Man In A Million. Muriel Jensen
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Название: Man In A Million
Автор: Muriel Jensen
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9781472025098
isbn:
Paris beckoned him to follow her.
The house looked like a place occupied by three women, though it had none of the colonial or sometimes Victorian air with which many of the locals decorated their homes. It was all bright colors and floral patterns in the upholstery and the curtains, lending it a sort of patio flavor. He wondered if the women’s mother had tried to bring Southern California with her when she followed her husband here.
They walked into a living room that was painted bright red with white farm-style furniture upholstered in a slate-blue fabric covered with red-and-cream flowers. A coordinating plaid covered a fainting couch and another chair.
He heard Prue run up the stairs while Paris led the way into a huge cream-colored kitchen that looked very up-to-date. The cupboards had wire-mesh fronts, and several bottom ones were fitted with basket bins for produce. An old-fashioned iron stove attracted his attention, but upon closer inspection, he noticed that what appeared to be a wood box was really just an extension of a very large oven, and it wasn’t iron at all, just designed to appear to be. The refrigerator and the dishwasher matched with the same convex black panels and gold filigree trim.
A long work island in the middle of the room boasted a small sink on one end and stools on the far side.
This made his Spartan apartment look even more basic, and muddled his impression of Paris and her mother and sister as three women struggling to get by.
“Wow,” he said simply.
She had opened the refrigerator door and turned to peer at him in question.
He spread his arms to indicate the room. “I have a corridor kitchen that’s about eight feet long with barely room to turn around. This is very elegant.”
She nodded. “My dad was very handy,” she said, then with a quick frown, corrected herself. “You know. Jasper. Prue’s dad. My…stepdad, I guess.” Then she seemed to tire of deciding what to call him and just went on. “He loved to putter in his spare time and Mom always had an idea of how to make things more useful and more beautiful. She has a real gift for decorating.”
“I’ll say.”
“Turkey and Swiss, or ham and cheddar?” She held up deli packs of lunch meat.
He went toward her. “Is ham and Swiss out of the question?”
“Unorthodox,” she replied, selecting those from her collection, “but not out of the question. Whole wheat or sourdough?”
“Whole wheat.”
“Grilled or cold?”
“Cold. Can I do anything to help?”
She pointed to the work island. “Just pull up a stool and relax. We can eat out on the deck. It’s my favorite place.”
He obeyed. She seemed to be relaxing and he didn’t want to do anything to interrupt the process.
She made the sandwiches quickly and efficiently while standing opposite him at the work island. She added a bread-and-butter pickle to each plate, then pulled a face at him. “Ordinarily, I’d add potato chips to this, but in view of the red dress, we’d better make it carrot sticks.”
“I’m not wearing the red dress,” he teased.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean, you’d make me watch you eat chips while I have to eat carrot sticks?”
“Depends.” He was suddenly aware of an angle he could work. “Do I have some sort of stake in this dress?”
She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, it occurs to me that I could support your effort to get in shape for this notorious red dress,” he bargained, “if you’ll go somewhere with me while you’re wearing it. Bearing in mind that I don’t think training’s really necessary. I think you look pretty terrific already.”
She tried to withhold a smile at the compliment but didn’t quite succeed. She pretended to concentrate on cutting the sandwiches at an angle. “It’s for the fashion show,” she said.
He nodded. “I understand that. But we could go somewhere after the show.”
She put the knife down and frowned at him. “Why are you doing this,” she asked, “when you were so determined to avoid me while Addy was trying to get us together?”
“Simple,” he answered. “I hadn’t met you then.”
She handed him two cans of diet soda, then, carrying the plate, led the way onto the deck.
It had a magnificent view of Maple Hill Lake. It was absolutely quiet at the moment, nothing moving on it but a family of mallards several yards away. The afternoon sun shone brightly on it, bees hummed, and water lapped against the dock with a sound he’d always found quieting. The breeze was a little cool as fall took hold.
They settled onto a canopied glider fitted with cup holders. He put a soda can in each hole, and she placed the plate between them on the blue-and-yellow upholstered seat.
“But everyone who knows you,” she went on, continuing their conversation from the kitchen, “says you’re not interested in a relationship.”
She took half a sandwich and gestured him to do the same. He did. “People always think they know what other people are thinking.”
She leaned into a corner of the glider and met his gaze. He could tell she was going to ask him something difficult.
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