Katy Carter Wants a Hero Read Online Free PDF

towards Ealing Common, which almost makes up for the fact that you need to climb three steep sets of stairs to get to the front door. Still, as James likes to point out to anyone who’ll listen, this flat is an investment and holds a lot of equity. James knows
loads
more than I do about finance, not hard really since you could put all I know about money on a postage stamp and still have room for
War and Peace
, and I’m sure that he’s right, just as he’s right about all the blond wood flooring and minimalist furniture. I’m sure it
does
look better than my clutter, but it’s not exactly comfortable. I once threw myself on to the futon and put my back out for two weeks, not to mention that I cracked two of the slats, which really upset James. As I lay groaning amid the wreckage, he was racing to the phone to call the Conran shop to check he’d taken out insurance. I suppose it’s nice to have a man who cares about domestic stuff, but sometimes, to be honest, it really pees me off. All this white makes me nervous; a herd of polar bears could move in and go unnoticed. I’d really like a few squidgy cushions and an Indian throw just to add a spot of colour to the place. But like James says, I’m not a student any more and it is time I developed some adult tastes.
    Guess I hang out with teenagers too much.
    ‘I’m home!’ I call, as I drag my shopping into the hall and take my coat off in record time. If I drip on the floor it ruins the wood, apparently, so I hastily kick off my shoes and put them in the rack.
    I can’t hear any noise from the lounge, which suggests that James is probably working away somewhere plugged into his headphones. With a sigh I lug the shopping into the kitchen, where I switch on the shiny chrome kettle and reach for the biscuit tin. I could murder a HobNob! Bugger the wedding-dress diet! I have thought about dieting. I have!
    And it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
    Munching contentedly, trailing crumbs all over the floor, I start to unpack the shopping, marvelling at the amount Ollie’s managed to persuade me to buy. There are ingredients here I haven’t even heard of. What on earth is a vanilla pod used for? I rattle the packet just in case the answer flies out, but instead end up tipping the whole lot everywhere. Great. I’ve only been back ten minutes and already I’m wrecking the joint. There’s something about this kitchen and me that means that whenever I enter it I end up creating the kind of mess that’s more in keeping with a big-budget disaster movie. My sticky little paws make prints all over the chrome cooker, the funky steel bin vomits forth all the detritus from my culinary attempts and my feet virtually suction themselves to the floor.
    The sad truth is this kitchen is too good for me, and I have a horrible feeling it could be a metaphor for my life with James, the hero who’s too good for the heroine. Mills and Boon never mentioned that bit, did they?
    But it’s Friday night, the end of another busy teenager-riddled week, and I’m not going to let myself start to dwell on the uncomfortable thoughts that sometimes beat like dark moths around the edges of my mind. I brush them away. It’s the wedding stress that sometimes gets to me, that’s all. And I know a great cure for stress! It lives in the door of our Smeg and goes by the name of… alcohol!
    I grab a glass and uncork the bottle. The cool pale gold liquid glugs cheerfully into the glass and even more cheerfully down my throat; just what I needed after Sainsbury’s on a Friday night. I never knew people could get so frantic about their food shopping. Somebody should tell all those women rushing around like demented Formula One wannabes that Domino’s do a mean takeout!
    At the thought of a Meat Feast with extra cheese, my stomach does an impression of Vesuvius erupting. Perhaps I’ll order one. I know I’m not meant to be eating crap, but surely one pizza won’t hurt? And maybe some garlic