Mail-Order Brides For Christmas - Frankie Love Page 0,69
cute little families, I can understand that. I love everything about New York City: the hustle, the bustle, the craziness, and even the noise. But now that I’m here, I can see the appeal of small-town living too. Everything seems a little brighter, and a little calmer. Maybe I could use some of that.
We leave the downtown area and drive for a few more minutes, until we reach a gorgeous gated community. I try not to stare at all the beautiful homes. When we pull into a driveway, though, I allow myself to take a good look at the house in front of me--Matt’s house, I’m assuming. It’s a nice two-story home, with a dark exterior and navy-blue door. The landscaping is simple but clearly well done. A huge pine tree dominates the front yard, casting the house in soothing shade.
“This is beautiful,” I say, and Matt inclines his head in humble thanks.
“I’m not much of an interior designer,” he admits as he gathers my baggage and we walk to the front door. “So don’t judge the inside too harshly.”
I snort and instantly regret it. “You should see my apartment,” I say, hoping he didn’t notice my unladylike laughter. “Most of the furniture comes from Target and thrift stores. It’s not the most elegant.”
When he opens the door, I turn to him with raised brows. “Oh, come on,” I say, surveying the leather furniture, black-and-white color palette, and sleek decorations. “Are you kidding? It looks great in here!”
He grins and shuts the door behind us. “You’re too kind,” he says with a chuckle. “I maybe had some help from my mom.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I tell him. “I still call my grandma on an almost-daily basis.”
I assume he’s going to ask about my own mom, but ever the gentleman, he’s too tactful to comment. Instead, he shows me the guest bedroom, which is just as simply yet tastefully decorated, and puts my luggage down. I’m a little relieved, once again, at his tact. I know this is the man I’m supposed to marry, and, damn, is he attractive, but I would have felt a little weird sleeping in his room on the very first night.
“I’m going to start making dinner soon,” Matt informs me, and I barely resist beaming at him. The way to my heart is absolutely through my stomach, and I’m starving after my paltry bag of chips on the flight. Something tells me he’s a good cook.
“Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he replies. “There’s a bathroom attached to the guest room. Use whatever you’d like in there.”
‘Whatever I’d like’ turns out to be luxuriously-scented bar soaps, shampoos, and even candles, one of which I delightedly light. I take a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the stale odors of the plane. As the bathroom fills with steam, my imagination takes off at a gallop. What would it be like, I wonder, if Matt were in here, too? I imagine him slowly unbuttoning that crisp white shirt, sliding out of those immaculately-pressed suit pants, stepping into the shower and then running his hands over my wet, soapy skin…
Slow down, Jenna! I reprimand myself, and turn off the water and my racing thoughts. I can’t believe how wanton I’ve become after just meeting this guy. Something about him has an undeniable effect on me. But I need to remind myself that this certainly isn’t a done-deal yet.
I dress in a pair of black skinny jeans and a pink tank top, blow drying my hair into its natural loose waves. At the last minute, I apply a little bit of makeup, and can’t resist a sweep of shimmery pink lip gloss. Surely there’s no harm in encouraging him to think about my lips.
When I pad into the kitchen, which gleams with chrome appliances and black marble countertops, Matt has already started preparing dinner. He removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, revealing toned forearms. I announce my presence with an awkward clearing of my throat, and he turns around. Is it just me, or does he sweep his gaze up and down my body appreciatively?
“Welcome back,” he says. “I was just about to make some salmon, asparagus, and potatoes. Do you mind seafood?”
My mouth waters at the mere mention of food. “Not at all,” I reply. “That all sounds wonderful. Can I help with anything?”
He pulls out a bottle of white wine, pours a glass, and sets it