LOL #2 Romantic Comedy Anthology - Volume 2 - Even More All-New Romance Stories by Bestselling Authors (LOL Romantic Comedy Anthology #2)

by Anthology

  “And you’re usually drinking at 2am?”

  He nodded. “That’s kind of how I wound up here.” He set off across the kitchen like a bear sniffing out a picnic hamper. “I’ll make you a drink,” he told me, homing in on the corner where I keep the spirits. “A gin and tonic. That’s British, right?”

  “But I don’t—“ Ice went into glasses. “I’m not sure—“ He poured gin. “It’s really not—“ Tonic water bubbled and foamed and then he was chopping a lime and it was too late—the glass was in my hand. I looked at it uneasily. It was only ten in the morning. But maybe I did need to calm down.

  “Cheers,” he said, his glass clinking mine, and then he watched me as I drank. Drinking gave me time to take a good look at him over the rim. Along with the grin thing, his other incredibly annoying quality was that he was so relaxed. He might not have fitted in the cottage upstairs, or even in the kitchen down here, but it didn’t seem to bother him one little bit. On the rare occasion I ventured out of the village –to some book signing in London or lunch with my agent—I got paranoid that my shoes were too dressy, or weren’t dressy enough. He looked as if he could wear a chicken costume to an ambassador’s reception and carry it off.

  And those looks…he looked very much the American newsreader. Or…what did they call them? Anchorman. He was one of those men who you could tell would only get better looking as he went gray—he’d turn into a full-on silver fox. For the moment, he was just a plain, gorgeous fox. His tailored jacket hung just-so over his pecs, showing off their broad sweep—the sort you want to run your palms over. And his hands, as he rested them on the countertop, were reassuringly strong. Neat, but not delicate. I liked that.

  As I got towards the bottom of the glass, I felt myself calming down a little. Maybe it was the gin or maybe it was his presence, but the whole thing did seem a bit silly, now that I looked at it. I took a deep breath and let it out. Maybe, with hindsight, shutting myself away in the kitchen hadn’t been the best way of stopping myself from stressing. Maybe I should have called a friend and vented, but they were all on holiday with their husbands, some of them with kids. When the divorce happened, they’d all been sympathetic and tried to set me up with single male friends. But I was so nervous about leaping for the wrong man a second time that I’d only let them persuade me into a few token blind dates. Two years on, the offers had pretty much dried up.

  I put my glass down. “Okay,” I said. “Alright. Fine. I’m calm. Where’s a pen?”

  Don grabbed a pen for me, together with a pad of paper.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked suddenly. “You don’t even know me.”

  He blinked, as if caught by surprise. “You’re the story,” he said at last. “If you don’t bake the cake, I go home empty-handed.” But he held my gaze for just a second too long.

  I could feel myself flushing. I looked very firmly down at the pad and started writing the list of ingredients, but it took me four attempts just to spell raisins.

  “You don’t have to come,” I told him. “Look, I know I got a little…tense.”

  “Tense?”

  “—but you really don’t have to come with me to buy stuff. I can handle shopping. You go back to your hotel. I’ll call you when the cake’s ready.”

  “Go back to my hotel and do what?” We were standing outside the cottage and he looked up and down my street—which is pretty much the only street in the village. “It doesn’t look as if there’s a whole lot to do here.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m quite defensive about Fenton-on-the-Water, tiny though it is. “There’s a post office and a pub.” I sighed. “Fine. You can come.” I did my best to make it sound grudging.

  Chapter 4

  As we walked past the duck pond, I tried to figure out why he was hanging around. Was he that worried his story was going to disappear on him?

  I looked at our reflection in the water. I’d remembered to take off my apron, for once (I didn’t always remember, when I dashed out to pick up an ingredient, which the locals thought was hilarious). That left me in a deep green scoop-neck top and a long skirt. Next to me strode Donovan, a little piece of America transplanted to rural England. We made for a very odd couple—me all curves and roundness and him all hard lines and tailored perfection, clean-cut and yet ruggedly handsome—

  I coughed and looked away.

  “Have you always lived here?” he asked. “One of those small-town girls who never left?”

  I looked at him, surprised. “Do I seem like a small town girl? I’m from Chelsea.”

  “Is that near London?”

  “That’s in London. I lived there for years, with my husband. The cottage used to be our weekend place. Then, when we divorced, he kept the apartment and I moved in here. And the locals, bless them, accepted me.” I gave him a sideways look. “You hate it, don’t you?”

  He was poking at the cobbles with the tip of his shoe. “I don’t hate it. It’s just very…different. Like you.”

  I stopped dead. “Different? To whom? How am I different?” I could suddenly see my ex-husband again, with his arms around Yvonne’s waist. I’d run into them one too many times at our old haunts, which was exactly why I’d insisted on taking the cottage, even though the apartment was worth far more.

  “Different to the women in LA.” Then he caught my furious expression and his face fell. “Wait—I didn’t mean—”

  But I knew exactly what he meant. He meant I wasn’t some stick-thin model. “Come on,” I said, setting off at a brisk pace. “No time for dilly-dallying.”

  He hurried after me. It was a few minutes before the tension eased enough for him to speak again. “Dilly-dallying?” he asked in low voice.

  I felt myself flushing again. “Shilly-shallying,” I said irritably.

  “Shilly-shallying? You talk like Mary Poppins.”

  “I’m ecstatic that I amuse you.”

  “It’s—“ This time, he stopped before he said too much.

  “It’s what?” We’d arrived at the general store. I turned to him, one hand on the door handle. “Cute? Quirky? British?”

  “Nothing,” he said. He actually looked flustered himself, and I couldn’t for the life of me work out why.

  The journey back was less tense, but also slower. Less tense, because retail therapy always helps, even if it’s just seventeen bags of flour and kilos of raisins. Slower because we were laden down with bags. Well, he was.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry something?” I asked. I was walking behind him, ostensibly so that I didn’t leave him behind, but mainly so that I could admire the way his ass moved.

  “I’m just fine, thank you,” he said, teetering slightly to one side. I’d told him not to put all the flour in one bag. I looked over at the duck pond as we passed it again. For just a second, we looked like an actual couple walking home from doing the shopping. Then I reminded myself how silly I was being.

  A hundred yards from the cottage, the heavens opened again. It was a full-on downpour, this time, more like a sheet of solid water than raindrops. “Save the flour!” I yelled. “If it gets wet, there’ll be lumps!”

  He looked at me for a second as if I was crazy, but then whipped off his jacket and wrapped it over the open top of the bag. Together, we sprinted to the cottage.

  By the time we made it to the door, we were soaked through. Everything seemed to happen very fast. There was a mad scramble through my purse for the key, then we were pushing the door open and spilling into the hall and he was upending the bag to get the paper sacks of flour away from the wet fabric and kicking the door closed behind him and—

  And then we were just sort of looking at each other, and I became aware that we were standing only a foot or so apart, both of us soaking wet. His white shirt had turned translucent and was molded to the curves of his pecs, darker patches marking the center line that ran down his chest and the ridges of his abs. His shoulders and biceps were standing out hard through the clin
ging fabric and, as I looked up, I saw the little droplets tumbling from his wet hair, spilling down over his cheekbones and past those dark gray eyes. Eyes that were gazing right back at me.

  I’d always thought of gray as a cold color, not hot. But right then, his eyes almost seemed to burn.

  I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t even glance down at myself, but I could feel how wet my top was. I knew it was sticking to every curve of my breasts and I was cold enough from the drenching that I suspected my nips were making an appearance through the sopping fabric as well.

  “There’s a bathroom through there,” I said, pointing. My voice came out as a sort of squeak. “If you want to dry off your…chest.”

  He nodded slowly. I retreated to my bedroom to recover. I suddenly breathless. It’s from the running, I told myself.

  In the bedroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. Yes, the green top had plastered itself to my breasts and yes, they were suddenly capped by two visible peaks. I stripped it off and toweled myself off, then realized my bra was soaked through as well so I pulled that off, too. I started rooting through my drawers for a new one.

  The cottage is very quiet. There’s virtually no traffic in the village and the thatched roof does a good job of absorbing even the noise of pounding rain. My bedroom door was ajar and, from down the hall, I could hear the sound of rustling cloth.

  He was taking his shirt off.

  Well, obviously he’s taking his shirt off. He’s toweling off, just like me.

  He was standing there topless.

  I straightened up from the drawer and stared at the door. There was a part of me—a tiny, stupid part—that wondered what would happen if I accidentally just sort of touched my bedroom door with my foot—yes, just like that—so that it swung open and then, when he came out of the bathroom and looked down the hall—

  I suddenly came to my senses and slammed the door hard, my heart thumping. What the hell was that all about?! What, did I think he was going to see me topless and fall for me and sweep me into his arms? I flushed down to my roots. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  There was a knock on the door. I spun around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes?” I squeaked.

  “Are you okay?” Without his looks to distract me, I realized how sexy his voice was. Oh yes. Great time to realize that. “I heard a…slam.”

  “Fine! A draft must have caught it.” I searched around for something to wear. The door wasn’t locked. What if he just opened it and saw me? I didn’t want that!

  Unless I did.

  Don’t start that again!

  I grabbed the first bra I could find and pulled a big, baggy angora sweater over the top—nice and shapely and unsexy, to stop me getting any more ideas.

  I took a deep breath, regaining control. And then opened the door and promptly lost it again, because he was standing there topless.

  I’d thought the wet shirt had shown everything, but it had just been a teaser. Now, I could see the smooth, tan contours of taut stomach and the full, hard slabs of muscle that made up his chest. Everything looked iron-hard, but with warm, touchably-soft skin. “Don’t you have…shirts?” I asked.

  “I do. At the hotel.” He nodded toward his suitcase, still sitting in my living room. “I only brought the camera gear. I wasn’t planning on having to get changed.”

  I forced myself to turn away and take a deep breath. “I think I’ve got something you can wear.”

  Chapter 5

  “’Jessica’s Lackey’?” he asked, fingering the T-shirt. “Really?”

  “I had an apprentice once, who had to be reminded of her place,” I said.

  He fingered the deep green fabric. “I suppose I should be glad it’s not pink. Okay…so shall we start?”

  I’d been admiring his pecs through the T-shirt. That had sent my mind roaming off on all sorts of adventures, most of them involving him and me and the counter. “Start?” I asked, panicked. “Start what?”

  “Cooking,” he said. “Why…what were you thinking of?”

  “Cooking,” I croaked. Then, “But…you’re staying to cook? I don’t need a sous-chef for fruit cake.”

  “I still need the story. I could lend a hand, or just shoot some shots of you working.”

  My stomach did a backward somersault at the thought of footage of me and my plus-sized body winding up on the screen. The sensible thing would be to send him away, then let him return for a quick interview when it was all done. But suddenly, the kitchen felt different. It had always felt like a warm, welcoming place, a comfortable little nest. Now, it felt as if that warmth would seep away as soon as he left. I didn’t feel like spending the rest of the day on my own.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “You can film me. But please stay out of the way.”

  I’d decided to go classic, but with slightly more alcohol. A rich, dark batter spiced with sugar, ginger and peel, generously laced with raisins that would soften into seams of luxuriant fruit in the oven. There was rum in there and a couple of other spirits, too. I was still terrified I might have made the wrong decision, but I felt infinitely better for having actually made a decision. Maybe I could still pull this thing off.

  Because of the sheer size of the cake, I had to run everything like a production line: the bottom tier alone required four batches of mixture. I glanced at the clock. Maybe I should let him help.

  Donovan had been spending the time shooting me with a discreet little camera while I worked. The first time he did it, I kind of huffed and glowered but, after a while, I got used to it. It was a weird feeling, being…watched. It should have been the camera lens that bothered me, the knowledge that it was eventually going to be watched by thousands of people. But whenever I glanced up and realized he was filming, it was the face behind the camera I instantly locked eyes with.

  He’s not interested in me, I told myself firmly. He’s only filming a lot because he’s trying to find an angle where I don’t look enormous. He seemed to be fond of coming right in close and focusing on my face, on my expressions as I chopped and stirred and tasted. As the morning went on, he stopped making quips and fell almost completely silent, just…watching me.

  I put down my spoon. “Come on,” I said. “I have a job for you.”

  I showed him how to stir, working the flour in so that there were no lumps, and he watched as solemnly and seriously as if I was demonstrating open heart surgery. I couldn’t believe this was the same man who’d been so jokey and irreverent that morning.

  “You try,” I said, passing him the spoon.

  He didn’t take it. “You show me again,” he said.

  I closed my fingers around the spoon again and, this time, his big hand closed on top of mine, warm and gentle but oh, so huge, like a big bear’s paw enveloping mine. We started to move the spoon together, me guiding and him providing the power, rhythmically stirring as we gripped the….

  …shaft.

  I could feel him against my ass—I was sure of it. A hot, hard bulge under his pants. And, as I moved infinitesimally, I got a sense of the size of him and…gosh!

  “You’re ready,” I squeaked. Meaning his stirring prowess.

  “Um-hum,” he agreed.

  I swallowed and, since I couldn’t step backward, tried to step to the side. But he let go of the spoon and held me, gently but firmly, his hands on my elbows. A delicious warm shiver radiated inward, right to my heart.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me with something. It’s been a while since someone did.”

  My chest was tight. Every word suddenly felt as if it carried great weight. “I’m not sure I fully trust you,” I said.

  “To stir?”

  Was he really talking about something…more? Or was that just wishful thinking? Was the whole thing in my head? What if I made a total fool of myself?! “Let’s start with stirring,” I told him, a little breathlessly, “and see how we go.”

  His hands lifted from my elbows and
I stepped to the side. My face was red, my breath coming in huge, trembling gulps. What had that been? Everything, or nothing?

  Either way, I had the horrible feeling that I’d just crushed something when I should have been nurturing it.

  Chapter 6

  We worked hard all afternoon, not even stopping for lunch. By the end of the day, we had all five tiers made and at various stages of being baked. “There’s nothing more for you to do, now,” I said. “I just have to get them out of the oven at the right time.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I guess I’ll come back tomorrow, then, for the icing.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  We looked at each other. I could feel something tugging and aching inside my chest, begging me not to let him go. But what could I say?

  “Any recommendations for somewhere to eat?” he asked.

  And there it was, right in front of me: the perfect opportunity to join him for dinner. Oh, I can show you a place, a nice little Italian just out of town—

  “I’ll write somewhere down for you,” I said instead, and grabbed a paper and pen. I wrote it on the corner of the page and tore it off with a vicious, jagged tear. A voice in my head was screaming at me, asking what the hell I was doing. But the calmer, colder voice—the one that had been there my whole life and had gotten even louder since my husband left me—overpowered it. Don’t make a fool of yourself. He’s way too gorgeous for you and he probably has someone in LA and the whole thing’s impossible—

  “I hope I can find it,” he said, looking right into my eyes. “I’m kinda bad with directions.”

  Even I could see that he was sounding me out, offering me the opportunity without being pushy about it. But I barely know the guy. “You’ll be fine,” I told him. “Turn left at the end of the main street. If you get to the garage, you’ve gone too far.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds. He was frowning at me, maybe trying to figure me out. He finally crossed his arms. “You need to eat, too,” he said. “How about you join me?”