“Amy,” he began. And paused. “Amy. Amy, I have to — I have to tell you that . . .” He stopped, rubbed his face, and pushed his shoulders back. “Amy Cahill, I find you interesting.” No, it wasn’t that she was just interesting. She was . . . something. There were so many things wrong with her — so many things that he shouldn’t like about her. She was richer than he was these days, and yet she still acted so poor. And far too many of her clothes were made of cotton, rather than silk. But he found that he almost didn’t care. He looked back at the mirror. “I know it’s completely ridiculous, but I can’t keep quiet about it any longer. Your closet looks like it was put together by a blind nun, and your brother acts like a cross between a monkey and a go-kart, and you have the social skills of a rock. But I like you, Amy. Quite — quite a bit.” He paused. “So, congratulations.” His bedroom door swung open, and Natalie stood in the door frame.
