Date: June 6, 2440 Evening at the Maddy
“I changed my mind. I’d like to stay in and order food, if that’s okay with you,” T’Mari said, taking Angelina’s advice. “I’m not sure I want to deal with a crowd tonight.”
“You called Angelina, didn’t you?”
“I figured if anyone knew the story—and how to help you—it would be her. Are you angry?”
“No,” Matt said quietly. “I’m glad for the change of plans.” He held her gaze a moment longer, then added, “Do one thing for me tonight. Don’t do what your sister did to me. If we make love tonight, I want to remember everything. Every touch, every caress, every fumble, and misplaced hand. I need you to know that what I feel for you is real—and me, not a chemically saturated hormone machine.”
The smile he gave her was rare, vulnerable, and real. “I’m hungry. Let’s order.”
Martinez got his photo when he brought the first of several orders up the stairs, passing through two more layers of security.
“Just wanted to let you know we’re going off duty,” he said, handing off the food. “The night shift will be here until 0600. Thanks again for the pictures and the message—they’ll be thrilled someone important knows their names.”
“José, their father knows their names,” T’Mari replied with a soft smile. “That’s the most important person in the world who could know them.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Good night. We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“That was well done,” Matt said, returning from the kitchen with fresh ice, a few cups, and a bucket full of cold cans. “What did you order for us this time?”
“Yours first. I’m thirsty,” she said, plopping onto the small sofa.
“This round is going to be a bit different. We’ve established you like wine—especially red. You prefer dark beer to light and don’t care much for the really hoppy stuff.”
“I also like chocolate milk and green tea,” she said, smirking. “But I’m meh on coffee—unless it’s full of sugar and milk like Lola Rhea makes.”
“So, you’re a culinary barbarian with no fear of mixing worlds,” Matt laughed. “This may be our most important test yet—the Great Soft Drink Challenge.”
“Like the Pepsi Challenge?”
“My history’s a little fuzzy there. Explain?”
“It was from about 460 years ago. I saw a bunch of old commercials for it during your dramas. They tested which drink people liked best in a blind taste test. Very scientific,” she added dryly.
“Since you’ve got no preconceived notions, I don’t have to hide which is which.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she said, giving him a playful shove. “If you’re going to play the game—play it right.”
He let her do the blind taste test while he searched for American Ninja Warrior, sending the full catalog to the projector. He’d anticipated her love of games.
Having decided RC Cola was her favorite—though a rare, expensive one from a place called Santa Fe Café topped the list—T’Mari leaned back against him with a quiet smile. She let out a surprised giggle when his toes brushed the bottom of her socked foot—soft, deliberate, teasing.
“Tell me,” she said, still laughing softly, “why is it so important to you to stay in Missouri?”
Matt was quiet for a long moment. He could live anywhere now—he had the means, the access, the opportunity. He’d seen the world, stayed in places people dreamed of retiring to. But none of them held him like this place did.
“Missouri is home,” he said simply. “It’s where six hundred and forty years of my people were born and buried. It made me who I am. If I leave it for too long, I’m afraid I’ll come back and not recognize it anymore—or maybe not even myself. That nearly happened once. I have properties all over the world. But Missouri is home.”
She said nothing, only half-watching two kids climb the underside of rotating stairs. “Your home helped you find yourself again… when you were lost.”
“Yes.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I’m not afraid of change. But I want it to be the right kind. Thoughtful. Deliberate. Change that makes life better for the people who already live here.”
T’Mari’s voice was soft. “Have my people changed too much?”
“No,” he said, brushing a strand of her hair aside. “My people have always opened doors to strangers—given them places to stay, land to till, communities to join. That’s part of who we are. Your people… you’re different. But that’s not a bad thing. You’re builders. You want roots. If you’re willing to make this place your own—not just take from it—I’ll help you. I’ll stand beside you.”
He reached for another chicken wing, quietly deciding he could afford to keep feeding her abnormally high metabolism. He gave a half-hearted laugh at the absurdity of the thought, then wondered how long it would take her to figure out just how wealthy he actually was. The Freehold made him land-rich, but the shipping business made him wealthier than most Amazon directors.
“We’re going to need reinforcements,” he chuckled, watching her reach the empty container at the same time he did. He smeared a bit of ranch onto the back of her hand and brought it to his mouth. With a long, slow lick, he made her shudder.
He wondered if he could break her self-control the way her sister had broken his. He stopped, just before putting his mouth to the other side of her wrist—remembering what he’d said about wanting to remember everything. He knew that was presumptuous of him. But maybe not too much.
“You pick the food this time,” she said, getting up to head to the bathroom. She quietly pulled out her phone and texted Angelina: doing better. thnx.
“You might scandalize the night shift,” he said, pulling her in close, running his hands up her bare legs while he stayed seated. His jaw rested against the bare skin of her hip now that she had shed her jeans down to high-cut briefs. He longed to do to her what he had done to her sister. He longed to see if she tasted even better—because she smelled even better, even when she was trying not to overwhelm him.
That could wait.
He bit down playfully on the waistband, pulled back, and let the elastic snap back into place. Then he laid a single, chaste kiss just above the line of fabric. Her quiet moan told him he hadn’t lost his touch.
He closed his eyes and pulled her in, just holding her while he held himself together.
“I don’t want—I mean, we have enough rumors,” she fumbled, wondering if she’d overstepped and started to reach for her pants.
“Hush,” he said gently, kissing her belly once more before his arms slid back down her legs. “Rumors are going to fly no matter what. I’m sure Angelina is stage-managing them perfectly.”
He pulled her down into his lap, kissing her again—this time not so chaste. “Besides, they’ll knock first, and we’ve got at least thirty minutes. The good thing about a university town is you can always get food at any time of night. But after midnight? Don’t count on it arriving fast.”
Matt debated just pushing the door button and letting Private Elizabeth Wentworth see the beautiful chaos they’d made over the last half hour. He chose, instead, to preserve T’Mari’s dignity—at least a little. He was confident enough in his own manhood to walk to the door fully naked if he wanted to. But there was time enough for rumors later.
He rebuttoned his Levi’s, pulled on a T-shirt, and casually tossed an afghan over the blushing, green-skinned woman.
“I think that’s supposed to cover the lower part of me,” she laughed, adjusting the blanket and examining the intricate work of each square panel while trying to look blasé as the food arrived.
“Something wrong, Private?” Matt asked, hearing a small sigh.
“Oh, not really, Captain. I just lost the bet on whether you’d be naked by now. I had higher hopes for the two of you,” she grinned.
“Do I know you?” Matt asked, trying to place her face.
“Last time we met, I was about this tall,” she said, holding her hand at waist height. “My dad is Keith Wentworth. He has stories about you.”
She let out a huge belly laugh—just as T’Mari called from the couch, “I want to hear them!”
“Later,” Matt chuckled. Keith certainly had stories. And way too many were still classified at the highest level. It hadn’t been a coincidence that Leonard couldn’t access his file. “Have a good night. Tell your father I said hello.”
“What do we have?” T’Mari asked, bouncing up from the couch and afghan. “I’m starving.”
Matt was pretty sure she’d had her panties on when he left to answer the door—and wondered where they had gone so quickly and discreetly.
“We’ve got three food orders,” he said. “The China Special is everything left on the buffet. El Gato Gordo is everything the Mexican place had left rolled into burritos. And All That and a Bag of Chips is the only place I’ve ever eaten at that actually starts serving at midnight. They cater to the hospital night shift.”
He tossed her a fresh, hot fry and delighted as she caught it in her teeth with perfect, athletic grace. He wondered if he’d have to explain why the Brits erroneously called fries “chips.”
The app claimed the total order weighed fourteen pounds. It was now down by one fry. He doubted they’d get through even half, but you took what they were willing to sell when you ordered at 11:55 PM.
The look in her eyes told him he’d need as many of those calories as he could manage.
He dropped the box the last several inches with a thud, stretched out his leg, and made a spot for her to face him. He lured her back down with more fries as Looney Tunes played on the wall across the room.
Sated, Matt’s unbuttoned jeans fell to his ankles as he stood, casually stepping out of them with a too-full feeling. He pushed a wall-mounted button to activate the last remnant of his college years—thousands of icicle lights hanging from the ceiling—which dimmed all other light sources.
Another button brought up a playlist he’d bookmarked earlier: Prom Season Slow Dances.
“Dance with me,” he said, taking her hand from the armrest.
“I don’t know how to dance,” she said, a little embarrassed to admit she was bad at something she knew he excelled at. Angelina had shown her pictures and videos of him as a boy—dancing, competing, moving like he was born to it. His mother had made him learn salsa, and he’d won competitions before his voice had even changed. His younger sister had been an aspiring dancer, and Matt had been her partner—reluctantly.
T’Mari could understand why a twelve-year-old boy wouldn’t want to dance with his nine-year-old sister—especially when the choreography looked like it belonged in a romance film.
“Neither do I,” Matt said. “So just let your ears tell your body what to do, and your heart will tell your feet where to go.”
He pulled her to her feet.
Thirty minutes later, as they collapsed into the bed against the far wall, he wondered if there had been a bet on this, too.
