A Tale of Two Centuries

crowds me against the counter.

That inexplicable heat builds in my core again, along with a delicious twist in my stomach.

Placing both hands on either side of me, trapping me between the cool granite and the warmth of his body, Austin’s gaze lingers on the lip I am worrying with my teeth as he says in a low, sensual rasp, “You need to loosen up.”

My breath comes out in stilted, ragged bursts, and an uncomfortable giggle escapes.

The right side of Austin’s mouth kicks up at my reaction, but he does not back away. “You need a guide,” he continues. “A tutor to teach you how to take a chance, grab what you want, and not give a damn. And if after a couple weeks with me you’re not convinced you need to break out of that sheltered, prim and proper, fake life of yours, I’ll back off. I won’t say another word about the way you dress, the way you act, or the fact that you sound like an eighteenth-century novel.”

More like sixteenth, I almost say, but I stop myself in time.

The part of me that is insulted at Austin’s classifying my life as fake is lost in a rush of excitement, curiosity, and a voice screaming in my head that this is what brought me here—my cry, my need, for adventure. Austin lifts an eyebrow, challenging me to reach out and take this adventure, to experience all that the twenty-first century holds. My pulse pounds in my chest, and I fight for breath.

I don’t know if I do it to get space or to see if I affect the boy before me anywhere near as much as he affects me, but I boldly place a hand over Austin’s heart and smile when I feel it beating just as fast as my own.

Absorbing his intoxicating heat and his promise of more, I grin and say, “Deal.”

Chapter Twelve

“The string goes where?” I ask incredulously, dropping the garment from my fingers as if it holds the plague. My heart pounds in my ears, its pulse already heightened from my shocking meeting with Austin earlier and the crowd in this land of chaos my cousin calls a mall. It is Saturday, apparently the day teenagers descend upon this enormous building, and we are shopping for clothes for me that will somehow strike a balance between what she calls dorky and what I call common courtesan attire.

“You heard me,” Cat says with a wicked smile and a pointed look to the scrap of fabric. Heat creeps into my scalp, and if it were possible for hair to defy all wisdom and burst into flame, mine would. Holding this conversation in public as people bustle past us is horribly and wholly improper.

“It’s called a thong,” she clarifies with glee, “and by putting the string up there, you avoid ugly panty lines. Trust me, no one wants to see that business.”

I take a hesitant step toward the overflowing bins, peering down at the perplexing items again. “But surely it is uncomfortable to be lodged…in such a…spot?”

Cat shrugs. “You learn to live with it.”

That is where my dear cousin is wrong. Despite my agreement to wear modern attire, I certainly do not plan to learn such a lesson.

Nevertheless, I cannot keep my twitching fingers from lifting another offending thong, either, this one with the words No Chance emblazoned across an area no one should have access to read. I wrinkle my nose.

“But if it does not even cover the entire, um, bottom area,” I say in a choked voice, “why bother wearing one at all?”

Cat laughs and snatches the thong from my hand, replacing it with a brightly colored one with (thankfully) a tad more material. This latest selection declares the wearer to Love Pink.

“Less, I know you don’t have this stuff where you come from, and I get it. That was a big adjustment for me, too, when I was in your time—walking around commando. But here’s the deal: if you don’t want to inadvertently cause a Britney Spears TMZ incident, these things are a must.” Then she grins again and lifts an eyebrow. “Just remember: corset.”

Again with her self-declared new mantra. Ever since we stepped foot inside this land of chaos, she has been repeating it, reminding me of the constrictive undergarment she had to wear while visiting my time, and brandishing it as her one-word form of instant guilt.

I roll my eyes but clasp the thin fabric. The intimate item is unbelievably tiny. And handling it in view of the other patrons is without question inappropriate. But as I rub my fingers along the delicate fabric, I must admit it feels luxurious.

“Very well,” I say, snagging a nail on the wide lace band. I disentangle myself, then grab a few pairs in bright animalistic patterns. “I shall wear the undergarments. As long as they remain hidden by something much more appropriate for public viewing, you shall win this round. But,” I quickly add before she can gloat much more, “I refuse to wear that.”

Her gaze follows my pointed finger to a headless human form wearing a pair of dark trousers similar to the ones I was in when I first arrived, but these appear to have met with an unfortunate dagger incident. They are ridiculously short.

“Yeah, I already figured that one out. Don’t worry—I have a whole other store in mind for your Pollyanna attire. We’re just working from the inside out. A little faith, if you please, Miss Forlani.” She grins and with a playful shove, steers me to the front of the store where a small line has formed.

Two girls stop chatting to sneer at my “dorky” attire, and I fidget with my sleeve. My cousin’s cool hand closes around my squirming fingers, and I recognize the squinty, overprotective look in her eye. It is the same look from my vision in the courtyard, when I imagined her confronting the disloyal Marco and wretched Novella.

A jolt of pain lances through my chest.

Could that really have happened only two days ago?

I wince at the memory, and Cat’s fingers tighten around mine. I cannot bring myself to tell her the true reason for my distress, so I watch, somewhat guiltily, as she waves her free hand dismissively at the girls in front of us, leans toward them, and hisses like a cat in their faces. “Turn. Around.”

Their collective eyes bulge, and their heads snap forward.

Cat winks and continues as if nothing happened. “I’ll spare you the dressing room experience here—I’m pretty sure I can guess your size, and Lord knows if you get spooked seeing yourself in this stuff, I’ll never get you in the mall again.”

The woman behind the booth calls, “Next,” and the girls in front of us leap in their haste to get away. Cat’s amused gaze meets mine, and I stifle a giggle. It is comforting to find my fearless cousin audacious as ever.

After several hours and rejecting more than a bazillion selections, we at last make our way home, bags brimming with a half dozen dresses and an array of ankle-length skirts. Our quest to find items that cover both my calves and elbows proved to be a tad time consuming, but the true reason for our extended excursion was my complete and utter awe over the vast display of ready-made clothing. Modern women no longer have a need to select fabrics and patterns and hire a tailor—they simply step inside a store, choose an item off a rack, and bring it home. Preparing for a ball or dinner party in this era would be effortless. It is too bad I cannot bring this marvelous improvement back with me.

Traipsing through the atrium of Cat’s beautifully modern decorated home, I slurp the final remains of my creamy beverage and grin. On the way home, my cousin insisted that she needed a “sugar fix,” so our kind driver stopped at a building with bright yellow arches filled with all sorts of delectable delicacies. A chill seeps down my throat, and I close my eyes at the blissful sensation.

This is a recipe I must have Cook try to copy.

Of course, thoughts of Cook turn to thoughts of Mother. And Father. And Cipriano. How much they would enjoy this modern delicacy and how much I wish they could be here experiencing this with me. My longing for them is the one thing hampering my joy. It feels as though it has been forever since I left home—so much has happened, yet it has been merely a couple days.