Cupid Loves Curves (Curvy Collections #11)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
BERNADETTE
T his has got to be the worst idea ever. Because who does something like this, these days?
I look at the front door, hesitating.
Fuck it. Let’s do it . It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and if I can find the owner of these letters, they will be so happy.
I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell before I can change my mind. If no one answers by the time I count to…
“Hello?”
Holy mother of… I expected someone old to answer the door, but instead? Instead I’m looking at the most impossibly handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Tall, dark curly hair cut short, the highest cheekbones, and…I glance at his body and suck in my breath. His body is more impressive than a statue you see in an Italian museum.
“I… I’m sorry. I must have the wrong house,” I mumble, shoving the letters deep inside my purse.
“What? Oh, shit!” The most gorgeous man in the world whips his head around as something starts beeping insistently. He glances back at me, then toward the beeping, then back at me. “Come in, come in. That’s just my timer for dinner.”
“I…”
All of the sudden, the doorway is empty and he’s rushing through a crowded living room and on his way to what must be the kitchen.
Last seen entering a house on a dark night, Bernadette Higgins was never heard from again .
But surely a man that handsome isn’t a serial killer. Right? Right! And who am I to decline an invitation from such a handsome man?
I cross the threshold and close the door behind me, certain this is the stupidest – and possibly most dangerous – thing ever. It’s not like I’m even interested in dating anyone, not after what happened with Peter. Right now, my only priority is getting a promotion at work.
Doesn’t mean I’m not intrigued. Plus, getting to talk to a handsome man is not something that I’m against. Heaven knows he’s way out of my league and more handsome than anyone I’ll ever be lucky enough to date.
“Um… is everything okay?” I call out, not sure what to do. I unbutton my coat as the heat from the fireplace overcomes me. Everything around here is cozy – pictures on the wall, overstuffed furniture, knick-knacks like you wouldn’t believe – and not like how I would picture the living room of a guy this handsome.
“I think so! Come join me,” he calls out. There’s a clatter of plates and silverware, like he’s preparing to host a feast.
If I die…at least I won’t have to go to the annual company dinner without a date.
I follow the sound of his voice and walk into a cozy kitchen. I wrinkle my nose when I smell something…interesting.
“I know this will sound crazy, but would you like to have dinner?” There’s a hopeful look in his dark eyes and against everything I know I should and shouldn’t do, I find myself nodding and shrugging out of my coat. “Sure. Why not?” Hot man asks you to share a meal, you say yes. Always. And just hope the smell in the air isn’t what’s for dinner.
“Great! Have a seat,” he gestures to a well-loved, antique wooden dining table. “So, tell me, what can I do for you? I don’t often have a strikingly gorgeous woman knocking on my door unexpectedly.”
“Such a charmer,” I joke, biting my lip and smile at the unexpected compliment. My stomach flip flops at how much I’m attracted to him and how much I want to touch those muscles that his clothing doesn’t hide. “I…well I have some letters that belongs to you. Or rather,” I say, correcting myself, “to this house. I think you’re a good fifty or sixty years too young – and the wrong gender – to be the recipient of the letter.”
“Oh? Do tell. And would you open the wine?”
“The short answer is, I have letters addressed to Eunice Paine, from way back. I found it while going through my grandparent’s things. See,” I say, twisting the corkscrew and then pulling up the cork from a bottle of red wine, “my grandmother was a bit crazy with her mail. If she didn’t recognize the sender, she’d throw it in a drawer. When the drawer got full, she’d empty all the mail into a box, then put it up in the attic. She did this with bills, too. Drove my grandfather nuts. My grandparents passed away a couple of years ago and I inherited the house and everything in it.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry for your loss. Were you close?”
“A little. I never saw them as much as I wanted, when I was growing up. Family drama,” I say, rolling my eyes and watching as he puts a plate of lasagna in front of me. At least, I think this is supposed to be lasagna. “I only moved here after inheriting the house and landing a job here. They passed away when I was in college.”
“Cheers,” he says, holding up his wine glass. “To unexpected dinner companions.”
“Cheers,” I say, tasting the wine, which is unexpectedly good. “Anyway. I’ve been working on going through everything, especially everything in the attic. I was going through a box of mail, and I found letters addressed to this woman. I knew it was a longshot, but I wanted to deliver the mail to the person it was addressed to.”
“This is absolutely fascinating. Who is the letter addressed to?”
“Eunice Paine.”
“Oh! That’s my grandmother! She’ll be thrilled. Can I see?”
“She’s still alive?”
“Of course she is. But where would she be?”
“But… You’re here.”
“Oh!” The guy laughs. “I’m just housesitting until she’s back. She’s on a trip down to Florida with her friends, because she keeps threatening to buy a condo down there. Wait,” he says, his dark eyes drilling into me and making me feel weak. “Did you think this was my house?”
“Well…”
He nearly falls on the floor laughing, and I can’t help but laugh along, too. He has such an easy way about him, but I feel totally comfortable with him. And then it hits me. I don’t even know his name.
“You’re funny, you know that?” He asks, a beautiful smile playing across his sensual lips.
“I don’t know about that. Though I did just realize that we haven’t introduced ourselves.”
“Where are my manners?” He exclaims, putting his wine glass down on the table and extending his hand to me. “Lance Clayton. At your service.”
“Bernadette Higgins. Pleased to meet you,” I smile as I shake his hand in a mock-formal way.
The moment our fingers touch, the entire world shifts and goes lopsided. Electricity zips through my body and something deep inside of me knows – knows that he’s The One. The way his eyes flare slightly, I swear he feels this, too.
“Actually, let’s eat first. Then we can look at the letters. Dig in.”
I take a bite of food, and then freeze. This is the worst lasagna I’ve ever tasted. I’m not even sure if I can swallow it.
“Oh,” he says, his voice suddenly serious. “That doesn’t look good. Is it bad?”
He winces as he waits for me to respond. Should I be polite, and try to swallow it? Or should I be honest? I mean, maybe he thinks he’s a good cook. In the end, honesty wins.
I try to smile a little, but it’s impossible. I look at him and shake my head and try to convey how sorry I am that I don’t like his cooking.
“Dammit! That’s what I was afraid of. You don’t have to eat it if it’s that bad.”
I look at him, wondering if he’s serious. Most people aren’t exactly thrilled if you say they’re a terrible cook. The idea of swallowing this charred food makes me cringe, so I pick up my napkin and spit the food into my napkin as discreetly as I can.
“Shall we have more wine?”