The Sunstone Brooch : Time Travel Romance by Katherine Logan (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

He returned the towel to the hook on the side of the washstand and put away his toothbrush and toothpaste. “Let’s go eat before you faint from hunger.”

“I’m not that bad.”

He pulled her in for a hug and rubbed her back. “If your stomach rumbles any louder, it might bring down the walls.”

The embrace gave her warm fuzzies, and for a moment, she lingered there, enjoying the strength of his arms and the solidness of his chest, but it was like hugging a best friend. She stepped back. “Thanks. You give nice hugs.”

“Nice?” He grinned. “I’m glad to know you have no romantic interest in me. It makes things easier.”

She smacked his chest. “I know it’s a blow to your ego, but you’ll get over it.”

“Hardy-har-har.”

She cocked her head, looking up at him. “You don’t have any romantic interest in me, either, and it’s no blow to my ego.” And it was true, but if they ended up staying in the past indefinitely, that could change. “Now, let’s go eat.”

He opened the door. “Aye, aye, captain.”

They returned to the kitchen to find Kitty carrying a small vase of bright orange wood lily blooms to the dining room. A childhood memory of herself putting similar flowers in a china vase floated around in her head, and she smiled, remembering her parents and missing them like crazy.

“I’ll be in the sitting room.” JC left the kitchen. Under normal circumstances, he’d stay and help, but tonight he wanted a few minutes alone with TR to firm up their plans.

“What can I do?” Ensley asked Mrs. Sewall.

“The plates and cups are in the cupboard. Would you mind putting them on the table?”

“Not at all.” She gathered the items and headed toward the dining room, returning after that task to carry the bread basket and kettle of coffee. “I’ll send JC in to carry the venison.” She set the bread and pot on the table and called to JC, “James Cullen, will you get the plate of venison off the stove and bring it in here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hustled through the dining room and returned with the plate and a kitchen knife. “Do you want to carve?” JC asked Roosevelt, who had followed him into the room.

“I’ll be happy to.”

TR took the seat at the head of the table, picked up the knife, and cut a small portion of venison for Kitty, who sat on his left side. Mrs. Sewall brought a bowl of potatoes and a plate of butter to the table and sat next to Kitty. Ensley sat on Roosevelt’s other side, and JC sat at the opposite end.

“What are you reading today, Mr. Roosevelt?” Ensley asked.

“The Pickwick Papers. Are you familiar with the book?”

“Certainly. I’ve read it a couple of times.” She held out her plate for a portion of the venison. “You know that book catapulted the twenty-four-year-old author to immediate fame. Voila,” she said, flinging her hand.

“Few first novels have created as much excitement,” TR said.

JC passed the potatoes, and she helped herself. “I’m captivated by the adventures of the poet Snod—”

“—grass,” Roosevelt said, talking over her. “The lover Tupman, the sportsman Winkle, and that quintessentially English Quixote, Mr. Pickwick—”

“—and his cockney Sancho Panza, Sam Weller,” she added eagerly, talking over him in turn.

She’d heard a funny story from the rangers about TR’s habit of monopolizing conversations. According to them, when TR was president, a world-famous explorer went into his office while reporters hung around outside the door, hearing lots of talking and laughing. After an hour or so, the explorer emerged, and the reporters asked, “What did you say to the president?” The man replied, “I said, ‘hello.’”

If Ensley wasn’t careful, he’d monopolize all their other conversations as well. While she was more interested in what he had to stay than anything she could offer, one-sided discussions weren’t discussions. They were monologues.

She patiently waited until everyone filled their plates, then forced herself to eat slowly and let her shrunken stomach dictate how much food she could handle. She bit into the venison and almost sighed, tasting the gamey, lean meat with hints of acorns, sage, and herbs.

As soon as she could speak without food in her mouth, she asked, “What’s your opinion of Mr. Dickens?”

“When I read Dickens, Mrs. Fraser, I jump around to get the meaty nuggets of text that inspire me or force me to think critically about something.” TR poured a cup of coffee from the kettle.

When he opened his mouth to speak, she jumped in and talked fast. “I’ve read just about everything he’s written. I find it interesting that the women in his stories are pretty and childish, typical of the time, but not at all like the actual women in his life, who were neither domesticated nor compliant.”

“The wise thing to do when reading Dickens is to skip the bosh and twaddle and vulgarity and untruth and get the benefit out of the rest.”

“Bosh and twaddle?” Ensley asked with a laugh. “I’ve never heard that expression before.” She buttered a piece of sourdough bread, and she did sigh when the sweet butter melted on her tongue.

“You’re probably a Jane Austen fan.” He set down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

She chewed slowly, thinking about how best to answer. “I became a ‘Janeite’—an unrepentant, lifelong Austen fan—many years ago, but I bet you don’t read her.”

“It’s a slog to read her novels. If I finish anything by Miss Austen, it’s because I remind myself that duty performed is a rainbow to the soul.” He slowly cut the meat on his plate. “Booklovers who are very close kin to me and whose tastes I know to be better than mine, read Miss Austen all the time—and they are very kind and never pity me in too offensive a manner for not reading her myself.”

Ensley tsked. “You’re missing out. For me, I appreciate readers whose tastes are different. It’s those differences that give us a wide range of books to choose from. I