hand still holding hers. He didn’t appear to be as disturbed as she felt, but Penelope could have sworn she saw his pupils dilate. He wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared to be.
“The traffic. It was murder. But then, you probably know all about that seeing as you live here.” He gave her his famous camera-ready smile.
Penelope blinked. “I usually bike.”
“Oh.” The smile dipped in wattage. He dropped his hand.
“Shall we go inside, gentlemen,” she said, recovering. Penelope held out her hand in the direction of the conference room. “From what my brother mentioned, you’re interested in seeing some of our food-related manuscripts.” She walked briskly in front of them. She was aware of the sound of her ballet flats clipping along the stone floor of the entrance hall.
She opened the second set of glass doors to the well-lit reading room and its long tables. A hushed silence enveloped the space. She continued to the conference room on the right and opened the door. “I tried to intuit what you had in mind.”
“I’ve never been intuited before,” Nick quipped.
Penelope was taken aback. Then she saw him purse his lips. Aha. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were making a joke.”
“He does that frequently. Is that a problem?” Georgie acted the mediator.
Penelope gave it some thought. “No, I don’t think so. The more you do it, the more I should be able to read your verbal and facial cues to know when you are attempting to be humorous.”
Nick raised his dark eyebrows. “Talk about being put in my place.”
Penelope saw he still had a smile. “That was another joke?”
“No, that was serious,” he said.
“Trust me, he could use being put in his place,” Georgie reassured her. He walked over to the conference table to get a better look at the works she’d chosen. “Hey, don’t tell me that the marginal notations in this are by that famous chef? You know, the one who basically introduced French cooking to America?”
Penelope joined him. “You have a good eye. This is the proof copy of her work, and those are her comments—not entirely happy, as you can tell. The head of the publishing house at the time was a Grantham alum and kindly donated the book.”
“Hey, Nick, get a look. It’s pretty interesting. I suppose we could do a short bit giving a kind of academic feel to the episode—that cuisine and scholarship go hand in hand in these hallowed halls.”
“As opposed to what’s served in the residential college dining halls?” she asked.
“Is that a joke?” Nick asked. He stood close on Penelope’s other side.
She immediately felt disconcerted. She slanted her head and eyed him askance. “I suppose so. It’s not a skill that comes naturally to me.” She quickly avoided more of his searing gaze by concentrating on material that was far more in her comfort zone—the books and manuscripts that lay displayed before them. “If you want to emphasize the richness of Grantham’s holdings, you might also be interested in an exhibition that I put together over at the main library. It showcases rare manuscripts donated by alumni.”
“That’s another way to go.” Georgie nodded as he peered more closely at a handwritten list. “What’s this? I can’t read all the writing, but it looks likes a shopping list of some sort.”
Penelope sidestepped to keep up with him—and move farther away from Nick. “It’s a list of provisions needed for the Continental Congress when it met here in Grantham.”
“So now we know what John Adams and Thomas Jefferson ate for breakfast,” Nick remarked. He scratched the side of his face as he leaned over to read the items.
Penelope caught a whiff of unadulterated bar soap and strong coffee. The smells of morning. Somehow she automatically thought of sex.
He seemed to be pointing at something and saying something that might have been directed at her, but Penelope wasn’t sure. She supposed she would have to think of something quick, something informative about the nutritional preferences of eighteenth-century gentlemen or how the penmanship reflected a certain educational stature of the writer, but at the moment she was having a hard time remembering her own nutritional preferences.
The door to the conference room cracked open behind her.
Penelope felt a rush of hope. Saved by the proverbial bell. She swiveled around.
Except the action caused her to brush up against Nick’s outstretched arm, the one he’d been pointing with. And it wasn’t just her shoulder that did the brushing. Her breasts also made contact as she rotated counterclockwise, which was decidedly odd since Penelope was sure she normally turned in clockwise fashion.
Tell that to my tingling nipples, she thought—crudely. Her father would no doubt have chastised her language, although it was not as if she would ever, ever have had this particular conversation with him. Luckily the white lab coat she wore over her scoop-neck top prevented any embarrassment.
So, trying to compose herself, Penelope swallowed and applied a stiff smile to her face as she turned to face the interloper.
“Hey, Penelope, I hope it’s okay that I brought a visitor to take around the place?” Press gave her a salute. He stood at the door to the conference room, looking fresh and full of life, his hair wet from a shower, his wrinkled madras shorts hanging loosely from his narrow hips. A white T-shirt stretched across his taut chest.
Next to him was a young woman, a girl really, with shocking-pink highlights in her long black hair. She wore an oversize work shirt with black leggings. Penelope had never seen Press with a girl.
“Oh, wow.” Press stopped dead in his tracks. “I didn’t realize you had Nick Rheinhardt as a visitor. I mean, I knew you’re going to be our Class Day speaker, and I can’t tell you how excited we all are. The episode where you got that killer massage? Amazing. It went viral on YouTube.”
“It’s my pleasure to be speaking at your graduation ceremony,” Nick replied formally.
Penelope looked over at Nick, who for some unknown reason looked somewhat perturbed. “I suppose introductions are in order?” She nodded toward Press. “This is my student assistant in the Rare Book Library…”
“Press Lodge.” Press stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure.” He politely introduced himself to Georgie, as well. Then he turned around. “And this is a guest at my house, Amara.”
The girl clenched her jaw.
Strange, thought Penelope.
Then she heard Nick Rheinhardt inhale dramatically.
Even stranger.
“Hello, Amara,” he said after a beat, his voice tight.
“Hello, Daddy,” she replied without any warmth.
“Daddy?” Press asked. “You didn’t tell me you were Nick Rheinhardt’s daughter this morning.”
“And you—” Nick stared at Amara “—didn’t tell me that he was the reason you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK©RECOGNIZED AMARA’S©obvious displeasure. Clearly, she’d been hoping to avoid her wayward father. Not to mention the other whammy of having to watch her new little buddy—this college kid flaunting his preppy testosterone and gee-whiz smile—fawn all over said dad. And having Georgie practically hopping on his toes, no doubt hoping to work unexpected encounters like this into the episode, only added to the sense that a crisis was looming. Not to forget the librarian.
Yes, let’s not forget the librarian, Nick thought. Penelope.