Matt’s long legs ate up the distance between the door and the register. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to take Amara home. He regretted saying yes. He had stuff to do, class to prep for, coding to proof. But he’d promised.
Cat waved from behind the register desk, her face easing into a warm smile.
“Hey, Cat. Where is she?”
Cat motioned toward the couch. The woman sitting on it turned toward him, and he did a double take. It was Amara, but she looked almost nothing like the woman he’d met last night. She wore no bonnet, for one thing. For another, her hair was short. Much shorter than yesterday, when it’d been secured in that bun.
“What’d you do to your hair?” he burst out.
Amara stood up, her back ramrod straight. “Cat cut it for me. Not that that is any of your concern.”
Starch infused her defensive tone, and he bristled. She was right, though. It wasn’t his business.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from her face. The shorter locks framed it in a most becoming way, the edges drawing attention to her strong yet feminine jawline, the whispers of hair near her eyes pulling him like a magnet into their rich velvety hazel-greenness. Damn it. What was with this woman’s eyes? Was she some sort of witch, luring him in with those orbs?
His gaze went lower. Her other orbs were now well hidden in some overly baggy UVA sweatshirt. She was wearing jeans, too, though they didn’t fit well.
“You ready? I’ve got stuff to do.”
Amara nodded stiffly as she crossed to him, a book clutched in her hand.
When she just stood there, looking at him expectantly, he snapped, “You don’t need any of your other things?”
Amara’s lips pinched together. “I haven’t anything else.”
“You traveled from England with only the clothes on your back?”
Amara turned to Cat, wordless.
“The, uh, airline lost her luggage,” Cat said, her eyes steady on Matt in spite of the hesitation in her words.
He blew air out of his cheeks, his hands fisting on his hips. That explained the overly large clothing. So why did he still suspect there was something weird going on here. “They haven’t located it yet?”
Cat shrugged before retrieving her purse. “Sometimes they never do. Here’s my credit card,” she said, offering him her VISA. “Could you take Amara out and help her get some new clothes?”
“You want me to go clothes shopping?”
Amara giggled out loud. At his glare, she said, “Men don’t change. You reacted much as my brother would have.”
He sighed, running his hand across his hair. “Fine. I suppose I can take her to the mall. Briefly. But keep your card; it’s just easier to use mine.”
“Thanks, Matt. We’ll pay you back.”
“The cards are money?”
At Amara’s question, his eyes swung to her. Her brows knit together in the most adorable fashion. “You don’t know what a credit card is?” He nearly snarled the words. Was she trying to pull his leg? This woman couldn’t be for real.
“Remember, rural England,” Cat whispered.
“Sure, right. C’mon.” He gestured toward Amara.
“I’ll call you this evening to check in,” Cat said. “I’m sorry for this, but with Wash feeling so rotten, I think it’s best for a day or two.”
Before she trailed after Mr. Goodson, Amara turned to examine Cat’s face. The woman was holding back a smile. Did she truly think thrusting Amara in with this man would spark a permanent connection?
She was wrong. Amara would stay with Mr. Goodson, but his gruff attitude made it clear there was no love lost between them.
She stepped out the front door, then halted. She hadn’t yet ventured outside, though she’d watched through the window. But now she could take it all in—the noises, the smells, the sights.
Different colored lights flashed OPEN in a shop window across the street. Cars raced by at speeds that had Amara’s heart racing. The air smelled different—not of coal, as in London, but of fresh air and something less pleasant, dirty. A car drove by, black smoke billowing out of its tail end. Was that the unusual odor—whatever the cars released? Better than horse manure, at least.
Everything looked relatively clean. There were no soot stains darkening the buildings. Few houses had chimneys, for that matter. The streets held no detritus, though dried leaves rustled about.
Mr. Goodson had reached the bottom of the stairs and was stalking down the gray footpath. When he noticed she wasn’t behind him, he turned, impatiently demanding, “Coming?”
She hurried after him, though half of her didn’t want to stop looking about. He walked around the side of a large, strange-looking vehicle—it had tires like Cat’s car but was much bigger. Opening the right door, he ushered her in, holding her hand briefly as she stepped on a side rail to reach the interior. Not so unlike boarding a carriage.
The direct skin-on-skin contact disconcerted her; in 1813, nearly everyone had worn gloves. This was more intimate, flesh pressed against flesh. Was it her imagination, or did his hand hold hers longer than necessary? Frissons of excitement skittered up her arms. She glanced down at his hand as he pulled it away. It was strong, heavily masculine, with veins cording up its back and dark hairs accentuating its muscles. A beautiful hand.
Since when had she given consideration to a hand? Since it touched mine and left me breathless. Shaking her head, she settled into the surprisingly comfortable seat as he crossed around the front and entered from the other side.
A wheel stuck out directly over his lap. What was that? And all the knobs and buttons?
He inserted a metal key into a slot, then turned it. The vehicle roared to life with a loudness that startled Amara. She shrieked.
His head whipped toward her. “What’s the problem?”
She took a calming breath. Nothing like proving herself out of time and place by overreacting to things normal for everyone else. “My apologies. I wasn’t expecting the noise.”
He actually gave her a grin. “Never been in a pickup before?” He patted the front of the vehicle as if caressing a horse, and Amara nearly snorted. She could easily imagine Deveric doing similarly.
“Don’t forget your seatbelt,” he said, as he pulled a flat rope over his shoulder and clicked it into a metal square at his side. Amara did the same, hoping he didn’t notice her fumbling. The seatbelt pressed into her chest, accentuating her breasts under the sweatshirt. Embarrassment stole over her when he glanced down, then jerked his head forward, apparently noticing the same.
He pushed a button, and rhythmic beats pulsed out from the vehicle. Amara clapped her hands over her ears at the surprising sounds. He chuckled as he turned a knob and the volume lessened. “I take it the music’s too loud for you, too? Do you have super-sensitive ears or something?”
She stared into the blue depths of his eyes. Music? In a vehicle? If one could call it music; it sounded mostly like jumbled noise to her. “It is different from what I am used to,” she said.
He nodded. “Not everybody likes guitar rock. What’s your style? Pop? Please say it isn’t country. I may be a man with a pickup truck, but I won’t go there.”
She shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
He moved a lever on the side of the wheel, and the vehicle—a truck, he’d called it—edged backward out of the driveway, just as Cat’s car had. It was wondrous. Much easier than maneuvering a horse and carriage.
Then the truck jerked forward, and they flew down the road at a rate faster than she’d ever traveled. Her hand gripped the side of the door, the other one clutching her trouser leg, nails biting into her thigh. This is normal. I’m not going to die. This is normal.
“Seriously, you okay?”
Her eyes shot to his. He glanced at her briefly before returning his focus to the road—thank goodness; he needed to look where he was going because she didn’t want to perish in this thing!
“I am fine,” she lied, as he pulled onto a different road. Houses flew by so quickly she caught only glimpses, but they were of brick, pleasing in form, surrounded by trees. It wasn’t so bad. Then he crested down a hill to a crossroads, and her stomach lurched. This was like nothing she’d ever seen—rows upon rows of cars, lights of reds and greens hanging above, and long buildings with lit signs. Shops?
He turned to the right and sped up again. It took everything she had to keep from casting up her accounts. London had been crowded with carriages and carts and horses and people wherever one turned, especially on the busier roads, but this, this was completely foreign, all these metal boxes moving at fast rates of speed, signs flying by. She closed her eyes.
“I texted my sister,” Mr. Goodson said. “She’s meeting us at the mall. She lives in Staunton, so she’ll be here in half an hour.”
Amara only nodded, her eyes still firmly shut. A sister? She had to meet another new person? You can do this, Amara Mattersley. Perhaps his female relative would prove more congenial than he.
The truck suddenly slowed before coming to a halt. Amara opened one eye. The cars around them had also stopped, as cars from a side direction crossed in front of them. He drummed his fingers on the wheel impatiently. “So, what do you do?”
His tone was casual as if her answer mattered not; he was merely making small talk. That was an action with which she was intimately familiar, having passed numerous evenings discussing nothing of import with people of her acquaintance.
She flashed him a glance, her eyes colliding with his of icy blue. A shiver raced through her, and she moved her gaze down, unnerved by her reaction, only to have his lips seize her attention. When one side of his mouth lifted in amusement, she stared at her lap. What was wrong with her?
And what had he said? What did she do? Did he mean occupation? This was not a question asked of a lady in her time. Ladies married. Or didn’t. They did not have occupations. Blast, what could she say? That as a member of a ducal family, the only things expected of her were to keep a pleasing appearance, practice beautiful manners, and talk of inconsequential matters?
“I’m going to enroll at the University. To study astronomy,” she announced. She held her back straight and her head high as if such actions lent credence to her words.
His eyebrow lifted, but his eyes stayed on the road as the stream of vehicles began moving again. “Cool. Professor Niemann is great. I’ve worked with him on some computational mathematics. I could introduce you.” He frowned momentarily. “It’s too late to apply for fall admission, though I suppose you could try for next spring. Or did you apply before you came?”
Amara’s shoulders sank. Next spring? So far off? Though that gave her more time to accustom herself to this new life. And what qualifications did one need for admittance? Likely schooling such as her brothers received at Eton, schooling not open to females. She was in over her head. Defiantly, she tilted her chin up, adopting the Mattersley stance.
No, she wasn’t. She was intelligent. She’d read translated works of Copernicus, Galileo, Halley, Herschel. She simply hadn’t had the access to education her male counterparts had, or that Mr. Goodson had, especially since her mother had frowned upon the idea of females pursuing science. That didn’t make her stupid, it made her uneducated, and that’s exactly what she’d come to acquire: an education.
She was determined to get it. And she needed to take advantage of every potential opportunity.
“No. Might you help me?”
Matt swallowed. “Help you what?”
“I am not sure how one applies.”
“Yeah, I can help with that.” What? Where had that come from? Why did he keep offering her his time? Then again, filling out the application wouldn’t take too long, right?
When she flashed him a grateful smile, one revealing a dimple he hadn’t noticed before, Matt’s heart jumped, and he nearly groaned out loud. This was why knights stupidly agreed to take on dragons, wasn’t it? They’d probably fallen under the spell of a woman like this one.
He’d never cared for the damsel-in-distress type. He found their neediness annoying and unsettling. He preferred more take-charge, independent types, ones who wouldn’t demand too much, who were happy to take what they wanted—usually in bed—then move on. Yet something in this woman called to him. Something about her made him relish the idea of being the hero, the savior, the person who could rescue her from whatever ailed her.
He pulled into Fashion Square Mall’s parking lot, shaking off those ridiculous thoughts. She was no more a fair maiden needing rescuing than he was a knight in shining armor. She was just a relative of a colleague who’d needed a favor. A very short-term favor. “Here we are. Let’s do this. I’ve got stuff to do.”
She stiffened.
Damn. That probably wasn’t the most socially acceptable thing, to act as if he didn’t want to be with her. But he didn’t. Especially not shopping at a mall. This was about his least favorite activity imaginable. And yet here he was. With her.
Hopping out of the truck, he hurried around to her door, some part of him pleased with the excuse to hold her hand as he helped her from the vehicle. Once out, she clutched an arm around her stomach, her face a bit pale, but her stride determined as they entered the mall.
“I guess we walk until something catches your eye?”
Amara dipped her head in assent but didn’t look at him, stopping suddenly in front of American Eagle. “Let’s try here. I see women of my similar age.”
Good. This might go more quickly than expected. Maybe he hadn’t needed to invite his sister. He checked his phone. “Okay. Taylor’s fifteen minutes out.”
Amara strolled the aisles without acknowledging his statement, touching various items. “These are clothes that are fully fashioned? Does one not need to visit the seamstress?”
Seamstress? Hadn’t that gone out of style at least a hundred years ago?
“Yeah, as far as I know.”
She selected a few items as a saleslady approached.
“Would you like to try those on?” the woman asked.
Thank God, someone had rescued him.
“I’ll be over here,” he said, as Amara followed the salesclerk toward the dressing rooms.
“I’d very much appreciate your opinion as to whether or not I look acceptable,” she called back.
Acceptable? The woman would look acceptable in a gunny-sack. He fingered a sweater on a shelf. What was he doing here? He was in a mall on a weekday looking at women’s clothing when he should have been home grading or at least planning class or writing that paper.
A cute blonde walked by and flashed him a grin. His body leapt, responding as it did to an attractive woman, but as he looked more closely at her face, the spark died. She wore too much makeup for his taste, her eyes black-rimmed in that raccoon manner he detested.
Amara’s eyes needed no enhancement.
Good God, he was comparing other women to her? Why? She was nothing to him, the cousin of his advisor’s wife. He was only here as a courtesy to said advisor. That was all.
Amara strolled into view, her body language hesitant. She’d clad herself in a pair of black leggings with an oversized tunic shirt on the top. “The shop clerk insisted I should place a belt around the upper garment,” she said. Were her cheeks redder than usual?
He eyed her up and down. The leggings clung to her every curve, accentuating lean but not overly muscular limbs. Not that he had anything against the athletic look; he’d just always found a softer body more appealing. And Amara looked scrumptiously soft. The tunic top accentuated her breasts and narrow waist, and his pulse raced again, his groin jumping in reaction to the woman before him.
Her throat bobbed. “Not good?”
“No, you look—”
“Hey, Matty! There you are!” a female voice called from behind him. Taylor. He turned to his sister, grateful for the interruption.
“Thank God,” he said. “I have no clue what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing here? My brother, shopping?”
He gestured toward Amara. “Taylor, this is Amara, Ben’s wife’s cousin. Amara, this is my sister, Taylor Duncan.”
Taylor grinned widely and stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet ya. Totally cute outfit. Have you thought about adding a scarf?”
Amara gave her a hesitant smile in return. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Duncan. Many of the American fashions are new to me, so I am unsure of what to select. I appreciate any guidance you may give.”
Taylor laughed. “Please, call me Taylor. Are British fashions so different? I wouldn’t think so. But you’re off to a great start. Some boots would make that outfit kick-ass.”
“Would you mind if—” Matt said.
His sister broke him off. “Yeah, yeah, meet us at Chick-Fil-A in an hour.”
“An hour?”
“Good fashion takes time, bro.”
He let out a large sigh, then handed Taylor his credit card. “Amara doesn’t have one,” he said by way of explanation. At least he had his laptop in the car. “Fine. But please, no longer.”
“Dude, we got this!” She waved her hand at her brother, then selected a sweater and a skirt from a nearby rack. “Try these,” she said, handing them to Amara. “You’ll totally rock them, no doubt. So wish I had your curves.”
Matt nearly broke into a run, so desperate was he to get his mind off Amara. But the whole way to his truck, all he could think was, So wish I could have them, too.
Miss Dun—er, Taylor—set Amara immediately at ease, perhaps because she reminded her of Eliza. Granted, Eliza was a short, plump blonde with sapphire eyes, and this Taylor was tall and lean like her brother, with similar brown hair and the same ice-blue eyes. But their personalities, their friendliness, felt the same. Thank goodness.
Amara had spent her life surrounded by her siblings—her four sisters and two brothers. Being completely on her own was a new experience, and while exhilarating in some respects, it was terrifying in others. Another friendly face was more than welcomed.
“If it were up to me, we wouldn’t even be in the mall. I mean, really, the mall, Matty? But might as well make the best of it. I bet we’ll find some really cute stuff at Buckle.”
Taylor chatted non-stop, trailing after Amara toward the dressing rooms. “What’s your budget? If you want, we could go to second-hand shops, too. Without Matty. I can’t believe he brought you. My brother does not shop.”
For some reason, it thrilled Amara he’d done something for her he’d normally never do. Not that it should. Not that she cared. She wasn’t interested in Mr. Goodson. Not for his character, at least. He was brusque, almost rude, making it clear he was not with her of his own volition. No, his personality had not endeared itself to her in the least.
His body, on the other hand, evoked quite a different reaction. The simple touch of his hand brought forth quivers, and her mind continually leapt to the image of his long, lean legs in those blue trousers, trousers a darker color than his eyes but which somehow enhanced them.
And then there was his mouth. She loved to watch it, the way those sensual lips curved into a smile, or a wry grin, or even flattened into a line, an expression reminiscent of her brother.
But the feelings Mr. Goodson evoked in her were anything but brotherly. Goosebumps raced up her skin as she shimmied out of the leggings, and if she were completely honest, it wasn’t because of the coolness of the air. No, Mr. Goodson affected her. And she didn’t like it. Intellectually, at least. Physically?
Forty-five minutes later, she and Taylor made their way to Chick Fillet, whatever that was, Amara’s arms laden with bags. Taylor had talked her into buying a number of garments at American Eagle, then several more at Buckle, before they’d stopped at Steve Madden, where Amara had purchased boots eerily similar to those her brother wore.
She’d resisted at first, thinking them too mannish, yet something about donning footwear reserved in her time for men brought out a sense of heady rebellion. She’d kept the boots on, enjoying how they changed her stride, made her walk in a more cocksure manner. She felt stronger, fiercer, in these skin-tight breeches and equestrian boots.
Several men gave her appreciative glances as she and Taylor passed. Or maybe they were looking at Taylor. Amara didn’t care. She grinned saucily, strutting in the boots. She was doing it. She was here in the twenty-first century, and she was surviving.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours, one part of her brain chided. You’ve no idea what’s happening in the next day, next week, much less in the next few years. She shrugged off the worried voice. No, she didn’t, but she had the means to live independently. She had Cat. She had Taylor, to whom she’d taken immediately; the woman was much more approachable than her brother. Amara didn’t even worry about keeping up the conversation—Taylor talked about anything and everything, about shopping and clothes and something called NASCAR ... and about her brother.
“He’s a good guy, you know,” Taylor had said when they were trying on boots. “A little geeky, perhaps, and sometimes obtuse, but he’s so sweet once you get to know him. He definitely needs someone to get him off those silly screens.” She’d eyed Amara in a conspicuous manner. “I mean, the guy hasn’t had a serious girlfriend in years. I know the dude’s driven professionally, but come on, you’ve gotta live a little, right?”
Amara hadn’t replied, focused as she was on fastening the boot. When she’d stood, Taylor had asked her point-blank, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Amara had stumbled in the boots, wanting to blame it on the heel height—she’d never seen shoes with heels so high. She associated heels with prostitutes; trying them on felt risqué, but she did it anyway. “No. I am not interested in such things.”
“Oh.” Taylor had flipped her hair over a shoulder. “You into women, then? ‘Cause I’ve got a friend who’s single and looking.”
Women? In an amorous way? “Uh, no. I ... my heart has been burnt, and I would rather avoid the whole encumbrance of courtship. I am more interested in pursuing an education.”
“I hear ya. That’s what my mom always said to me, too—‘Taylor, finish that degree before you even consider getting married.’ I blew that one.” She’d sighed, and her shoulders had wilted momentarily before she’d jumped up, smiling more widely than was natural. “I eventually got the degree, at least. And teaching kindergarten keeps me busy. Working with five-year-olds is not for the faint of heart, I assure you! I love it, though.”
They walked together now in a relaxed fashion. Amara caught sight of Mr. Goodson at a table, one of those computers in front of him, his fingers pressing on it. His whole face radiated intense concentration.
“The man works too darn hard.” Taylor stopped in her tracks and elbowed Amara. “Dare you to interrupt him in a way he won’t forget.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come on. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something wild? I dare you to kiss him.”
If you only knew. I’ve already done something wild and paid quite the price for it. And yet ... yes, yes, she did. She was in a new place, no past to drag her down, only the future to embrace. And she rather relished the idea of doing something unexpected. Especially if it involved Mr. Goodson’s fine mouth, which she’d been thinking of since the previous evening.
“You want me to kiss your brother? Here? In public?” The idea was outrageous. Scandalous. Tantalizing.
Taylor bobbed her head enthusiastically. “Yup. The man needs someone to shake him up.”
A kiss didn’t have to mean anything, right? Be bold, Amara Mattersley. Be who you’ve always wanted to be—someone who takes risks, who embraces the passionate side of herself.
There could be a price for this, some part of her whispered, but she ignored it as she strode purposefully to Mr. Goodson, her boot clicks imbuing her with confidence. He looked up in surprise.
“I see you found—” he started to say, but she cut him off as she leaned in and fastened her mouth to his.
He didn’t move, didn’t respond for a moment, then suddenly, whip-fast, his hands snaked their way through her hair, holding her to him as his lips consumed her, predator becoming prey as his tongue delved into her inner recesses. She gave as good as he, though, her lips absorbing his delicious taste, a hint of coffee mixed with male, the saltiness of his skin making her crave more, more, more.
The world fell away. The noise of fellow shoppers, screaming children, and whirring machines were mere background notes in the symphony of kissing Mr. Goodson.
“Geez. I said interrupt him, but holy cow. Break it up, people!” Taylor exclaimed with a nervous giggle.
Mr. Goodson yanked away from Amara, his sudden absence like a gust of cold wind. He frowned, his brows low over his eyes. He glowered first at Taylor, then at Amara, then at his sister again. “What the hell?” His eyes found Amara’s and locked there. “Do you make a habit of kissing men randomly?”
Flames shot up Amara’s cheeks, a burning fueled by anger as much as embarrassment. She’d had enough castigation in her own time period. Though you were rather brazen, kissing a man in full public view. Perhaps that wasn’t as done as Eliza had suggested? And what had come over her, launching herself at him like that? She hadn’t even asked permission.
Her glance slid to Taylor, who was staring at her brother, a pleased smile on her face. Taylor had dared her, and Amara never was good at refusing a dare. As any of her siblings could vouch.
Once, she’d climbed too high in one of the trees near the lake, determined to reach a bird’s nest, especially because Grace told her she shouldn’t. Luckily, Deveric had been there to catch her when she fell.
He’d always been there. He’d caught her literally, he’d caught her figuratively, rushing to her after Drake had deserted her in those gardens, her clothes half-off, her hair disheveled, her reputation in tatters. It was Dev who’d sought to avenge her honor, though Drake had sneaked off in the night for a ship to America. Dev, who’d played every card and called in every favor to ensure no one gave her the cut, that the ton, outwardly at least, found no fault with the disgraced sister of the Duke of Claremont.
It was Dev who’d told her life still held promise, that there were still opportunities for her. And it was Dev who’d rallied behind her when she’d asked to be sent forward in time, for a new chance at life in a place where no one knew of her sullied reputation.
And yet what had she done? Immediately kissed a man in front of others, not once, but twice. A young woman and her gaggle of friends whispered among themselves, pointing at Amara. Misgivings at her own actions overtook her. So much for a fresh start. She was making the same mistakes all over again.
“I’m sorry. Your sister ... ” She broke off, pushing her hair back from her face. “I have no excuse, Mr. Goodson. I promise, however, not to assault your person again.”
At that, his eyebrows relaxed and his mouth tipped up. “Mr. Goodson? That’s what students call me, thanks to the Jeffersonian tradition of addressing professors by Mister instead of Doctor. I think after two kisses we’re most certainly on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
He rose from the chair, those alluring trousers—jeans—hugging his thighs. After folding up his computer, he looked at Amara. His eyes widened as they scanned her from head to toe, apparently just registering she wore something new.
Taylor laughed. “So? What d’ya think? Did we do well?”
Matthew swallowed, his Adam’s apple causing Amara’s stomach to flutter in the oddest way. Why did she react so powerfully to this man? Yes, he was appealing in countenance, but she’d seen plenty of handsome gentlemen. Yet when she was near him, every part of her responded in a way somehow deeper than solely physical.
Frowning, she looked away. Was it the manuscript? The story?
“Yes.”
It was the only word he said, but it thrilled her. He’d barely gotten it out, and a dull red now inched its way up his cheeks. At least she wasn’t the only one affected by whatever was between them. In her day, given the physical intimacies they’d shared, they’d likely be betrothed at this point. Unless one proved to be already married, like Drake. Thank goodness times had changed.
She studied him, emboldened by his approval. His lean waist and the slight curve to his legs gave him an unbearably alluring, hollow-hipped appearance. His shoulders were not so broad as her brother’s, but in truth, she preferred leaner, less rugged men. Not quite as trim as the dandies of her era, perhaps, but there was something to be said for an angular frame. Matthew Goodson certainly had one.
Maybe she shouldn’t fight the attraction. Maybe she should give in. After all, this was a different century, one in which men and women could share every nature of physical intimacy without it necessitating marriage. Why not take advantage? She had considered it with Lord Hodgins, and the risk had been far greater then.
But what if he develops a tendre for you? She fidgeted with the belt at her waist. She never wished to hurt anyone as Drake had her. Then again, Matthew didn’t seem the least bit interested. Except when they kissed. He’d taken her shopping, yes, but only at Cat’s behest; he’d made it apparent he didn’t wish to be with her. He’d called in his sister, in fact. That was evidence enough he held no particular regard for her, was it not?
“You guys wanna grab a bite to eat before I head back over the mountain?”
“Over the mountain?” How far had Taylor traveled?
“Yeah, didn’t Matty tell you I live in Staunton? Luckily for him, I don’t mind the drive.”
“I hope we did not put you out,” Amara said.
“Nah. This has been fun!”
Matthew exhaled loudly. “Sis, I really appreciate your help, but I can’t do dinner. I’ve got a lecture to finalize, and I need to respond to email, and—”
“Yeah, yeah. Work, work, work. That’s all you do. You need to get your head out of that computer and into the real world once in a while, Matty. Come up for air.”
He sniggered. “Seems when I do, I’m accosted by this woman.” His lips twitched. “Though I suppose worse things could happen.”
Amara’s cheeks burned, but she said nothing. What could she say? He was right.
“Fine. How about it, Amara? I can bring you home later. Where are you staying?”
Before Amara could answer, Matthew spoke. “At my place.”
Taylor’s mouth fell open in comical fashion. “You’re letting a woman stay in your apartment?”
“It’s a favor. For the Coopers.” He shifted his weight onto one leg. “Wash has strep, and they don’t want Amara to get it.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” Taylor tossed her hair over her shoulder. “C’mon, Amara, let’s go get some pizza. And not the mall kind; something really good.”
Pizza. Eliza had talked with great longing of the bread, tomato and cheese concoction. Amara was willing to try it if it allowed her to spend more time with Matthew’s sister, whose welcoming, friendly manner reminded her not only of Eliza but also of Amara’s sister, Emmeline.
A wave of homesickness washed over her, and tears welled in her eyes. No. I’m where I want to be. Missing her family was to be expected, though. Especially with everything so new and overwhelming. In truth, her nerves were on edge, and exhaustion was creeping in. She almost wished to go with Matthew than face anything else new. But that was the wrong choice. She needed friendships.
And Taylor Duncan seemed a good place to start.