Read Online Love @ First Site by Jane Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Moore
Tags: Chic-lit
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was taken, I doubt this man has even seen daylight, never mind sunlight. His features are so woolly he looks like someone's knitted him.
"So let's get that coffee then," I say, inwardly thanking my lucky stars I hadn't suggested lunch. I have decided on sight that I don't find him physically attractive, and I doubt his personality is going to change my opinion.
I gesture for him to walk with me down to the north end of Regent Street, and as he steps forward he shrinks by three inches before my eyes. I look down to see he's been standing on a step.
Pasty-faced, cheese-paringly critical,
and
a bloody dwarf. Great. I mentally decide to make the coffee an espresso.
Two blocks down, we find a small, independently run coffee shop with a lavish display of gooey cakes in the window, tempting save for the couple of overexcited bluebottles buzzing around them.
I sit down at a table by the open front window, pleased to have a view of passersby to dilute any tedious conversation.
"Isn't that a bit close to the traffic fumes?" he says with an expression of distaste. I don't answer and he lowers himself into the seat opposite me like a man being strapped into the electric chair.
"Now then, what type of coffee would you like?" I pick up the menu and scan the options.
He shakes his head. "None thanks. I don't drink coffee or tea because of the caffeine, and I don't drink alcohol either. I'll probably just have a glass of still water." And there it was. The seemingly innocuous little statement that sealed his doom. Apologies to all teetotalers, but I could never spend the rest of my life with a man who doesn't drink. I would feel as though I were permanently being frowned upon every time I got a bit tipsy, and to me, so many relationship truths are eased out by the lubrication of alcohol. When wine goes in, secrets come out.
Hey ho, now all I have to do is get through the next half an hour with laughing boy.
As he peruses the menu, I take the chance to study him properly. The bronzed, smiling man who beamed out from my computer screen couldn't be further from the squat, pasty-faced creature with a sweaty top lip and mid-length, greasy hair. I doubt he ever cuts it, just gives it an oil change occasionally.
On the plus side, he has kind eyes, but unlike my Nana, who married Granddad "because he had all his own teeth," methinks a little more is needed to sustain a modern relationship.
A smiling waitress approaches our table, notepad in hand. "What can I get you?"
"A glass of still water and an espresso, thanks," I say, silently willing her to bring them quickly and release me from this purgatory.
"Is that all?"
I nod, and she starts to walk away.
"Hang on," says Larry. "I want something to eat."
I contemplate writing "Help me, I'm a prisoner"on a piece of paper and smuggling it into the waitress's hand, such is my desperation. But she's looking at him intently, waiting for his order.
"Are the vegetables in batter cooked in vegetable oil?" he asks. "If so, I'll have those."
The waitress nods and leaves.
"Don't tell me," I say, closing one eye and pointing at him. "Vegetarian, right?"
"Yes. I try to follow a macrobiotic diet too, but it's not easy when you eat out."
I nod, feigning interest in his dreary eating habits whilst mentally logging that he backs up my theory that most vegetarians look like they've crawled out from under a stone. I glance down at his sneakers and note that they're plastic: He's
that
fanatical about it. I suspect he wouldn't even wear a donkey jacket on the grounds it involves an animal in the title.
"So what do you do?" There it is again. The abandon-all-hope-ye-who-enter-here question.
"I'm an engineer." He sniffs self-importantly.
"What, like a mechanic sort of thing?"
He smirks slightly at what he clearly perceives to be my misguided ignorance. "I don't think so. No, I work for British Aerospace, designing engines."
"Oh." I can't think of anything I know less about. "Do you enjoy
"So let's get that coffee then," I say, inwardly thanking my lucky stars I hadn't suggested lunch. I have decided on sight that I don't find him physically attractive, and I doubt his personality is going to change my opinion.
I gesture for him to walk with me down to the north end of Regent Street, and as he steps forward he shrinks by three inches before my eyes. I look down to see he's been standing on a step.
Pasty-faced, cheese-paringly critical,
and
a bloody dwarf. Great. I mentally decide to make the coffee an espresso.
Two blocks down, we find a small, independently run coffee shop with a lavish display of gooey cakes in the window, tempting save for the couple of overexcited bluebottles buzzing around them.
I sit down at a table by the open front window, pleased to have a view of passersby to dilute any tedious conversation.
"Isn't that a bit close to the traffic fumes?" he says with an expression of distaste. I don't answer and he lowers himself into the seat opposite me like a man being strapped into the electric chair.
"Now then, what type of coffee would you like?" I pick up the menu and scan the options.
He shakes his head. "None thanks. I don't drink coffee or tea because of the caffeine, and I don't drink alcohol either. I'll probably just have a glass of still water." And there it was. The seemingly innocuous little statement that sealed his doom. Apologies to all teetotalers, but I could never spend the rest of my life with a man who doesn't drink. I would feel as though I were permanently being frowned upon every time I got a bit tipsy, and to me, so many relationship truths are eased out by the lubrication of alcohol. When wine goes in, secrets come out.
Hey ho, now all I have to do is get through the next half an hour with laughing boy.
As he peruses the menu, I take the chance to study him properly. The bronzed, smiling man who beamed out from my computer screen couldn't be further from the squat, pasty-faced creature with a sweaty top lip and mid-length, greasy hair. I doubt he ever cuts it, just gives it an oil change occasionally.
On the plus side, he has kind eyes, but unlike my Nana, who married Granddad "because he had all his own teeth," methinks a little more is needed to sustain a modern relationship.
A smiling waitress approaches our table, notepad in hand. "What can I get you?"
"A glass of still water and an espresso, thanks," I say, silently willing her to bring them quickly and release me from this purgatory.
"Is that all?"
I nod, and she starts to walk away.
"Hang on," says Larry. "I want something to eat."
I contemplate writing "Help me, I'm a prisoner"on a piece of paper and smuggling it into the waitress's hand, such is my desperation. But she's looking at him intently, waiting for his order.
"Are the vegetables in batter cooked in vegetable oil?" he asks. "If so, I'll have those."
The waitress nods and leaves.
"Don't tell me," I say, closing one eye and pointing at him. "Vegetarian, right?"
"Yes. I try to follow a macrobiotic diet too, but it's not easy when you eat out."
I nod, feigning interest in his dreary eating habits whilst mentally logging that he backs up my theory that most vegetarians look like they've crawled out from under a stone. I glance down at his sneakers and note that they're plastic: He's
that
fanatical about it. I suspect he wouldn't even wear a donkey jacket on the grounds it involves an animal in the title.
"So what do you do?" There it is again. The abandon-all-hope-ye-who-enter-here question.
"I'm an engineer." He sniffs self-importantly.
"What, like a mechanic sort of thing?"
He smirks slightly at what he clearly perceives to be my misguided ignorance. "I don't think so. No, I work for British Aerospace, designing engines."
"Oh." I can't think of anything I know less about. "Do you enjoy
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