The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London Read Online Free PDF

‘Do
you know who first invented the chocolate truffle, Clementine?’ he replied,
holding her gaze.
       She
was beginning to feel all hot and sticky again. Clementine. The way he said her
name was like honey dripping …
       Wordlessly
she shook her head.
       ‘A
very talented confectioner named Petruccelli.’
       ‘Was
he Italian?’
       ‘Of
Italian descent, perhaps. I’m not sure, though I could look it up for you.’ He
smiled, pulling out a chrome stool and guiding her onto it, a firm hand in the
small of her back. ‘It is said Petruccelli invented the truffle at Chambery in
1895. Do you know Chambery? It is a very beautiful French town in the Savoy
region, high in the Rhone-Alps, not far from both the Swiss and Italian
borders. I too come from the south of France, though only from a small village
a little nearer the coast.’
       He
shrugged, perching on the high stool beside her. ‘It can get very hot at the
height of summer, up in the mountains. I always wonder how Petruccelli managed
to keep his chocolate confections cool in that heat. But perhaps he only made
them in the winter months. For the local aristocracy, I expect.’
       Dreamily,
she imagined him: a dark-eyed youth growing up under endless blue skies,
playing in the dusty soil of a hillside vineyard, maybe spending his long hot
summers on the beach.
       She
wondered if he ever went back to his native France. For a holiday, perhaps. The
thought of Monsieur Ravel in nothing but a pair of tight-fitting black trunks,
walking out of a warm foaming sea, made her swallow. Hard.
       Dominic
cocked his head to one side, regarding her quizzically. ‘What is it?’
       She
willed the blush in her cheeks to fade.
       ‘Sorry,
but living in the south of France sounds idyllic. Whatever made you come to
London? It’s so grey and dull here, there’s no colour. Where you grew up sounds
infinitely more romantic than the streets of London.’
       ‘Yet
here I am.’ Unexpectedly, the chocolatier grinned. 'It does seem contrary, I agree.
But that's me. Contrary.'
       'Well,
who wants consistency anyway?'
       'Consistency
is only for desserts.'
       'Exactly.'
       He
laughed. 'I must admit, it feels good to be cooking for someone else for a
change, not just myself. On my own, I rarely cook. I throw together a sandwich
or some soup, c'est tout.' He opened one of the ledgers, flicking through the
pages. 'Before dinner though, le travail. These are our accounts for the past
six months. Our expenses are mostly contained in these folders, and this is
where I have listed our sales and overheads. Let's see what you can make of
these figures.'
       Mathematics. Oh joy.
        Clementine smiled, rather too
brightly, and tried to look intelligent but was worried she merely looked
demented.
       'Bring
it on, monsieur. Maths is my middle name.'
       He
looked at her, surprised. ‘Vraiment?’
       ‘Um,
no, not really. That was a joke.’ She floundered horribly under his level stare.
‘Veronica is my middle name, actually. I blame my mother.’
       His
dark eyes continued to survey her coolly. ‘I see.’
        ‘Okay,
time to calculate!’ Flustered, she jerked one of his folders across the table
and managed to clip her wine glass stem so that it over-balanced.
       With
amazingly quick reflexes, Dominic caught the wine glass and righted it so that
not a single drop was spilt.
       ‘Wow,’
she whispered, then looked at him. ‘Sorry.’
       ‘Calculate,’
he reminded her softly.
       ‘Oh,
yes.’ She flipped open the folder and stared at the thick sheaf of papers
inside, every sheet covered in dizzying figures. ‘No … problem.’

 
    CHAPTER THREE

 
    In Which Coffee Is Also Lavishly Applied

 
    'Well?' Florrie demanded as soon as
Clementine walked through the front door to their flat at three minutes to
eleven that night. 'How was it?'
       Clementine
attempted to look innocent. 'What do you mean?'