Sweep Me Off My Feet: Swept Off Her Stilettos / Housekeeper's Happy-Ever-After. Fiona HarperЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER ONE

      The Girl Can’t Help It…

      Coreen’s Confessions

      No. 1—In my opinion, a pinkie finger isn’t properly dressed unless it’s got a man comfortably wrapped around it—and I always make sure I’m impeccably dressed.

      I GLARED at the man who’d rushed through the coffee shop door. Not only had he almost spilled my caramel mochaccino down my best polka-dot dress as he’d barged past, but he hadn’t even bothered to hold the door open for me.

      Not that I was about to admit I was losing my mojo. He probably just hadn’t seen me in his rush to escape from the unseasonable weather.

      Left with no alternative, I balanced the two steaming paper cups of coffee I was holding and tried to open the door with my elbow. No good. There was only one thing for it. I sighed, turned one-eighty degrees, and shoved it open with my rear end.

      I glanced upwards as I stepped outside onto Greenwich High Street. The sky wasn’t just promising rain but threatening with menaces. What should have been a balmy summer evening was as heavy and gloomy as a December afternoon. Thankfully, I only had a two-minute walk ahead of me, and would be safe and dry inside before the heavens opened.

      Rude Man had something else to answer for too. No one would be standing with his hand on the open door, transfixed, as a steady stream of customers flowed past him. No one would be admiring my rear view as I walked away, my head high and my hips swaying like Marilyn’s in Some Like It Hot. I’d watched that movie at least fifty times before I’d got the walk down pat, and the least I deserved was a little appreciation for my efforts.

      I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. Well, I was going to make the journey back to the shop count—rude man or no rude man. There was plenty of traffic passing by to serve as an audience. I placed one red patent stiletto in front of the other and began to walk.

      I nipped round the corner into Church Street and then across the busy junction into Nelson Street. However, not even the sight its neat row of cream Georgian buildings lifted my mood this evening. Normally when I passed each shop or boutique I’d smile and wave at the owner as I counted down the door numbers with growing excitement.

      On the corner was the all-organic coffee shop—closed now, but mid-morning packed with Yummy Mummies who cluttered the floor space with their high-tech pushchairs and the air with discussions on the merits of the local private nurseries. Next was the second-hand bookshop that did a roaring trade in textbooks for the students at the nearby university campus. After that was Susie’s—a bakery that specialised entirely in cupcakes. The window was full of frosted and glittering towers of different flavoured cakes, delicious-looking enough to cause even the most dedicated dieter to stop and lick her lips. Then there was a Thai restaurant, a newsagent’s, and a shop called Petal that sold just about anything as long as it was pink.

      Finally, next door to that, two doors down from the end of the eclectic row, was my shop—Coreen’s Closet—a vintage clothing emporium to rival the best in London.

      I was in an even worse mood by the time I pushed the shop door open and flipped the sign to ‘Closed’.

      Not a single honk or whistle as I’d made my journey! Another first. I didn’t want to give my recent doubts credit, but this didn’t bode well.

      ‘What’s got you in a snit?’ Alice said as I plonked her decaff latte on the counter. My business partner was one of those ethereal-looking types—flame-red hair, pale skin, willowy figure. Well, not so willowy at present. She was seven months pregnant, and being such a slip of a thing there was only one way that baby bump could go—outwards. She looked as if, python-like, she’d swallowed my classic VW Beetle for breakfast.

      I prised the plastic lid off my mochaccino and blew on it. ‘There’s something wrong with the male population of London today.’

      Alice chuckled. She knew me too well.

      Despite my best attempts to pout, the corner of my mouth curled up. I took a sip of my coffee, then smiled back at her. She was leaning on the counter for support, circling her swollen ankles.

      ‘Crikey, Alice! You look dead on your feet.’

      She gave me a hooded look. ‘Gee, thanks.’

      I put my cup on the counter and trotted off into the back room. When I returned I presented Alice with her umbrella and handbag. ‘You need to get home. Call Cameron. I can manage the stock-take on my own.’

      She started to protest, but I wouldn’t allow it. I fished her mobile out of her bag, pressed the button for her husband’s speed-dial and then handed her the phone when I heard it ringing at the other end. Within fifteen minutes her adorably protective husband had picked her up and taken her home to run her a bath, fuss over her, and generally indulge her every hormone-induced whim.

      That’s what men are for, really, aren’t they?

      Oh, I didn’t mean hormones and morning sickness! I’m not ready for that yet. Not by a long shot. The whim-catering bit? That I’m all for.

      Once the door was locked behind Alice, I marched into the office at the back, grabbed my purple glittery clipboard and set to work. It wasn’t usually a chore. I loved my little treasure trove of vintage clothes and accessories. Some days I thought it was a tragedy to unlock the shop door and let other people leave with the fabulousness that I amass in my limited square footage. But a girl’s gotta keep herself in lipstick and stockings somehow.

      I worked my way through the clothing racks as the weather-induced twilight deepened outside. Every now and then a group of students trailed past the shop window, off into the town centre in search of cheap food and even cheaper beer, but other than that the street was deserted. The fashionable bistros and wine bars would start to hum in an hour or so, but until then there was no one walking by to marvel at how the beaded handbags and evening gowns in my window display gathered the light from the rear of the shop and threw it back into the street in multi-coloured droplets.

      I sat down on the varnished floorboards between the heaving clothing rails, the skirt of my red-and-white polka-dot dress spreading around me in a perfect circle, and pushed away a stray dark hair that had worked its way out of my neat quiff. Shoes were next, and I started checking the pairs on a low rack off my list.

      I grabbed a pair of silver platform boots and checked the size and condition. I might have been tempted to adopt them, but although I do dress that way for fun sometimes, really I’m a Fifties girl at heart.

      By today’s size-zero culture my figure’s considered too full…too lacking in visibly defined muscle…too pale with not even a hint of spray-on tan. My curves belong to another time—a time when red-lipped sirens winked saucily from the side of aeroplanes, when the perfect shape for a woman