Recipe for Love Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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I sighed dramatically but held my glass up. Of course, she had to add that in there.

“To you,” she said as crystal clinked together.

“To me.”

Luckily, our conversation got lighter and veered away from childhood trauma and Fiona trying to change what I saw in the mirror. There was only so much a girl could take. Especially a not so mildly neurotic anxious mess such as me.

The wine helped. And the warm, comforting presence of my best friend.

I was almost back to normal when there was a booming knock on my door.

Okay, it was most probably a regular knock, but considering I had a really good idea of who was knocking on the door, it boomed. Through my head, at least.

I jumped at the sound, some of the wine escaping from my glass as I put it down much harder than I needed to. I absently used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe the small amber puddle away.

“He’s here,” I whispered, standing quickly, staring down the hall in the direction of my front door.

Fiona stood too, but much more gracefully and without the look of terror I assumed was on my own face.

“He could be,” she raised a shoulder.

“Who else would it be?”

“Amazon delivery guy, UPS guy, FedEx guy, serial killer who’s finally chosen his moment to strike.” She listed the options on her fingers.

I inhaled deeply, wondering if I would’ve preferred to take my chances with a serial killer than the man I thought it was.

“You have to answer the door,” I told Fiona.

She winked at me. “I agree. I would be the cliché first victim of the serial killer on account of the blonde hair and big tits.”

I didn’t say anything. I was too busy having a mini freakout, convincing myself that I had bought a pair of expensive shoes last night and paid to have them delivered at nine o’clock at night. But I hadn’t. Not last night, at least. I did not order a man either, but I would bet my—rather impressive—shoe collection that it was a man.

My man.

I frowned at that intrusive thought.

He was not my man.

“You’re not going to answer the door, are you?” Fiona deduced.

I shook my head slowly.

She sighed dramatically but was still smiling. The bitch.

Not that much of a bitch though, because she turned around and walked down the hall. To answer the front door, I assumed.

Chapter

Six

Recipe: Coffee Coffee Cake

From ‘Dessert Person’

There was a ringing in my ears. My face still throbbed faintly, though the wine had taken most of the edge off. Thankfully.

I had an overwhelming need to run upstairs to my bedroom and curl up in a corner of the closet and hide behind my dresses.

Unfortunately, my feet wouldn’t move. And despite my fear, despite the dryness in my mouth and the pit in my stomach, there was something else. A kind of excitement that made me feel like I wanted to vomit. I wanted to see him. Rowan. Craved the way I felt when his eyes were on me. Wanted to see him in my home, even though that meant that I would never not be able to imagine the space without him, and eventually have to move because I could not live with the ghost of a hulking, handsome man I was half in love with haunting me with what might’ve been.

But it was not a hulking, handsome man who walked down my hall.

No. It was a large brown blur whose nails clicked along my hardwood floor.

The dog did not jump up on me as its wagging tail and outstretched tongue made it seem like it might. No, it stopped right in front of me, sitting obediently and staring up at me with a smile on its face.

Now, I was aware that many people were of the opinion that dogs could not do things such as smile, but in my opinion, they were very wrong.

“Hi,” I said to the dog.

Obviously, the dog, a chocolate lab, did not say hi back. Its tail thumped steadily on the rug, tongue continuing to sway as it tilted its head up at me.

I liked dogs. I had always liked dogs. And children. At somewhat of a distance. I knew I wanted both of them someday, but I’d never been in a situation to be up close and personal with either, so I wasn’t quite sure how to act with them.

I had a small circle of friends, only three who I spent a lot of time with: Tina, Tiffany and Fiona. None of them had dogs or children.

I didn’t have any contact with my family, apart from Ansel, and he did not have a child or a dog. And unfortunately, he lived thousands of miles away.

“You’re very cute,” I informed the dog, gingerly holding out my hand for it to smell. The dog sniffed it for a moment then rubbed its cheek against my palm, communicating what it would like me to do. I obliged, scratching its head and behind the ears. Its tail thumped harder.


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