The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London Read Online Free PDF Page A

a
bathroom and a bedroom.
       The
place was spotless and tastefully furnished, a designer’s dream. A white
leather corner sofa with glass coffee table decorated with a vase of dewy-looking
white roses. Pale cream walls decorated with occasional prints of modern art,
their blocks of bright colour adding drama to the room. A faux log-effect
fireplace in white stone with a gorgeous nude statue standing to one side.
       It
was the style opposite of her own messy living room, which was dominated by an
ancient sofa covered in a comfy chenille throw, books piled everywhere. But
then she shared the flat with Florrie, and her older librarian sister loved
books too and was not known for her tidiness anymore than she was.
       ‘So
you have a flat up here,’ she exclaimed, gazing around curiously. ‘It’s
lovely.’ The windows overlooked the street below, and she peered down, admiring
the pretty French shop sign just under the sill. ‘So convenient for work too. I
have to commute in every day. It’s no joke.’
       She
wandered about, careful not to touch anything. Her clumsiness was legendary and
she was bound to break something. ‘Oh, how gorgeous.’ She had found a large
circular fish bowl on the table by the sofa, with one podgy goldfish swimming
about inside. She bent down to admire it. ‘What’s his name?’
       ‘Miranda.’
       ‘Oh,
he’s a she. Well, she’s lovely.’
       Miranda
gets too much fish food, she thought, looking at the goldfish’s swollen belly
as it swam through a tangle of weeds into a fake shipwreck. Well, that was
something that could easily be sorted.
       Stop mentally running this man’s life for
him , she told herself sternly, and straightened. Though not before hiding the
fish food container behind his vase of long-stemmed white roses.
       Dominic
had laid out some ledgers and documents on the broad, marble-topped kitchen
table. ‘Here,’ he said, indicating one of the high chrome stools arranged about
the table. ‘Shall we make a start? I hope you like pasta.’
       He
rolled up his white shirt sleeves with quick, confident dexterity as though
about to cook. She saw him glance across at the large silver-bottomed pans
hanging from a pan rack near the state-of-the-art cooker. ‘I was planning a
simple spaghetti fruits de mer for supper, with chocolate truffles au Cointreau
to follow,’ he said. ‘My own special recipe.’
       Simple?
       ‘Oh,’
she mouthed, utterly seduced by the way he had described the food. ‘That sounds
… ’
       Don’t gush, woman , she warned herself,
trying to repress her instinctive smile at the thought of him cooking her
supper while she watched, grinding black pepper and stirring onions with those
tanned muscular forearms. Men never like you better for it.
       She
finished politely, ‘I love pasta, thank you.’
       ‘I’m
glad to hear that. Pasta is one of my favourite foods.’
       ‘I
would have thought chocolate must be your favourite food,’ she said impulsively.
       ‘Not
really. For me to eat chocolate is … ’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘How do you say
it? A bus driver’s holiday?’
       ‘Busman’s
holiday.’ She nodded. ‘I understand. You work with chocolate all day, you want
something different to eat.’
       He
poured a glass of luscious red wine and handed it to her, studying her from
under those long dark lashes.
       She
thanked him and sipped it, revelling in the warm, rich fragrance of the wine.
‘This is delicious,’ she said, meeting his eyes and hoping he did not think her
too bold.
       Men
were constantly complaining she was too bold, she thought defiantly. Or
aggressive. Always taking the initiative where she ought to wait to be asked.
       But
oh, it was such fun to take the initiative!
       ‘Excellent.
I should really serve white with the spaghetti dish, but I had an instinct you
would be a red wine person. Was I correct?’
       Her
eyes widened. ‘Yes.’