Read Online Eating With the Angels by Sarah-Kate Lynch - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah-Kate Lynch
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in a position to consider such a thing which I hadn’t — way, way, way out of my league. Even Fleur would have probably put him in the too-hard basket and gone for his not-quite-so-cute best friend, if he had one. She was always banging on about picking a reasonable target, not aiming too high. Yet here he was, this Adonis, staring at me earnestly, his exquisite eyebrows (already my favourite part of him) raised in some pleasurable secret.
‘I have rotten fish on my shoe,’ I said.
Plainly, I had never been a hot tamale on the dating scene. Some god-like male creature appears out of nowhere in the city of my dreams saying he has been looking for me, and what do I do? Point out the least endearing aspect du jour; on this particular occasion, a fish tumour splattered all over my loafer. Pathetic.
But to my amazement he laughed as though I had just said the wittiest thing in the entire world and my confused excited heart simply melted, turning the rest of me into mush.
‘I’m Marco,’ he said and bent down, lifting up the leg of my Lucky Brands and putting his hand around my ankle. His touch felt warm and velvety, like Valrhona hot chocolate would if you drank it on the outside of your body. He had a very nice neck attached to those shoulders and small smooth ears that reminded me of pastry. I wanted to nibble on him. Quite a lot. Of course, instead of thinking such lewd thoughts I should have been wondering what he was doing down there because it wasn’t until he tugged at my leg and said, ‘Lift,’ for the third time that it occurred to me he was trying to take my putrid shoe off.
I followed his instruction and he removed the offending article, then stood again and indicated that I should stay where I was while he leaped nimbly down the steps and over to his gondola. He jumped lithely aboard (another Jackie Collins moment) and moved so smoothly to the back of his boat it barely rocked in the water. Herummaged behind the beautiful blue and gold brocade love seat and emerged with a brush. Then, dipping it in the water of the canal, he sat down, gently dabbed at my Gucci suede, worked his way up to a semi-robust brushing, then looked up at me and smiled.
I wobbled unevenly on one foot as I looked around to see if anyone else was watching but the busy crowd was moving and buzzing, going about its own business, paying no attention to a one-legged tourist and her shoe-cleaning gondolier. It was truly bizarre but I gave a little shrug of my shoulders and went back to feasting my eyes on my Good Samaritan. Behind him, a dozen empty gondolas bobbed up and down in the water, their associated gondoliers gathered in striped shirts and straw hats in different groups on the pier, smoking, chatting to each other or on cell-phones, eyeing up potential customers. They too seemed to take no notice of Marco, whose boat gleamed brighter than any of theirs, I thought, the gold paint on the intricate wooden carving behind the love seat glowing quietly, the little blue and gold flag at the front snapping in the faintest of breezes, while similar flags on the other boats hung limp and tatty.
Marco stood up, admired my shoe, jumped onto the pier and started towards me. Even the way he walked was mesmerising …
‘There. It’s done,’ he said.
I nodded, feeling overwhelmed by his attention. I knew I was making a total goof of myself but I couldn’t seem to help it.
‘Hah!’ I said stupidly, looking at the shoe. See what I mean?
The loafer looked almost as good as new and hardly smelled fishy at all. I lifted my foot and he knelt down to slip the shoe on. It was a very Cinderella moment and the silliness of it all kind of gurgled around inside me while I worked out what the next obvious step should be.
‘I’m Connie,’ I said as Marco stood up straight again, practically dwarfing me with his underwear model physique. ‘Constance. Mary-Constance. Farrell.’
‘Constanzia Farrelli. Maria-Constanzia Farrelli,’ he said,
‘I have rotten fish on my shoe,’ I said.
Plainly, I had never been a hot tamale on the dating scene. Some god-like male creature appears out of nowhere in the city of my dreams saying he has been looking for me, and what do I do? Point out the least endearing aspect du jour; on this particular occasion, a fish tumour splattered all over my loafer. Pathetic.
But to my amazement he laughed as though I had just said the wittiest thing in the entire world and my confused excited heart simply melted, turning the rest of me into mush.
‘I’m Marco,’ he said and bent down, lifting up the leg of my Lucky Brands and putting his hand around my ankle. His touch felt warm and velvety, like Valrhona hot chocolate would if you drank it on the outside of your body. He had a very nice neck attached to those shoulders and small smooth ears that reminded me of pastry. I wanted to nibble on him. Quite a lot. Of course, instead of thinking such lewd thoughts I should have been wondering what he was doing down there because it wasn’t until he tugged at my leg and said, ‘Lift,’ for the third time that it occurred to me he was trying to take my putrid shoe off.
I followed his instruction and he removed the offending article, then stood again and indicated that I should stay where I was while he leaped nimbly down the steps and over to his gondola. He jumped lithely aboard (another Jackie Collins moment) and moved so smoothly to the back of his boat it barely rocked in the water. Herummaged behind the beautiful blue and gold brocade love seat and emerged with a brush. Then, dipping it in the water of the canal, he sat down, gently dabbed at my Gucci suede, worked his way up to a semi-robust brushing, then looked up at me and smiled.
I wobbled unevenly on one foot as I looked around to see if anyone else was watching but the busy crowd was moving and buzzing, going about its own business, paying no attention to a one-legged tourist and her shoe-cleaning gondolier. It was truly bizarre but I gave a little shrug of my shoulders and went back to feasting my eyes on my Good Samaritan. Behind him, a dozen empty gondolas bobbed up and down in the water, their associated gondoliers gathered in striped shirts and straw hats in different groups on the pier, smoking, chatting to each other or on cell-phones, eyeing up potential customers. They too seemed to take no notice of Marco, whose boat gleamed brighter than any of theirs, I thought, the gold paint on the intricate wooden carving behind the love seat glowing quietly, the little blue and gold flag at the front snapping in the faintest of breezes, while similar flags on the other boats hung limp and tatty.
Marco stood up, admired my shoe, jumped onto the pier and started towards me. Even the way he walked was mesmerising …
‘There. It’s done,’ he said.
I nodded, feeling overwhelmed by his attention. I knew I was making a total goof of myself but I couldn’t seem to help it.
‘Hah!’ I said stupidly, looking at the shoe. See what I mean?
The loafer looked almost as good as new and hardly smelled fishy at all. I lifted my foot and he knelt down to slip the shoe on. It was a very Cinderella moment and the silliness of it all kind of gurgled around inside me while I worked out what the next obvious step should be.
‘I’m Connie,’ I said as Marco stood up straight again, practically dwarfing me with his underwear model physique. ‘Constance. Mary-Constance. Farrell.’
‘Constanzia Farrelli. Maria-Constanzia Farrelli,’ he said,
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