Read Online Out of The Blue by Charlotte Mills - Free Book Online Page A

I said, as I wiped the last of the sauce from my lips. I looked up to see her wide-eyed expression and scanned her plate; it was still half full. 
    “Wow! You must have been hungry.” 
    “Sorry,” I said meekly at my own embarrassment once again.  
    “Don’t apologise. It’s a compliment … I think.”
    “I did say it was lovely,” I repeated. Hearing her giggle at my words made me suitably relieved. I plucked a piece of bread from the bowl to bide my time, ripping off pieces to wipe up the leftover sauce on my plate. “Lauren Bacall!” I said after dredging the depths of my brain for a name, confident she would know what I was talking about.
    She smiled at my words. “Definitely! The Big Sleep . Key Largo , great film noir.”   
    “Film noir?” I asked. I knew roughly what it was but I wanted to hear her talk more about a subject she was obviously passionate about.
    “Mostly American films of the forties and fifties. Dark, gloomy, pessimistic, hard-boiled detectives and gangsters, usually a bit bleak. It was the flipside to the big flashy musical comedies they were also making at the same time.” She took a drink from her wine after cleaning her plate. “Of course that brings up Humphrey Bogart. Bit nasally but he’ll have to go on the list.”
    Her question about foreign actors had finally begun to percolate. “Do you think places like Germany or France have such characteristic regional accents like we do in the UK? I mean you can tell from the first few words if someone is from Liverpool, Cornwall or Newcastle. I’m guessing it must be like that for other countries,” I queried.     
    “Good question. I know France can be quite regional, but as an outsider it’s quite hard to pick up on it.”
    We continued to ponder this possibility over a slice of very tasty Mississippi Mud Pie.       
    The scratch on my face had become incredibly itchy and my hand instinctively rubbed at it.  
    “Leave it,” Jamie scolded. “Or you’ll make it scar.” Reaching across, she pulled my hand away.
    “It’s really itchy, though.”
    “That’s good. It means it’s healing up.”   
    “Is that actually true or just an old wives tale?”
    A smile stretched across her face. “I’m not sure. My mother always used to say it when I had scrapes on my knees.”
    Her eyes locked with mine for several seconds before she turned her attention to the pudding in the middle of the table. “Would you like anymore?”
    “No thanks. It was lovely, though. I’m as full as an egg,” I said as she stood, taking the dessert with her.
    I picked up our empty plates, following her into the kitchen. “Well, that was one of the best meals I’ve had in ages.” 
    “One of the best?”
    She turned towards me, eyebrows raised almost into her hairline. Sucking the cream off her thumb from the remaining dessert she had just placed in the fridge, my eyes focused on the residue left on her top lip. Pulling the napkin from my pocket, I moved towards her.
    “You have some …”
    A slight look of confusion crossed her face until she saw the napkin coming towards her. Gently dabbing at the cream, I felt her eyes bore into me the whole time. My eyes moved up to meet hers and I saw the dark desire as I felt a hand move to my waist. Dropping the tissue, my thumb softly traced the shape of her lips. I lowered my head, bringing our lips together. But the brief excitement I felt at her soft lips was cut short by loud noises outside the kitchen window. “Aarr! Oohh!” followed by lots of loud kissing sounds.
    “What the fu–?” I whispered as we both looked in unison out the small window to see several heads resting above the fence line as they continued to clap and whoop.
    “My neighbours, the students. They’re meant to be moving out but as you can see they’re still here.”
    I turned to her as she spoke. Her face was as red as mine felt.
    “Well, might as well give them a show.” I pulled her towards me,