“And they can’t tell yet if Minnie is pregnant,” Amanda says. “But no one believes George’s story about falling for her while they were at church together.”
I skim the letter, then skim it again. “It doesn’t say what the dowry was.”
Amanda spins to me. “Oooh.It doesn’t.”
Her body is lined up with mine and she’s tilting her head back to look up at me.
“What do you think it was?” she whispers.
It’s a logical question. It should be one with an easy answer.
But my brain is scrambled right now.
I don’t want to be logical. I don’t want to be analytical. I don’t want to pull my phone out and searchpopular imports from Germany around 1900.
What I want is to boost this woman up onto the counter, kiss her until she can’t breathe, strip her out of her clothes, and make every inch of her satisfied.
I’m not supposed to fall for my fake fiancée.
This isn’t part of the plan.
But she makes it impossible to not like her.
To notwanther.
I’m staring.
I’m staring into her deep-brown eyes, and I need to stop.
I’ve heard there’s been research saying that if you stare into another person’s eyes for a couple of minutes, you start to fall in love.
I like Amanda too much already.
I can’t do this.
Falling for someone in San Francisco would be one thing.
Falling for Amanda Anderson is completely different.
“Germans introduced Christmas trees to America,” I blurt.
My family had no part in that. It was before our ancestors came here.
But I need something to say that isn’tI want to kiss you.
Kissing is for outside these walls. When we have an audience.
Not here.
“Do you think Lucy was mailing Christmas trees?”
I shake my head. “Tinsel wasn’t a Christmas town until the 1960s. It was probably money.”
I can’t take Chili out. Amanda already did.
But I have to break away from looking at her. “We need to find out who sent these and see if there are more.”
“Would Lorelei know?”
