Read Online A Purrfect Romance by J.M. Bronston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J.M. Bronston
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cloisonné clock in the library struck eight, the oven timer went off, and the doorbell rang, all at the same moment. Bridey stopped in her tracks, in mid-kitchen, with pot holders in her hands and cake racks at the ready.
“Omigod!” she whispered to the cats. “He’s here!”
Silk and Satin had been prowling around her feet for the last half hour, getting in her way as she simultaneously dressed for her date and put a low-fat coffee cake to the test. She’d been making a comical spectacle for them as, without missing a beat, she’d brushed her teeth, pulled on panty hose, finished her computer notes, and slipped into her basic black sheath.
“I should have known,” she said, slipping eight hot cake pans onto the waiting racks. “He would be perfectly punctual, of course. He must have been waiting out there with a stopwatch.”
She tossed the pot holders onto the counter, turned off the oven and raced to the door, stopping only long enough to grab one fast look in the foyer mirror, where she patted her hair, checked to be sure there was no lipstick on her teeth and, remembering Marge’s advice to think sexy, ran her hands quickly down the black dress, making sure it lay smoothly over her body.
Then she took one deep breath, slowed herself down, and opened the door.
His suit was dark, his shirt was crisply white, and his repp tie was old school: blue and black stripes on red. His Burberry raincoat was draped over his arm and he carried his umbrella in one hand. He was the very image of gentlemanly propriety. Still, and to her enormous surprise, only one word flashed through her head.
Sexy.
Instantly, she felt a flush rising in her cheeks and knew it would show. With her light coloring, Bridey never had been able to hide a blush. Embarrassed, she saw his eyes do a quick scan of her from top to bottom before coming to rest on her pink cheeks, and she prepared to blame them on the hot stove she’d been slaving over all afternoon. She turned away to hide her face.
“I’ll just get my coat,” she said, stepping back from the door and pushing at Silk, who was trying to scoot past her.
“Mmmm,” he said, sticking his head inside the door. “Smells good in here.”
The aroma from the kitchen was flooding the hallway.
“Coffee cake,” she said as she succeeded in getting the door closed behind her without de-tailing Silk.
“My favorite,” he said as he rang for the elevator. He took her coat from her and, as he helped her on with it, he caught the scent of her hair, which smelled deliciously of cinnamon. Visions of spicy muffins danced in his head.
Which is not to say he hadn’t also noticed the dress. He had noticed the dress. And the flushed cheeks. And the beautiful eyes, and the light from behind her that lit up her hair. Only one word flashed through his head.
Sexy.
The Cote d’Or couldn’t intimidate Bridey. She knew too much about restaurants and what went on behind the fancy fronts. She knew exactly what it took to put on this elaborate show of elegance and sophistication, the enormous displays of fabulous hothouse flowers, the always spotless linens, the perfectly polished brass fixtures, the candles set at each table to cast a romantic glow on the diners’ faces. She understood the costing out of every half-teaspoon of salt and every splash of balsamic vinegar. She knew the frantic activity that was hidden from the public, the mundane mechanics that made the fantasy possible. She knew the unobtrusive signals that indicated special treatment for a preferred diner and his guest, the way their coats were taken to be checked, the maître d’s almost intimate attention, the serious conference with the wine steward, the careful choices of courses for their dinner.
She also knew haute cuisine when she tasted it, and the escalopes de veau on her plate were as haute as they could get on their bed of couscous, raisins, and prunes, prepared in the Moroccan style, a combination of sweet and
“Omigod!” she whispered to the cats. “He’s here!”
Silk and Satin had been prowling around her feet for the last half hour, getting in her way as she simultaneously dressed for her date and put a low-fat coffee cake to the test. She’d been making a comical spectacle for them as, without missing a beat, she’d brushed her teeth, pulled on panty hose, finished her computer notes, and slipped into her basic black sheath.
“I should have known,” she said, slipping eight hot cake pans onto the waiting racks. “He would be perfectly punctual, of course. He must have been waiting out there with a stopwatch.”
She tossed the pot holders onto the counter, turned off the oven and raced to the door, stopping only long enough to grab one fast look in the foyer mirror, where she patted her hair, checked to be sure there was no lipstick on her teeth and, remembering Marge’s advice to think sexy, ran her hands quickly down the black dress, making sure it lay smoothly over her body.
Then she took one deep breath, slowed herself down, and opened the door.
His suit was dark, his shirt was crisply white, and his repp tie was old school: blue and black stripes on red. His Burberry raincoat was draped over his arm and he carried his umbrella in one hand. He was the very image of gentlemanly propriety. Still, and to her enormous surprise, only one word flashed through her head.
Sexy.
Instantly, she felt a flush rising in her cheeks and knew it would show. With her light coloring, Bridey never had been able to hide a blush. Embarrassed, she saw his eyes do a quick scan of her from top to bottom before coming to rest on her pink cheeks, and she prepared to blame them on the hot stove she’d been slaving over all afternoon. She turned away to hide her face.
“I’ll just get my coat,” she said, stepping back from the door and pushing at Silk, who was trying to scoot past her.
“Mmmm,” he said, sticking his head inside the door. “Smells good in here.”
The aroma from the kitchen was flooding the hallway.
“Coffee cake,” she said as she succeeded in getting the door closed behind her without de-tailing Silk.
“My favorite,” he said as he rang for the elevator. He took her coat from her and, as he helped her on with it, he caught the scent of her hair, which smelled deliciously of cinnamon. Visions of spicy muffins danced in his head.
Which is not to say he hadn’t also noticed the dress. He had noticed the dress. And the flushed cheeks. And the beautiful eyes, and the light from behind her that lit up her hair. Only one word flashed through his head.
Sexy.
The Cote d’Or couldn’t intimidate Bridey. She knew too much about restaurants and what went on behind the fancy fronts. She knew exactly what it took to put on this elaborate show of elegance and sophistication, the enormous displays of fabulous hothouse flowers, the always spotless linens, the perfectly polished brass fixtures, the candles set at each table to cast a romantic glow on the diners’ faces. She understood the costing out of every half-teaspoon of salt and every splash of balsamic vinegar. She knew the frantic activity that was hidden from the public, the mundane mechanics that made the fantasy possible. She knew the unobtrusive signals that indicated special treatment for a preferred diner and his guest, the way their coats were taken to be checked, the maître d’s almost intimate attention, the serious conference with the wine steward, the careful choices of courses for their dinner.
She also knew haute cuisine when she tasted it, and the escalopes de veau on her plate were as haute as they could get on their bed of couscous, raisins, and prunes, prepared in the Moroccan style, a combination of sweet and
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