Katy Carter Wants a Hero Read Online Free PDF Page A

wine and dine you as well as Lord Ellington could,’ said Jake, ‘if not even better.’
    And as Millandra smiled up at him, at the strong tanned throat, dancing emerald eyes and rippling beechnut hair, she felt certain that Jake Delaware could outdo her other suitors in every other way…
    OK, so I don’t suppose that Jake had to do battle in Sainsbury’s on a Friday night with every Nigella and Jamie wannabe in west London, nor did he have to lug eight groaning bags home on the 207 bus, but you get the picture. And even though he’s only a fantasy romantic hero, I’m pretty impressed with him so far. Lucky old Millandra. Bet she’s the kind of girl who just nibbles daintily on a crust of bread before declaring herself full, unlike those of us who’d shovel the lot in until we feel like a sausage about to burst its skin, and who sips champagne daintily rather than swigging it like there’s going to be a world shortage. Still, she is a romantic heroine and I guess that’s all in the job description.
    I put my notebook away and turn my attention back to the task in hand, namely figuring out how to get off this bus with my shopping avoiding a) doing serious damage to someone’s shins and b) severing my fingers with the twisting plastic bag handles. I’m not sure why Ollie needed to buy so much stuff. The amount I’ve just spent could have fed me for a month, and now I’m the proud owner of countless fillet steaks, cream, peppercorns, foie gras and numerous other bits and pieces that I haven’t got a clue what to do with. Ollie piled the trolley so high I practically had vertigo just looking at it.
    Still, at least I’m on my way to Wembley as regards this dinner party. Ollie’s going to cook an amazing meal and I’m going to dazzle and impress James’s senior colleagues.
    What can possibly go wrong? His promotion’s as good as in the bag. Our troubles are over.
    The bus crawls through the rush-hour traffic towards Ealing Common. The rain is falling steadily and the bus windows start to fog up. On the grey pavements people scurry along, bowed beneath umbrellas and dodging puddles. I don’t need to be psychic to predict that by the time I get home I’ll be sodden. I expect Millandra looks fantastic when it rains, all ringlets and flushed cheeks, unlike me, who with ginger frizz and a red nose looks more like Chris Evans with a head cold. Sometimes life really sucks.
    As anticipated, by the time I reach number 12b Allington Crescent, I’m soaked through to my knickers and feeling very fed up. My fingers are a nasty greeny-white shade from lack of circulation and my Doc Martens have sprung a leak. I also have a horrible suspicion that I’ve left Year 10’s coursework on the bus, which although it has the short-term advantage of saving me hours of marking, will eventually mean yet another visit to the Lost Property office. I’m practically on first-name terms with the lady who works there now, which gives you an idea of how forgetful I can be. I must have forgotten the pin number for our joint account too, because the card was declined so I had to use mine.
    Maybe I am a bit scatty.
    Or, as James puts it, disorganised.
    I can’t help it, though. When I’m deep in my notebook and thinking about sexy highwaymen, there’s not a lot of room for the twenty-first century. And to be honest, when it’s a choice between a forest glade with Jake or hauling my shopping up the street, I know which I prefer.
    I heave the carriers up the steps to our front door and then stand panting on the doorstep for a minute. I’m trying really hard to lose weight for the wedding, but it doesn’t seem to be happening. I partly blame the thoughtless bastard who installed a vending machine in the staff room. Honestly! After two lessons I’d kill my granny for a Kit Kat, so any hope of resisting temptation is futile.
    Our flat’s on the top floor of what used to be a rather large Victorian townhouse. We’ve got lovely views over