Read Online Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) by Judi Fennell - Free Book Online
Authors: Judi Fennell
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No matter how pretty the chatterer.
He’d lied to Mike earlier. Jolie wasn’t cute; she was gorgeous. Tall and lithe with a ballet dancer’s frame, Jolie had a beauty he could appreciate with his artist’s eyes. Perfect bone structure, creamy skin warmed by a curtain of mink hair, those eyes… He still hadn’t figured out what to call that color.
He exhaled and pulled a bunch of fresh basil from the bag. The last thing he should be thinking about was the color of his chef’s eyes. For all he knew, she had a boyfriend somewhere who wouldn’t appreciate Todd’s observations.
And he had no business looking at another woman.
His gut clenched. Damn it all. When would it stop? He wasn’t being unfaithful to Trista by finding another woman attractive. He knew that. It just hurt so damned much that he couldn’t let go.
A yellow flyer clung to the band around the oregano. St. Gabe’s Church was having its annual fundraiser again. He’d participated every year—well, every year that he’d been painting. He’d done one special picture for the art auction, painted just for the church. A one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-done-in-print piece.
Those paintings had brought in enough money to launch a daycare, a shelter, and fully fund the school. It’d been Trista’s idea.
He crumpled the flyer in his fist. That was why he hadn’t participated since her death. It brought it all back—the times they’d gone together, his first unveiling of the painting, her excitement like a child on Christmas morning, as if he’d painted it just for her.
Of course, he had painted it just for her. Every landscape had been painted for her, through the eyes of his love. He wanted to give her the beauty she’d seen in him, for the faith she’d had in him.
He folded the brown bag and stuck it on top of the others. He should get the food put away and maybe grab a swim. Exercise, a good sweaty workout, always helped to clear his mind, something to do with endorphins. Whatever it was, he’d better get to it. Jolie had had enough to deal with already; he shouldn’t bring his troubles to dinner.
Life went on.
And so would he.
Chapter Seven
Jolie heard the vroom vroom of Todd’s car and grabbed her watch off the bedside table. Six forty. Crud. She had to hurry; no telling what could happen to the Dream Machine outside her less-than-desirable-address apartment complex if she kept him waiting.
She marked her page and headed to the one small window allotted her by Mr. Murphy, the avaricious landlord (which explained how fifteen mostly vacant apartments could fit in a building designed for half that number) and peeked out.
Sure enough, there he was. Man of her dre—her heroine’s dreams.
Sheesh, for someone who required thirty minutes max to get ready, she should have been able to squeeze those eighteen hundred seconds somewhere in the last four hours. But no. She had picked up a favorite book and wham! the world disappeared.
Jolie rushed back to the bathroom, grabbed the curling iron for two little flips, brushed some mascara on and, oh what the heck, grabbed the tube of pink sparkly lipstick. Sugar Plum Ice, Sugar Plum Gloss, some sweet fruity name. She was a flurry of flicking hands and twitching hair and then into the sink went the magic wand of hairdos, the magic wand of eyelashes, and the newly acquired magic wand of lips. Yeah, she was definitely destined to write fairytale happily-ever-afters.
His footsteps ching -ed against the metal steps in the stairwell. What the heck did she do with her shoe? She’d chosen the turquoise dress and her kicky yellow flats just wouldn’t do. Silver sandals would have to suffice. Well, one of them anyway. Where was that other one? She lived in an eighteen by eighteen foot box—how far could one footless shoe go?
Shadows flickered beneath her door. Great, he was there and she was still shoeless.
She kicked a pillow that God-knew-why decided to spend the day on the floor, and
He’d lied to Mike earlier. Jolie wasn’t cute; she was gorgeous. Tall and lithe with a ballet dancer’s frame, Jolie had a beauty he could appreciate with his artist’s eyes. Perfect bone structure, creamy skin warmed by a curtain of mink hair, those eyes… He still hadn’t figured out what to call that color.
He exhaled and pulled a bunch of fresh basil from the bag. The last thing he should be thinking about was the color of his chef’s eyes. For all he knew, she had a boyfriend somewhere who wouldn’t appreciate Todd’s observations.
And he had no business looking at another woman.
His gut clenched. Damn it all. When would it stop? He wasn’t being unfaithful to Trista by finding another woman attractive. He knew that. It just hurt so damned much that he couldn’t let go.
A yellow flyer clung to the band around the oregano. St. Gabe’s Church was having its annual fundraiser again. He’d participated every year—well, every year that he’d been painting. He’d done one special picture for the art auction, painted just for the church. A one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-done-in-print piece.
Those paintings had brought in enough money to launch a daycare, a shelter, and fully fund the school. It’d been Trista’s idea.
He crumpled the flyer in his fist. That was why he hadn’t participated since her death. It brought it all back—the times they’d gone together, his first unveiling of the painting, her excitement like a child on Christmas morning, as if he’d painted it just for her.
Of course, he had painted it just for her. Every landscape had been painted for her, through the eyes of his love. He wanted to give her the beauty she’d seen in him, for the faith she’d had in him.
He folded the brown bag and stuck it on top of the others. He should get the food put away and maybe grab a swim. Exercise, a good sweaty workout, always helped to clear his mind, something to do with endorphins. Whatever it was, he’d better get to it. Jolie had had enough to deal with already; he shouldn’t bring his troubles to dinner.
Life went on.
And so would he.
Chapter Seven
Jolie heard the vroom vroom of Todd’s car and grabbed her watch off the bedside table. Six forty. Crud. She had to hurry; no telling what could happen to the Dream Machine outside her less-than-desirable-address apartment complex if she kept him waiting.
She marked her page and headed to the one small window allotted her by Mr. Murphy, the avaricious landlord (which explained how fifteen mostly vacant apartments could fit in a building designed for half that number) and peeked out.
Sure enough, there he was. Man of her dre—her heroine’s dreams.
Sheesh, for someone who required thirty minutes max to get ready, she should have been able to squeeze those eighteen hundred seconds somewhere in the last four hours. But no. She had picked up a favorite book and wham! the world disappeared.
Jolie rushed back to the bathroom, grabbed the curling iron for two little flips, brushed some mascara on and, oh what the heck, grabbed the tube of pink sparkly lipstick. Sugar Plum Ice, Sugar Plum Gloss, some sweet fruity name. She was a flurry of flicking hands and twitching hair and then into the sink went the magic wand of hairdos, the magic wand of eyelashes, and the newly acquired magic wand of lips. Yeah, she was definitely destined to write fairytale happily-ever-afters.
His footsteps ching -ed against the metal steps in the stairwell. What the heck did she do with her shoe? She’d chosen the turquoise dress and her kicky yellow flats just wouldn’t do. Silver sandals would have to suffice. Well, one of them anyway. Where was that other one? She lived in an eighteen by eighteen foot box—how far could one footless shoe go?
Shadows flickered beneath her door. Great, he was there and she was still shoeless.
She kicked a pillow that God-knew-why decided to spend the day on the floor, and
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