was the tower room, large and airy. Its octagonal walls were all windows. There were no curtains, only miniblinds and they’d all been pulled up.
Sunlight streamed in from all angles, and the hardwood floor gleamed. The woodwork around the windows was white, as was the ceiling and all the furniture and the spread on Matt’s double bed. There wasn’t much color in the entire room. There didn’t need to be. Nature provided all the color anyone could possibly want.
The view was breathtaking. The sky—and there was so much of it—was a brilliant blue. She could see the deep blue-green water if she looked in one direction. When she turned she could see the gentle hills that led into town, covered with the new green leaves of early summer. The white steeple of the Congregational Church peeked up over the treetops.
A wind chime of fragile white shells hung in front of an open window, and it moved in the breeze, creating a delicate and soothing cascade of music.
The bathroom door opened, and Matt came into the room. Maggie blushed—he was wearing only a white pair of briefs.
“Nice room, huh?” he said, unfazed at the sight of her, as he rubbed his hair with a towel. He made no attempt to cover himself, as if it were entirely normal for her to be there in his room while he was in his underwear.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’m actually looking for a ponytail holder.”
“In the bathroom drawer,” he told her.
She went down the stairs. The bathroom air was still heavy with moisture, the mirror steamed up despite the fresh air from an open window. It was a modest little room, nothing like the bathroom with the hot tub, downstairs.
She fished through a drawer jammed with combs and razors.
“I think you should tell your parents that you’re going to live here for a while,” Matt told her, coming to stand in the doorway.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She used his brush to attempt to tame her hair. “And I don’t think my parents will, either.”
“I’ve got eight empty bedrooms,” he pointed out. “They don’t have to fear for your virtue.”
And neither did she, obviously. Maggie put his brush back on the edge of the sink.
“Mags, we have to talk about what happened last night,” he said as if he could read her mind.
“What’s to say?” She pushed past him and headed down the stairs to the main part of the house. “Except I guess I should probably apologize. And thank you. I would have been really embarrassed this morning if we’d actually, you know…”
She would have been beyond embarrassed and well into mortified. If he’d made love to her, it would’ve been as a favor.
Matt followed her down the stairs.
She turned to face him. “You are a good friend,” she said. “And you were right. Our friendship is too valuable to risk losing.”
His expression was unreadable.
The doorbell rang.
“We should talk more about this later,” he said. “Right now it’s showtime.”
He brushed past her as he went down the stairs, and Maggie had to cling to the thick oak banister, shocked at the way her body responded to even such casual contact. It was a symptom of Matthew Fever.
Could she really live in a house with him? Without embarrassing herself further? On the other hand, could she pass up the opportunity to be near him?
And she wanted to be near him—desperately. Maybe it would pass. Maybe this illness would leave as quickly as it had struck.
Her parents were dressed in their church clothes. They peered at Matt and Maggie through the screen.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stanton,” Matt said graciously. “Please come in.”
“Maggie, are you all right?” her father asked.
Her mother came and hugged her. “My poor baby. Get your things. We’ll take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Maggie told her.
Her father glanced at Matt. “Honey, we want to talk to you, and it’ll be much easier at home.”
“Anyone thirsty?” Matt asked. “I’ll go get some lemonade.”
“No,” Maggie said sharply. “I’m not thirsty and neither are my parents.”
“Mags, I was trying to be polite—give you some privacy.”
“We don’t need privacy.” She turned back to her parents. “I’m going to stay here for a while.”
Her parents both started talking at once.
“Margaret, I understand how unhappy you must feel about Brock and Vanessa—”
“Vanessa’s gone to Brock’s,” her father told her. “What’s she’s done is inexcusable. It’s not fair that you should be the one to leave. And moving here seems rather sudden and—”
“Wait a minute,” Maggie said. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Matt has lots of room here, and he offered me a place to stay. We’re friends, Dad. It’s like me moving in with Angie.”
Her father glanced at Matt again, this time sizing him up. “You don’t really expect us to believe that, do you?” He turned to Matt. “Maybe you should get that lemonade, son.”
But Matt, thank God, knew that she desperately didn’t want to be alone with her parents. “Sure,” he said easily, but then turned to Maggie. “Want to give me a hand?”
She nearly bolted toward the kitchen.
“Go on into the living room,” she heard Matt say, before he followed her and shut the kitchen door behind him.
“What’s this with Vanessa and Brock?” he asked, as he crossed to the cabinets and took out four tall glasses.
“I got home last night just in time to see Brock kissing Vanessa good night,” she told him, sitting at the kitchen table and putting her head in her hands. “She actually slept with him.”
Matt swore. And then he put a couple of aspirin on the table in front of her, along with a glass of water.
“Thank you. Apparently Brock’s been interested in Van all along,” Maggie told him. “She and I had a little confrontation.”
“What a jackass,” he said. “So that’s what last night was about, huh?”
Maggie nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “I can’t believe I was too stupid to notice that I wasn’t the one he really wanted.”
Matt took a pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator and stirred it with a long spoon. “Maggie, the man wanted to marry you.”
