Transplanting Holly Oakwood Read Online Free

sale. Sumptuous soft furnishings, burnished wood surfaces and thick plush carpets set the theme. Crystal adorned the dining table and vanilla candles and orchids scented the air. The room was warm from the morning sun, yet the fireplace was set with fresh logs and ready to be lit.
    “Everything to your satisfaction, miss?”
    She tried to suppress a grin. “It’s nice, thank you,” she said nonchalantly. “Actually, it’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ve always dreamed of living like this.”
    He raised his neatly clipped eyebrows.
    “If I won the Lottery. Of course, if I won the Lottery, it’d be perfect.”
    “Perfect, miss?”
    “Then I could afford maid service.” She laughed ruefully. “It won’t look quite this perfect in a week.”
    He pulled his eyebrows together. “Can I help you with anything else?”
    “No, thanks,” she said, wishing he’d leave. She wanted to get undressed and showered, then sink into the overstuffed sofa and channel surf on the flat screen TV.
    He held her gaze expectantly and the silence lengthened.
    Hell, he was waiting for a tip. Did she have any American money in her wallet? She bit her lip and looked away, but he remained there, an expression of mock modesty etched into his features. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember where she’d dropped her bag, but at that moment he coughed discreetly and left. Too tired to feel embarrassed, she kicked off her high heels and threw herself onto the sofa, groaning as she sank into its downy depths.
     
     
    Over the next days she rode a roller coaster of despair over Tom, self-congratulation over her move to LA, and excitement over her new job. But while the roller coaster ride was exhilarating, it didn’t take her anywhere and what she most needed was a car to navigate around this sprawling city. She nearly hugged the concierge late one afternoon when he handed her a note from the New Zealand Trade Office, telling her they’d organised a rental for her.
    The next morning she stood in the rental yard, overawed at the size of the vehicles surrounding her.
    “What’s your booking reference?” asked the assistant.
    “Not sure, I didn’t do it myself. The New Zealand Trade Office booked it.”
    “Back shortly.” A couple of minutes later he came back with a set of keys. “Follow me,” he said, leading her to the other end of the yard.
    She drew in her breath at the sight of the clichéd red Chevy, a gleaming expanse of polished paintwork and shiny chrome fenders. “Surely this isn’t for me?”
    His finger traced the paperwork. “Holly Oakwood?”
    She nodded. “It’s enormous.”
    The attendant regarded her pityingly. “You from England?”
    “From London, but I’m a Kiwi.”
    “Kiwi?”
    “From New Zealand.”
    “New Zealand, huh? Kiwi? Like the fruit? Go figure. All our cars look big to you foreigners. It’s our smallest car, a compact. Good on gas.”
    “Gas? Do you mean petrol?”
    “I guess. The juice that makes it run.” He unlocked the door and slid onto the seat. “Brakes, indicators, aircon,” he said, briefly touching each in turn, before taking several minutes to tune the radio to a heavy metal station.
    “That’s it?” she asked.
    “What else do you need to know?”
    “I’m not sure,” she said to his departing back, “but thanks for the comprehensive once over.”
    He didn’t turn, as if he hadn’t heard her, but the slight shrug of his shoulders told her he had. “Whatever.”
    She got into the car, tried to put the key into the ignition but the warm metal was slippery in her clammy grip. She took a deep breath. This was silly. The Shangri-La wasn’t far away and it couldn’t be that hard to drive on the right hand side of the road. Why was she panicking?
    Carefully she adjusted the seat and the mirrors, flicked the indicators and the lights, then moved slowly out of the lot. With a cheery wave she honked and pulled away, but the attendant didn’t look up from his book.
    The