Falling for You Read Online Free
Author: Jill Mansell
She nodded, shivering violently despite the heat.
âMaddy Harvey? Butâ¦but youâveâ¦â
For a traitorous second, Maddy wished she hadnât said it. Everything was spoiled now.
âI know.â Almost unbelievably, she found herself feeling sorry for him. âI donât look like I used to. Iâve changed.â
* * *
JFK airport. Millions of people, and no one there to see her off. Kate was wearing her beige, floppy-brimmed hat in the forlorn hope that it would divert attention from her face. When sheâd stopped for a cappuccino at Heathrow three years ago, sheâd been chatted up by a six-foot Australian archaeologist. Heâd even bought her another cup of coffee.
This time nobody chatted her up, not even the ancient bathroom attendant. Kate wasnât surprised. She paid for her own coffee and thought of her mother, who was driving up to meet her off the plane at Heathrow.
At least someone would be pleased to see her again.
All my own fault , thought Kate, flicking distractedly through the New York Times . Nobody to blame but myself. She paused at a photo of Brad Pitt, arriving at the premiere of his latest film. Once upon a time she had fantasized about meeting a famous movie star, someone the whole world drooled over. They would bump into each other quite by chance, in a supermarket checkout line or something, and fall effortlessly into conversation. Naturally, besotted by her ravishing looks and winning personality, the famous movie star would fall in love with herâoh yes, it would have been Notting Hill all over again, complete with dazzling Richard Curtis script.
Crossing her legs, Kate flipped over the page with the Brad Pitt photo on it. She didnât bother having that fantasy anymore.
Chapter 3
Jake Harvey had an audience, but he didnât let on that he was aware of it. This was the way potential customers liked it to be. He carried on working, they stood and watched, and after a few minutes, he would turn and smile at them, maybe exchange a friendly greeting, then return his attention to the task in hand. It was a low-key, low-pressure sales technique and it worked for Jake. He enjoyed his job and it showed. Sooner or later, curiosity always got the better of his visitors. He allowed them to open the conversation. His easy manner, indicating that he really couldnât care less whether they stayed, more often than not did the trick. And when it didnât, well, he genuinely wasnât that bothered anyway. These were tourists, impulse buyers, quite as likely to leave Ashcombe with a couple of postcards or a pot of homemade jam from the Peach Tree. You couldnât win them all.
Then again, in his line of work, you never knew when theyâor their relativesâmight, at some point in the future, be back in touch.
Putting down his glue gun, Jake straightened up and stretched his arms. Stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of drastically faded jeans, he knew he looked good. Working outside had tanned him to the color of strong tea, and when he stretched, the muscles in his back rippled beneath his skin. Turning finally, he saw that the girl waiting was the type least likely to buy anything: the Scandinavian backpacker. He knew she was Scandinavian because she was blond and wearing khaki shorts, sturdy hiking boots, and white socks.
Actually, she wasnât even that pretty, but Jake flashed her a smile anyway. He didnât mind.
âHi.â
âHi. This is fascinating. I have never seen this kind of thing done before.â The girlâs English was excellent. âIs the coffin for someone in particular?â
Nodding, Jake ran his hand lightly over the lid of the casket, lacquered in lapis-lazuli blue and studded with the glass jewels he had been applying with the aid of the hot-glue gun. The colored jewels glittered like fairy lights in the sun. âOh yes, this oneâs going to a seventy-six-year-old Englishwoman
âMaddy Harvey? Butâ¦but youâveâ¦â
For a traitorous second, Maddy wished she hadnât said it. Everything was spoiled now.
âI know.â Almost unbelievably, she found herself feeling sorry for him. âI donât look like I used to. Iâve changed.â
* * *
JFK airport. Millions of people, and no one there to see her off. Kate was wearing her beige, floppy-brimmed hat in the forlorn hope that it would divert attention from her face. When sheâd stopped for a cappuccino at Heathrow three years ago, sheâd been chatted up by a six-foot Australian archaeologist. Heâd even bought her another cup of coffee.
This time nobody chatted her up, not even the ancient bathroom attendant. Kate wasnât surprised. She paid for her own coffee and thought of her mother, who was driving up to meet her off the plane at Heathrow.
At least someone would be pleased to see her again.
All my own fault , thought Kate, flicking distractedly through the New York Times . Nobody to blame but myself. She paused at a photo of Brad Pitt, arriving at the premiere of his latest film. Once upon a time she had fantasized about meeting a famous movie star, someone the whole world drooled over. They would bump into each other quite by chance, in a supermarket checkout line or something, and fall effortlessly into conversation. Naturally, besotted by her ravishing looks and winning personality, the famous movie star would fall in love with herâoh yes, it would have been Notting Hill all over again, complete with dazzling Richard Curtis script.
Crossing her legs, Kate flipped over the page with the Brad Pitt photo on it. She didnât bother having that fantasy anymore.
Chapter 3
Jake Harvey had an audience, but he didnât let on that he was aware of it. This was the way potential customers liked it to be. He carried on working, they stood and watched, and after a few minutes, he would turn and smile at them, maybe exchange a friendly greeting, then return his attention to the task in hand. It was a low-key, low-pressure sales technique and it worked for Jake. He enjoyed his job and it showed. Sooner or later, curiosity always got the better of his visitors. He allowed them to open the conversation. His easy manner, indicating that he really couldnât care less whether they stayed, more often than not did the trick. And when it didnât, well, he genuinely wasnât that bothered anyway. These were tourists, impulse buyers, quite as likely to leave Ashcombe with a couple of postcards or a pot of homemade jam from the Peach Tree. You couldnât win them all.
Then again, in his line of work, you never knew when theyâor their relativesâmight, at some point in the future, be back in touch.
Putting down his glue gun, Jake straightened up and stretched his arms. Stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of drastically faded jeans, he knew he looked good. Working outside had tanned him to the color of strong tea, and when he stretched, the muscles in his back rippled beneath his skin. Turning finally, he saw that the girl waiting was the type least likely to buy anything: the Scandinavian backpacker. He knew she was Scandinavian because she was blond and wearing khaki shorts, sturdy hiking boots, and white socks.
Actually, she wasnât even that pretty, but Jake flashed her a smile anyway. He didnât mind.
âHi.â
âHi. This is fascinating. I have never seen this kind of thing done before.â The girlâs English was excellent. âIs the coffin for someone in particular?â
Nodding, Jake ran his hand lightly over the lid of the casket, lacquered in lapis-lazuli blue and studded with the glass jewels he had been applying with the aid of the hot-glue gun. The colored jewels glittered like fairy lights in the sun. âOh yes, this oneâs going to a seventy-six-year-old Englishwoman
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