The Decent Proposal Read Online Free PDF

time on a long skate down the Boardwalk, or surfing in the ocean, or simply lazing, catlike, in her Venice bungalow with the latest obscure Victorian author to catch her fancy (Gissing, at the moment). Contrary to what her coworkers thought, there was a lot to occupy La Máquina’s spare time. It’s just coffee , she reminded herself, not for the first time since responding to Richard Baumbach’s e-mail. She’d be back at home in an hour or two at most.
    RICHARD WATCHED HER as she walked toward him. She was wearing a loose, collared shirt and calf-length khakis, a curiously formal outfit for the weekend, especially in L.A., where no one other than the aforementioned agents ever really dressed up. (This was one of many things Richard loved about the city, and he took great joy in dressing like a slob at all times.) There would be no ogling her breasts today, but he still couldn’t help remarking on her ample, curvy shape. Voluptuous. Now there was a word he almost never used out here, though as she drew closer he saw it didn’t quite fit her either. Voluptuous women invited attention, and even though Elizabeth Santiago was on the tall side (but not too tall; he still had a few inches on her), there was a defensive hunch to her shoulders that annulled her height, and a hint of what was commonly known as RBS (Resting Bitchface Syndrome) warping her otherwise amiable features: a high forehead (crinkled), snub nose (nostrils flared), and generous lips (pinched into submission). Her dark hair, which had been up in the lawyer’s office, was in a ponytail now, and while it was surprisingly long, almost tickling the small of her back, it was so tight it actually added to the overall severity of her appearance. He never would have chatted her up if she were a stranger, for fear of an icy reception.
    She had arrived at his table.
    â€œHEYYYYYYYY,” HE SAID, drawing out the syllable nervously, hoping it came across the opposite way.
    â€œHey,” she said, balancing her gargantuan mug on the minuscule table, noticing his iced black coffee was more than halfway gone already. She sat down.
    â€œSo . . . ,” he began, before realizing he didn’t know how to begin at all.
    â€œSo.” She leaned back, crossing her arms.
    â€œAre you going to repeat everything I say?” he asked her, grinning.
    Elizabeth felt a tugging at her lips. His energy was infectious. Already she felt a little overstimulated, and made a mental note to go easy on the cappuccino. There was only one way to answer his question, however:
    â€œAre you going to repeat everything I say?”
    He threw his head back—actually threw it back, as if his neck were on a spring—and let his laughter rip. It’s wasn’t that funny , she wanted to tell him, glancing uneasily at the tables around them. But his laughter ended as abruptly as it started, and when his head snapped back into place she was surprised to see his handsome features engulfed in red. He’s more nervous than I am , she realized.
    â€œHonestly I have no idea what to say,” he confessed. “This is weird, right?”
    She nodded.
    â€œI mean, do you have a boyfriend?”
    Elizabeth drew back, as if stung. This was among a handful of questions she dreaded, though usually it was implied rather than asked outright, and almost always by another woman. She couldn’t blame him, though. A significant other would complicate the situation. Maybe he was asking because he had one of his own.
    â€œNo,” she said, doing everything in her power to keep from sounding surly or defensive. “You?”
    â€œA boyfriend? Nah.” He snorted. Sometimes people thought he was gay, not that he minded in the least. “No girlfriend either.”
    Elizabeth wasn’t the only stranger he wouldn’t dare approach. An instinctive fear of rejection honed during his gawkier years had rendered Richard a bit of a coward when it