Hello there!
If you're looking for my IWSG post, for practically the first time ever, I'm missing it. Clashes with the WEP challenge and life is super busy at this time of year, anyway. See you in January.
Seeing you're here, I'd be delighted if you'd read my meet-up with the two MCs in my latest novel...and answer my question at the end.
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For the WEP challenge this month, I've edited the scene from my 'women's fiction with romantic and suspense elements' Paris Cookery School novel where my two main characters meet. It's over the limit at 1053, so sorry, but it fits the prompt perfectly, especially with reference to Roberta Flack's song.
Something has been lost in the editing process, but hey, I might use this shorter version in my WIP.
To pre-empt comments, I'm a member of the FB group, Ask a Book Editor, (highly recommended) and I was told the latest preference for foreign words is to italicise the first usage, thereafter don't, as italics get annoying after a while. I drink to that.
Angélique runs a cookery school. Charlie is a new student. Thus begins the romance which is the heart of the novel.
TAGLINE: More than cooking goes on in the kitchen.
Your face, your face, your
face
A very
dishy dish stands at my kitchen door – handsome, tall, and very English. After
lugging his suitcase up five floors, his cheeks are flushed. And those eyes –
I’m lost. They’re the color of the sea on a cloudy day, pale green flecked with
gold. Mon Dieu. So hot.
His charcoal pin-striped suit is too dressy for my cookery school. Although with his glossy black hair, groomed
hipster beard, and devastating smile, who am I to judge?
“Entrez.” I sweep my arm in a gracious
lady-of-the-manor gesture. “Welcome to Le Petit Paris Kitchen Cookery
School. I’m your host, Angélique Ravello. You’re Charlie Byron?”
His mouth is luscious and with that quirk at the
edge, he’s permanently smiling. He holds out a hand. “Yes. Enchanted,
I’m sure, Angélique.” His phone pings. “Pardon.” He reaches into his pocket,
silences it.
There's that hand again.
His fingers are long and strong like a piano player’s. If his smile turns my legs to water, what will
happen if I touch him? Sucking in a breath, I take those fingers in mine. I swear the earth moves in
my hand.
We both laugh. Did he feel that powerful surge
of electricity? Or am I going mad?
“Enchanté,
Charlie.” Neither of us breaks the grip. His fingers tighten on mine. When did
we move so close? It’s like our bodies are magnetized. Now I can fully
appreciate his handsome bearded face with cheekbones to shame a supermodel. And
his délicieux cologne duels with délicieux cookery
smells.
His smile dimples his face. “Thank you, or
should I say merci?”
Behave yourself Angélique. I
break the grip. Rub sweaty hands down my thighs. “English is fine, unless you
prefer—”
“English then.”
His eyes rove my face. “You look like Amélie from that fabulous film everyone watches before coming
to Paris.” He slaps his head. “No doubt you get that all the time.”
“I do.” My heartbeat whooshes in my ears. I
won’t risk my cookery school’s reputation by flirting. I’ve already disgraced
myself with my over-the-top reaction to his gorgeousness.
He inhales rosemary lamb while he gives my
kitchen a good going over with those goldy-green eyes. “Uhmah. Something smells
good.”
And something looks good. I’m
lit up inside, my veins thrum. I haven’t felt like this since I met Alexandre at lycée.
“Everything okay?” His head tilts to the side
while I check him out with one side of my brain while the other tells me to
behave.
I drag my eyes from his face. “Oui, oui. Parfait.”
I’m trembling like a leaf shaking in the Mistral in the South of France.
“So, what’s the verdict on my kitchen?”
He frowns like it was the last question he
expected. Well, my man, it was the last question I expected to utter.
“Hmmm.” He raises a perfectly-groomed eyebrow,
no stranger to a brow bar.
“Well, Charlie, you’re a BBC presenter, interior
designer, and builder of bespoke kitchens. How does mine rate?”
“Right.” He scratches his beard. “I’m surprised to find such a modern
kitchen here.” He drops his leather man bag on his luggage, kicks it to the
side, steps forward for a closer look.
At me? Or the kitchen?
He rubs his hands together. “This is one
beautiful kitchen.”
“Thanks.” Not as beautiful as you. I
let go of the counter and surprisingly don’t drop to the floor. “I couldn’t
afford an interior designer. How did I do?” That’s me, digging for compliments.
Shameless.
“You did great.” He quirks his lips in a cute
smile. “Your expansive workspaces are state-of-the-art. Those picture windows
and balcony doors let in so much natural light it’s magical. Your furniture is sympathetic to the baroque window moldings. And I appreciate what you’ve done
with color.”
“You like the color?” My voice squeaks. My maman and I pored
over a thousand paint catalogues to recreate the warmth that sharing a perfect meal
brings.
“I do. To use a food reference, those walls are
raspberry macarons dipped in custard cream.”
Yum. This Englishman totally gets the vibe.
“Exactly. What I aimed for.”
“You achieved it. Those rosy walls are a perfect
foil to your blue and white Moroccan floor tiles, Italian marble workbench, and
top-of-the-range Lacanche cooker. Brilliant.” He’s on a roll. “You’ve achieved that lived-in, much-loved feel rarely
found in London kitchens. But I must say, those cooking smells beat all …” He
kisses his fingers.
I’d like to hug him for his generous critique,
but of course I don’t. He’s from London, I’m from Paris. Nine days of rubbing shoulders and he’ll be gone.
I smooth my chignon to keep my hands busy. “Thanks.
A welcome drink, Charlie? Champagne?”
“Just the ticket. Do you mind if I nose around?”
His phone chirps again. He glances at the screen, frowns, silences it.
“Not at all.” I lift a bottle of Champagne la Maison Garnier from
the ice bucket and am tempted to plunge my face into the chill. While he opens
cupboard doors, checks out Grand-mère’s antique china, watches the street theatre, I fill two crystal flutes. I breathe deeply to get control of
myself, join him on the balcony, hand him a frothy glass, drown in his dreamy eyes, “Salut, Charlie.”
“Salut, Angélique. Hmmm. Del-ic-io-us.” He
watches the bubbles fizz. “Like the view.” His
voice is as smooth as his silk Hermès scarf
slung oh-so-casually around his neck.
“I’m aware of how lucky I am with what I have.” And nearly lost when Maman died.
“Bloody hell! Uh, excuse my French. The Eiffel
Tower.” He leans forward, eyes aglow. “How cool to have people come from all
over the world to share this view while they learn to cook. Epic.”
“I agree.” I gulp my champagne faster than I
should. My head spins. Fizz tickles my nostrils. Is my frozen heart thawing like the snow which fell
in Paris this winter? No matter. My new mantra – ‘be always professional.’
“So,” Charlie says, “who else is coming?”
Merde. I’d be
happy to stand here for the rest of the night and breathe him in. “Three women - from Ireland, Australia and Alaska.”
“Brilliant.”
It’s a tight squeeze on my balcony and I
deliberately push my hip against his. He brings back memories of happy times
I’ve spent here with Alexandre.
But Alexandre is gone.
~*~~*~~*~
WORD COUNT: 1050
FCA
Anyone a whiz at choosing book titles? I'm struggling with this one. Here is what I have so far ... can't move forward with the cover until I settle on one.
1. Le Petit Paris Cookery School
2. The Taste of Love
3. A Feast of Food and Love
4. The Cookery School of Second Chances
5. The Recipe for Second Chances
5. Other?
Denise
