidden force bound them. She touched her hand to her forehead, to the ache there. There was a hidden force. Cat’s stories. Cat’s manuscript.
Taking a quick breath, Amara turned her attention to Cat, whose face wore an open, kindly expression. She knew what Amara had gone through, at least a little.
“My apologies,” Amara said, as the silence stretched uncomfortably. “To you, Mr. Goodson. I fear I knocked the sense out of myself just now. Please excuse my untoward actions.”
She must move away from this handsome man lest she succumb to the absurd, pressing temptation to kiss him again. Without waiting for a response, she nodded at Mr. Goodson, whose mouth had fallen open in comical fashion. As she passed him, the scintillating scent of pine tickled her nose.
She loved that smell—it reminded her of home, of the trees surrounding Clarehaven. Did he spend much of his time out of doors? Or was this a perfume? She sniffed the air. It was decidedly clean and fresh, Mr. Goodson’s scent and the smell of food the only other odors she noticed.
“Whodat, Mama?” The child looked at her but quickly ducked his head into his mother’s shoulder.
Cat stroked the boy’s hair. “That’s Cousin Amara.”
“Okay.”
The expression, one Eliza loved to use, made Amara smile.
She and her sisters had even begun to say it on occasion. But, oh, if only it were as simple as the child made it sound. Okay. She’d traveled two hundred years and an entire country away from everyone and everything she knew. Okay. She was here with only the clothes on her back, a handful of jewelry sewn into her dress per Eliza’s recommendation, and one cell phone that wasn’t hers. Okay.
This was mad. She was mad. Should she have done this? What had she been thinking?
Escape. Escape is what she’d been thinking. Escape from the strictures of her society; escape from judging eyes; escape from lack of opportunity for anything other than marriage. Escape is what she’d wanted. And she’d found it.
She raised her chin in the air, summoning confidence. She could do this. There was no need for panic. She’d survived scandal, survived years of knowing glances and whispers. There was no judgment in these people’s eyes. Curiosity, yes, especially from Mr. Goodson. But no judgment, no rejection.
Yes, she could do this.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since the previous evening, her nerves having dispelled any thought of food before she’d ventured to the stones. The smells wafting from the other part of the room weren’t entirely familiar, but they made her mouth water.
“I thank you for the invitation to partake in your dinner,” she said as she reached Cat.
The little boy grinned at her, crumpling up his cheeks in the most adorable manner, a manner reminiscent of Deveric’s son Frederick at that age. Would this child soon dissolve into a shrieking banshee, as Freddy had often done? She hoped not. The fits that boy had thrown. Those she didn’t miss. Thankfully, Deveric never beat him. But the noise, oh, the noise, had been too much to bear.
Cat led her to a table across from a well-worn green sofa. A fire crackled merrily in the nearby fireplace, giving off familiar warmth, though the entire room was an even, comfortable temperature. Indoor heat. What Eliza had missed most.
Amara looked toward a window, but it was dark outside and she couldn’t see anything. Back home, it’d been autumn. Was it the same season here? And when exactly was she?
As she took a seat at the table, she blurted out, “Might you tell me the year?”
Mr. Goodson stumbled at her words, nearly tripping over his chair. Amara stifled a laugh. Watching him almost land on his backside took the edge off his otherwise perfection.
“It’s February 14th, 2016,” Cat said, acting as if a request for the year was a normal question. She handed a plate to Amara, who set it down.
“2016?”
Mr. Goodson’s brow puckered. “We should take her to the hospital,” he said to Cat. “Confusion like this is a sign of a concussion.” He turned toward Amara. “How did you hit your head, anyway? How long were you there in the aisle? Why didn’t we hear you come in?”
Amara opened and closed her mouth, like a fish gasping in air. At length, she said, “I was examining the books, and I ... tripped on my skirts, hitting my head on a bookcase as I fell.” It wasn’t far from the truth. She’d appeared here in the same sitting position she’d held on the rock, only with nothing to support her, so when her backside had slammed onto the floor, her head had flown back into a shelf. She avoided the other questions, hoping he wouldn’t repeat them.
“Here, Matt.” Ben handed the man a shiny, round thing rather like the new tin cans she’d seen in London. His quick glance at Amara told her Ben had distracted Mr. Goodson on purpose. How nice to have immediate allies here.
Mr. Goodson accepted the object, sliding his finger under a lever on the top and pulling. With a pop and a hiss, the lever came off, taking a piece of the metal from the can with it. He lifted the can to his mouth and drank. Amara couldn’t tear her eyes away from his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in quick succession. She had no idea what he was drinking—had never seen someone drink in that way—but it was disconcertingly alluring.
He set the can down, his gaze meeting hers. She moved her eyes away, embarrassed to have been caught staring.
“Would you like one?” he asked.
“One what?”
“A soda.”
“Er ...”
“Perhaps tea might be more to your liking?” Cat interjected.
Amara nodded gratefully as Cat walked to a side counter on which sat cups, bottles, and some sort of machine. She took a mug and set it under a smaller machine, one Amara hadn’t noticed at first. Pulling a tiny cup from a drawer, Cat removed its lid and placed it inside the machine, then pushed a button. Amara sucked in a breath when, in a matter of seconds, a stream of black tea flowed from the machine into the cup.
“Might you have a spot of milk to add?”
Cat nodded in response to Amara’s question, reaching down to pull a white jug from a black box.
A sound from her side drew Amara’s eyes away from the tea. She turned her head and nearly leapt out of her skin. Mr. Goodson’s ice blue eyes pierced hers, his face mere inches away. “Why’d you do that?” His voice was a low whisper.
“I-I beg your pardon?”
“You know what.” He blew air out of his cheeks, his brow crinkling. “Why’d you kiss me?”
“Er ...” What could she say? I had to so the magic would hold?
“Pretty sure she was just overcome by your extraordinary good looks,” Ben said from her other side, obviously having overheard Mr. Goodson’s words. “The whole department knows half your female students are in love with you. Even some of the male ones.”
“Ben!” Cat elbowed her husband gently before setting the cup of tea down in front of Amara. The familiar scent of the brew tickled Amara’s nose as she picked it up for a sip.
“I’d blame Cupid and let it go,” Cat said, gesturing toward the paper cherub. “Unless, of course, you want her to do it again, Matt.”
The cup clattered back onto its saucer, liquid sloshing over its sides. “I beg pardon,” Amara exclaimed, though whether referring to the spill or Cat’s provoking suggestion, she wasn’t sure. Her eyes shot to Mr. Goodson, whose lips curled into a half-grin.
“It was a nice change of pace from my typical Sunday night, I’ll admit,” he said. “No offense to you or Cat, of course.” He nodded at Ben, who burst into robust laughter.
Amara took a quick sip of tea, scalding her tongue. “I do apologize for disturbing your person.” What was the proper etiquette to atone for mauling a stranger? What was the proper etiquette for anything here? Her tongue hurt and her head pounded. What had she got herself into?
He nodded briskly. “No big deal.” Sliding his chair away from her, he picked up his fork and took a large bite from his plate.
A strange sense of disappointment flooded through Amara. She didn’t want complications, yet it bothered her how quickly he’d turned his attention away. Did a kiss such as that mean nothing?
Cat scooped a portion of food out of a container onto Amara’s plate, then added rice. Picking up her fork, Amara poked at it.
Cat sat down next to her. “Beef with broccoli. Wash loves it.” Sure enough, the little boy grabbed another piece of broccoli off his mother’s plate and shoved it into his mouth.
The dinner certainly smelled appetizing. Amara gathered a small amount of rice onto her fork and added a piece of beef, as the others had done, before taking a hesitant bite. Heavens above, it was good, the sauce like nothing she’d tasted before. “It is delicious,” she said after finishing the bite. “Is this an American delicacy?”
The noises from her left stopped, and she looked over to see Mr. Goodson watching her again, a half-scowl on his face. “You’re kidding, right?”
Before Amara could say anything, Cat interrupted. “Amara had a different upbringing than most. Her parents ... home-schooled her in a rural part of England, so she hasn’t had much exposure to certain things. Especially modern technology.”
Ben chuckled. “A little like you, my adorable Luddite,” he murmured in an affectionate voice.
“Luddite?” The word burst forth from Amara before she could stop it. Why was Ben referencing a rebellion from her era? Why would an American be a Luddite?
Her head pounded again. Despite her long conversations with Eliza and the pictures she’d seen on Eliza’s phone, she was largely ignorant of two hundred years’ worth of history—or the future, from her perspective. Her throat constricted. She was ill prepared for this.
“Someone who doesn’t readily accept new ways of doing things, new technologies,” Mr. Goodson said almost absent-mindedly as if the definition sprang from him without him paying any attention.
His words made sense, considering the protests over the mechanization of the cotton mills in her time. She studied the strange tea maker on the counter, as well as the bigger machine next to it, full of myriad buttons and levers. Were there machines now for everything?
“You could help her with understanding the tech, Matthew,” Cat said, her eyes hopeful. “Amara could really use someone like you.”