Kitabı oku: «The Matchmaker's Plan», sayfa 2

“Did she leave in a group?” Peyton persisted. “Or just with him?”

Connie was clearly uncomfortable having this discussion in front of Matt. As, perhaps, Peyton had intended. “I trust Covington completely, Peyton. He’s a lovely boy, as I’m sure Matthew would be happy to tell you.”

Matt did not want to get in the middle of this. Not even a little.

As if sensing retreat, Peyton pressed her fingers hard into his, asking him to stay, even as she continued the visual wrestling match with her mother.

Connie didn’t yield. “You know, Matthew, I would dearly love to meet Nick Shepard. If I promise not to be so gauche as to ask for his autograph, would you, perhaps, introduce me? I understand your sister, Miranda, is engaged to his brother. Won’t that be nice, having a genuine celebrity in the family?”

A way out. A convenient segue from this family situation to less demanding company.

Matt was ready to take the opportunity offered, but suddenly, Peyton was all smiles, her voice sifting accent and assent in a slow, sweet deception. “Oh, Mother, I did not bring Matthew over here so you could steal him away from me.” Her smile shifted to him and he nearly dropped to his knees under its calculating charm. “Not after he’s just asked me to take a stroll in the garden with him. He insisted I tell you where I’d be.” Her hand slipped up his arm and settled in the crook of his elbow. “So you wouldn’t worry. Isn’t he simply the most thoughtful thing you ever laid eyes on?”

If she fluttered her eyelashes, he was out of there. But in the brief moment her gaze locked onto his, he saw only a mute appeal for him to play along. And, what the hell. This was better than the way she usually treated him. “I did suggest a moonlight stroll,” he lied, smiling down at her before he turned back to her father, man-to-man being the logical next step in this farce. “I promise I’ll bring your daughter back with roses in her cheeks,” he added, thinking that the autumn air would probably give her goose bumps as well. But then, considering that the pediatric center didn’t actually have a garden yet—it was still under construction—they wouldn’t be strolling in it long enough to feel the nip.

“See that you do.” Rick O’Reilly had already lost interest, his attention wandering to a waiter who was passing by with a tray of drinks. “You want something else to drink, Mother?”

Peyton had Matt away and out the front door before he quite knew he was on the move. “Thank you,” she said in a rush when they hit the open air. “I’m so sorry. Really, really sorry. But there wasn’t much time and I couldn’t think of a better idea. And…well, I needed you as a distraction.”

From hero to distraction in the space of a sentence. “That certainly takes the wind out of my sails,” he said. “I thought you were having a change of heart.”

“No, you didn’t.” Forehead creased, expression troubled, Peyton paced away from him, her emerald gown sashaying across the curve of her hips, rippling around her ankles. The evening dress was virtually backless, exposing an expanse of sleek, creamy skin to the cool October night, and he wondered if he should offer her his jacket.

But she seemed oblivious to the cold as she studied the parking lot, turned, and paced back to where he waited. “Where would a lovely young man with more car than sense take a gullible young girl with a propensity for trouble on Halloween night?”

“Your sister?”

“She would be the gullible young girl.”

“And Covington Locke?”

“He would be the lovely young man.”

“And you think they’ll get into trouble?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Even if it wasn’t Halloween.”

“So why did your parents let her go?”

The other eyebrow rose. This didn’t require much imagination, really. Parents who equated wealth and privilege with character and who wanted their daughter to be accepted. Two teenagers. A car. Miles of secluded beach. “Maybe they’re in a group,” he suggested, as if that would keep trouble at bay.

“I’m going after her.” Determination thrummed through the words, her nod was mere confirmation. “Tell me the top ten list of teenage hideouts,” she said. “Starting with the one you think Covington would be most likely to hit first. And then tell me how to get there.”

“We’d be here all night and halfway into tomorrow. Rhode Island has over four hundred miles of coastline, much of it easily accessible and pretty secluded at night. And that’s not even counting any number of inland places they might have gone.”

“Well, isn’t there a public curfew or something?”

This time his eyebrow lifted. “Weren’t you a teenager once?”

She sighed. “Scarlett was my curfew. She kept me from getting into who knows what kind of trouble. I’m not doing a very good job at returning the favor.”

“Maybe it’s not your job.”

“I thought you took care of your younger siblings.”

“I did. Our parents were away more than they were home.”

“And if it was your teenage sister out there, what would you do?”

“Go after her.”

She stood there, looking out into the dark as if she could will her sister back to the party inside, rubbing her arms against the chill and daring him without words to explain why she should not do what he’d just admitted he would.

But this was different. Her parents, however foolish they might be, were very much in the picture and bore the responsibility if—and in Matt’s mind that was a fairly big if—Scarlett did choose to get into trouble. This was not Peyton’s battle, although he could tell she was at war over it. “Let’s go back inside,” he suggested because he could see she was cold and because, bottom line, this was none of his business and not his problem. “You’re cold.”

“You’re wrong, Matt.” And he knew she wasn’t referring to the temperature.

“I can see you shivering,” he said anyway.

Her gaze came back to him, calling his bluff. “I have to try. My parents are who they are, but Scarlett shouldn’t have to pay for their mistakes…or mine. She’s only fifteen. He’s twenty. I can see the danger in that equation, even if my mother chooses not to.”

“I thought he was closer to her age.”

“Well, he isn’t. And I’m not convinced he’s such a lovely young man, either. Now, if you were Covington, where would you go on a moonlight drive?”

Matt hated that he allowed Peyton to consistently back him into a corner no gentleman could gracefully get out of. “I’ll take you,” he said. “But you have to get a coat. And I can’t guarantee we’ll find them.”

She walked up to him, close enough for him to catch the scent of some exotic perfume, close enough for him to see a familiar fire in her eyes. “I wasn’t asking you to take me. All I’m asking for is a general direction.”

At that moment, he wanted to shake her only slightly less than he wanted to kiss her. He wasn’t stupid enough to do either, so he reached for her arm, felt the chill on her and the rocket flash of heat that sliced under his skin and shot like fire up through his veins. “You’ll be lost before you get anywhere near those kids,” he said a little more roughly than he intended. “I said I’d take you and I will.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is Ainsley’s wedding reception. You can’t go missing. And it’s totally unnecessary. Scarlett is my sister. I’ll find her. I never meant for you to get involved.”

“Get your coat,” Matt growled, and opening the door, he escorted her—a little forcefully—inside. “And please, don’t make a scene. This is, after all, a happy occasion.”

She looked up at him and a dual fire of anger and desire burned between them. Passion—that uninvited, unacknowledged guest—danced in the flames. “Thank you,” she replied tightly, “but I don’t need—”

“—my help,” he finished for her. “I understand. Now, get your coat.”

She stood her ground for a moment, but then she turned abruptly and walked away, offering him a long view of her bare back and the taut, seductive sway of her hips. He knew, absolutely, there was no seduction in her thoughts—if he was even still in her thoughts—and that she’d be horrified if she could read his. Hell, he felt horrified enough for both of them. And furious that he’d let himself get involved in her problems. He should be out there dancing with one or the other of his sisters…or any number of other beautiful, and agreeable, partners.

But even as he tried to convince himself he was unhappy at this unexpected turn of events, he knew it was a lie. Peyton had offered him exactly what he wanted—an opportunity to escape the happiness that surrounded and threatened to suffocate him. He adored Ainsley, was truly glad she’d married his best friend. He was happy that Miranda had found Nate. He always felt pleased to see his parents. And yet, he never trusted happiness, had never quite managed to befriend it. Too much of a good thing was still too much, and the truth was, he’d prefer a futile search in the dark with a woman he barely knew than to stay and witness the changes that were already in motion for the women he loved.

It wasn’t right. Or fair. Or particularly mature. But there it was. And, as much as he hated having to admit it even to himself, Matt knew that if Peyton hadn’t provided this chance to escape, he would simply have found another excuse.

“Something to drink, Mr. Danville?”

He shook his head at the waiter, then gauging Peyton’s progress in retrieving her coat, he slipped to the bar and snagged a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. However the rest of this evening turned out, he figured that somewhere in the night, he was going to need a drink.

AINSLEY LOOPED her arms around Ivan’s neck and smiled at him as they danced, swaying in one place, wrapped in the light of the day’s happiness. “Well, Mrs. Donovan, you’re looking especially pleased with yourself,” he said. “That secretive little smile wouldn’t have anything to do with your big brother’s mysterious disappearance, would it?”

“Now, why would I be happy that Matt walked out on my wedding reception and hasn’t returned?” But she was happy. Happy to be Ivan’s wife. Happy that Matt and Peyton had left together. Happy to think her impulsive introduction of possibilities had taken effect so quickly. She hadn’t expected that. Not at all. But it did add an extra dollop to her happiness level, which was spilling over as it was. “He didn’t even say goodbye to me.”

“I imagine he feels there’ll be opportunities for goodbyes tomorrow at the family brunch.” Ivan leaned in, pressed his cheek against her hair. “It is my personal opinion that right now you’re ecstatic because he left with Peyton O’Reilly more than an hour ago and we haven’t seen either of them since. I’d say you’re thinking you’ve successfully introduced Matt to the possibility that he has met his match in Peyton.”

She drew back to caution him. “Shh, Ivan. Talking about it could jinx it. Just because they left together tonight doesn’t mean we can call my matchmaking a success.” She offered up a conspiratorial smile. “Although I’m feeling very optimistic. I’ve known for ages that if the two of them were ever alone together long enough, they’d figure out there was a reason their discussions are so passionate.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been playing matchmaker at our wedding, Mrs. Donovan. Couldn’t you take the day off?”

She feigned an expression of grievous resignation. “You’ll simply have to get used to it, Ivan. A matchmaker’s lot in life is to find opportunities wherever and whenever they present themselves. It’s a full-time job, especially for an apprentice matchmaker like me.”

“You are taking two weeks off for our honeymoon, though, right? No matchmaking will be taking place in Italy.”

She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “I can’t promise, Ivan, but I expect I’ll be too busy to think much about my career, especially with all the sightseeing and so on we’ll be doing.”

“I certainly intend to keep you busy with the so on part.”

She giggled, thrilled at the prospect of having his undivided attention for two entire weeks. “I bought a tour book called See Italy in a Weekend. But as creative as you and I are, I imagine we could squeeze all the highlights into half a day, don’t you?”

“I do,” he said, and whirled her around the dance floor, the bride and groom celebrating this one moment…and all the moments still to come.

“THEY’RE NOT HERE, either.” Matt swung the car around in a slow U-turn, allowing the beam from the headlights to sweep across the deserted park. Not another car in sight. No sign of two young people looking for trouble. No sign of anyone else at all. “And, frankly, I don’t know where else to look.”

She glanced at him in the semidarkness of the car’s interior, noting that his classically handsome features revealed no hint of the impatience she knew he must be feeling. But he’d insisted on driving, insisted on accompanying her, despite her insistence that it wasn’t necessary. And she wasn’t ready to give up. “Oh, come on, Matt. You must remember your misspent youth and the places you took girls when you were Covington’s age.”

“That was a long time ago, and my youth was never as misspent as you might think.”

She sighed. “Neither was mine. But Scarlett seems determined to more than make up for my prudence.”

“I, somehow, have trouble associating you with prudence at any stage of your life.”

“I’ve learned to speak my mind, if that’s what you mean. But just because I won’t allow you—or anyone else—to trample on my opinions, doesn’t mean I go out of my way to take foolish chances.”

“Oh,” he said, aggravating her with the arrogance of the single syllable.

“Oh, is right. We are talking about two different things and I’d be happy to argue my point, but I think it’s much more important to find my sister. Where did you take girls when you wanted to be alone with them?”

His jaw tightened and he looked out the window for a moment, uncomfortable with the question or the answer. She neither knew nor cared which. “It is possible, Peyton, that they’re at a club somewhere listening to a band and having a couple of beers.”

“She’s fifteen, Matt. Covington is twenty and should know better than to take her anywhere, especially where alcohol is served.”

He put the car in gear. “We’ll drive over to the Cape. When I wanted to be alone for any reason, I went to our beach house. The Lockes have one that’s two doors down from ours. I probably should have thought of checking there first.”

She was grateful—more, really, than she wanted to admit—that he was willing to help her. She was appreciative of his concern for her sister. But mostly, she was thankful that the night concealed the wistful hunger inside her, kept him from seeing in her eyes that she wished he were taking her to his beach house, that instead of searching futilely for her foolish sister, she could have just one chance to be foolish herself.

The thought itself was foolish. She knew that. But as they sped into the night, shut inside the sports car, she couldn’t help wondering what might happen if she could forget only for a little while about being responsible, about what was the right thing to do, and give in to the attraction that burned like a fever beneath her skin.

She glanced at Matt as the car approached the bridge that would take them over to Cape Cod. And she wondered if they didn’t find Scarlett at the Lockes’ Cape Cod house, would Matt, perhaps, suggest a stop at his beach house?

And what might happen if he did?

Chapter Two

Matt took off his topcoat, gave it a shake to discourage the snowflakes from settling into the wool and hung it on the coat tree in the outer office. “T.J.,” he said. “What’s wrong with the music?”

His student assistant and gofer during the morning hours looked up from a huge, open textbook with a dazed, historical-facts frown and listened to the piped-in sound for a few seconds. “I think it’s ‘Jingle Bells’,” he said.

“My point exactly.” Matt cocked his head, inviting T.J. to pay closer attention. “That is the same song I heard at least two dozen times yesterday and the day before and the day before that and the day before that. I’m telling you, there’s a virus or something in the airwaves.”

“Well, it’s Christmas,” practical T.J. pointed out as he presented Matt with a sheaf of message slips with one hand while holding his place in the textbook with the other. “If x equals the number of holiday tunes and y is the number of days between Thanksgiving and Christmas, then depending on how you want to calculate it, z is the number of times you’re going to hear ‘Jingle Bells’.”

“Z is about two thousand times too many.”

“Do you want me to cancel the Muzak service?”

“An excellent idea, T.J. Except that if x equals the number of people in this building who like ‘Jingle Bells’ and y equals the number who don’t, then z is the number of screams I’m going to hear if I cancel the holiday music.”

T.J. frowned, considering possible solutions to that equation. “I guess you can borrow my earmuffs.” He reached under the desk for his backpack and offered up a sorry-looking pair of muffs.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just check into canceling Christmas altogether.”

“Oh, okay. Well, they’re here if you want them.” The earmuffs disappeared under the desk again and T.J. went back to his history lesson.

Matt entered his private office and closed the door behind him, thinking “Jingle Bells” might stay on the other side. But the music drifted in, bright as tinsel, a melody on amphetamines, overorchestrated into a galloping, get-with-the-spirit-or-else intrusion. He was not in the mood to get in the spirit, not in the mood for the looming holidays, not in the mood to do much except stare out the window at the sputtering snowfall.

Instead, he took his seat behind the ornately carved wooden desk that had passed from one industrious Jonathan to the next for a couple of centuries. The leather chair sighed and creaked as it settled beneath his weight into a supple, familiar comfort. Heat shushed through the air register. “Jingle Bells” switched over to “Jingle Bell Rock” and somewhere out on the water a ship’s horn brayed. Matt tossed the phone slips aside and turned on his computer. A list of messages popped up on the screen almost instantly. A dozen Merry Christmas greetings. A dozen more generic Happy Holidays, one Happy Hanukkah, and two credit card offers. Scattered among the greetings were five interoffice messages—two marked with a flashing red urgent!—a forwarded joke, two unsolicited Thoughts for the Day, a reminder that he was expected at the Freemans’ annual Hijacked Holiday dinner party tomorrow evening and an invitation to yet another holiday get-together between Christmas and New Year’s Eve at the Stamfords’.

“Bah humbug,” he muttered and turned off the computer.

He picked up the phone messages again, sorting through them with misdirected irritation. Jessica. Jessica. Jessica. Ainsley. Miranda. And Ainsley, again. He didn’t want to talk to Jessica because he knew that, sooner or later, she’d turn the conversation toward some new or imagined grievance Peyton O’Reilly had caused. He didn’t want to talk to Ainsley because her conversation always included something especially funny or endearing her friend, Peyton O’Reilly, had done or said. Ainsley wasn’t giving up on her plan of making a match for him and Peyton, despite his attempts to discourage her. Ainsley blithely disregarded his resistance and continued to find ways to bring Peyton’s name into almost any conversation. Miranda didn’t talk about Peyton O’Reilly, but then he didn’t really want to hear about Nate’s two sets of twins, either. If Andy had called and left a message, Matt would have returned the call in a heartbeat. But wise Andrew had scheduled a trip to Utah and, at this very moment, was likely hiking up or skiing down some blessedly quiet mountain trail. Matt figured his little brother hadn’t heard “Jingle Bells” in at least twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.

“Merry Christmas, Matt!!” Ainsley’s cheery greeting came through ahead of her as she opened the door and walked in. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy from the cold, her blond curls peeked out from under a Christmas-green stocking hat, her upper body was bundled in a fleecy Christmas-green coat, her pants were black, her boots red, and there was a sparkly gold scarf looped like a garland around her neck.

“Are you dressed like a Christmas tree on purpose?” he asked, getting up to accept a hug even as he turned his smile from her to her companion.

Miranda looked equally healthy, happy and fetching, although she wasn’t dressed remotely like a holiday icon. All in ivory, hair sleek and secured beneath a hat as stylish as practical, her smile was pure confidence, with more than a hint of excitement. “Merry Christmas, Matt!” She switched on the overhead, flooding the dimly lit office with wattage. “It is okay to turn on a light when you’re actually in your office, you know. It’s only when you leave for the day that you need to make sure it’s off.”

“I’m experimenting,” he said.

“With eyestrain?”

“With the theory that this constant bombardment of Christmas music will be less irritating in the dark.”

“Well, bah humbug to you, too.” Ainsley thumped him playfully on the arm. “But never fear. We are here to improve your attitude, lighten your spirits and take you out for lunch. Our treat. And we won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even bother with an excuse.”

“I just got here,” he said. “I had a breakfast meeting that lasted all morning and I have about ten minutes before I have to meet Jessica for lunch.” He paused, then added. “A working lunch.”

Ainsley and Miranda exchanged a look—one of those sister moments they seemed to be sharing on a regular basis these days. Then, having come to some mutual and mysterious understanding, Miranda walked around the desk and picked up the phone. “T.J.,” she said a moment later, “call Ms. Martin-Kingsley and tell her Matt has an unexpected family situation and won’t be able to keep their luncheon appointment.” She listened for a moment, then laughed. “That’s right. She’ll have to work without him. Thanks, T.J.”

She hung up, smiled at Matt. “Fancy that. You’re free for lunch.”

“Is this an unexpected family situation?”

Ainsley slipped her arm through his, beamed up at him. “You weren’t expecting us, we’re family and we’re hungry.”

Miranda gestured voila! “An unexpected family situation. Besides, Matthew, you do not want to spend any more time with Jessica than you absolutely have to. It gives me a headache just to think about her.”

It often gave him one, too, but then, lately, thinking about women in general had the same effect. “Great,” he said. “You two are taking me to lunch. Where are we going?”

“The Red Parrot?” Miranda suggested with a questioning glance to Ainsley.

“Suits me.” Ainsley gave Matt’s arm a gentle tug. “Is Peyton here today?” she asked as they moved toward the door. “We should ask her to join us.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Miranda’s comment was so quick, so close on the heels of Ainsley’s impromptu thought, that Matt would have had to be thicker than a slab of bacon not to realize this whole lunch scheme was a setup, put together and practiced ahead of time by his sisters for his ultimate good.

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem with women.

They believed a man could be improved, should be improved, and they were always eager to introduce him to a woman they thought was up to the task. He loved his sisters, liked and respected the men they’d chosen, believed each of them was better for having found the other. But that kind of relationship wasn’t for him. And it sure as hell wasn’t for him with Peyton. He’d come too close for comfort to thinking it might be possible not so very long ago and gotten burned for his effort. No, thank you.

“I’ve no idea where Ms. O’Reilly might be,” he said with a smile meant to convey benign indifference. “But I can guarantee she won’t want to have lunch with me.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” Ainsley’s eyes sparkled with secrets and innuendo.

“Oh, maybe the fact that our every conversation seems to turn into an argument.” Which wasn’t true, although it wasn’t entirely a lie, either. “Or maybe because she’s been avoiding me as much as possible for the past two months.” Which was true. He’d been avoiding her, too, but that was irrelevant. “Or maybe it’s because I’m on to this little matchmaking plan of yours and, for the record, I’m not interested. Never have been.” Which was a lie. “And never will be.” Again. Which was the truth.

The sparkle in Baby’s eyes merely brightened. “Wow, you’ve obviously given that a lot of thought.” Her gaze went to Miranda and some glimmer of understanding passed between the two women again. “Guess we won’t invite Peyton to lunch today.”

“Guess not,” Miranda said. “Guess we’ll just have to keep him all to ourselves.”

“Guess so.” Ainsley gave his arm a squeeze. “But, don’t worry, we’ll share you when the right woman comes along.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied. “Because the right woman isn’t going to come along for a very, very, very long time. If ever.”

Ainsley’s laugh conveyed more clearly than words just how much confidence she’d gained as a matchmaker during the past year. The smile she exchanged with Miranda told him she clearly had her romantic wand aimed at him. And clearly, Miranda also thought that he was a prime candidate for a makeover.

Protest was futile. But forewarned is forearmed, and he happened to know a few facts his sisters didn’t know. Weren’t ever going to know. So, let them plot to their hearts’ content. It would come to nothing, anyway. He and Peyton had agreed. And as far as he was concerned, that was the end of it.

PEYTON PUSHED her plate away, hoping no one would notice that she’d managed to massacre the cheeseburger, mangle and scatter the fries without eating a single bite. But, of course, no one would notice. The waiter was just trying to survive the lunch crowd. He didn’t care what food she left on her plate as long as he received his tip. Her lunch companion was even less interested than the waiter. Scarlett, at fifteen, was consumed with her own orbit, and barely aware that anyone else had a life apart from how it intersected with her own.

“You are not going to believe what she said after that.” Scarlett talked with a French fry, waving it like a baton before dipping it into first ketchup, then mayonnaise, then biting off the end. “‘It’s the silver Donna Karan or the blue Vera Wang, Scarlett.”’ She imitated their mother’s voice down to the imprecise slur of her Louisiana drawl. “‘You cannot have both. You do not need both. You may choose one, not both.”’ Scarlett double-dipped and bit again, chewing the fried potato as she pondered their mother’s complete ignorance. “I mean, puh-lease! As if I’d be caught dead in Karan or Wang! How can she think for one second I’d want to wear anything by a designer she likes?”

It was taken for granted, of course, that Peyton would agree. She was Scarlett’s main sounding board. At least when it came to discussing their mother. “How could Mother think you’d be interested in a dress by either of those very famous, very talented designers?” Peyton said. “Honestly, sometimes I think she does it just to torture you.”

Scarlett raised her perfect eyebrows and leveled a ketchup-smeared French fry for emphasis. “Don’t side with Mom, Peyton. Just because they couldn’t afford to buy you nice clothes when you were my age is no reason I should have to wear something I hate.” The ketchup end of the fry went into the lump of mayo and from there into Scarlett’s mouth. “Besides, this is a very special date for me. It’s important, and the dress has to be perfect.”

Here was the subject Peyton wanted to talk about and she chose her words carefully. “To impress Covington?”

“No, to impress Covington’s mother and father.” Her green eyes nailed Peyton’s best intentions. “I want Mr. and Mrs. Locke to see that even Louisiana swamp rats look pretty good in expensive clothes.” Scarlett was quick and had that uncanny teenagers’ knack of putting others on the defensive. “You have such a chip on your shoulder, Peyton. I don’t know why you bothered to move up here with us if all you’re going to do is find fault with every single boy I like just because he can trace his ancestry back to Plymouth Rock!”

“That’s not fair, Scarlett. I simply think Covington is too old for you.”

“He’s twenty. Five freaking years. Big deal.”

“At fifteen, five years is a big deal. He’s halfway through college. You’re still in high school. That difference in experience is a very big deal.”

“Mom doesn’t think so.” She played her ace casually, picked up another fry, changed the routine by skipping the ketchup, dipping only in the mayonnaise. “She likes Covington and thinks he’s perfect for me. She knows I’m very mature for my age.”

“So, as long as her opinions coincide with yours, then she really knows what she’s talking about.”

“If she thought Covington was too old for me, you’d be saying how smart she is. So why is it such a freaking sin that this time she happens to agree with me?”

Peyton had hoped to have a reasonable discussion. She’d thought she could say what neither of her parents would. She’d believed, foolishly it seemed, that Scarlett would listen to her. “Mother is easily…dazzled. She wants you to fit in so badly that she’s not giving you appropriate guidance. You’re fifteen. He’s twenty. Twenty, Scarlett. You should be dating boys your own age and, quite frankly, Covington should not be interested in dating someone so much younger than he is.”

Scarlett’s eyes flashed fury at the criticism. “That just shows how little you know, Peyton. For your information, Covington tells me I’m a lot more mature than the college girls he knows.”