Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery by Sharon Ibbotson

Author:Sharon Ibbotson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction, holidays, contemporary romance, romance
Publisher: Choc Lit
Published: 2020-09-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Fondant

There are many things River could notice about Cohen’s home without him flinching.

The fact that he lived on the top two floors of a Georgian Marylebone townhouse, for one thing. A building which, his realtor assured him, Jane Austen’s brother himself once stayed in for a month in 1803. That, and the central location, sealed the deal on this otherwise bland property for Cohen. For even though his shelves were filled with crime novels, political thrillers, Roman epics and other such acceptable male novels that his father would have approved of – ‘because only girls read romance novels, Cohen’ – he secretly loved Jane Austen and re-read Pride and Prejudice every year.

His home was tasteful and historic and expensive and in a good area. So, yes, River could notice that.

Or the fact that he had a framed Salvador Dali sketch in his living room. It was an old heirloom from his grandfather, one of his things that Israel and Esther never got around to donating, and one which, in its warped lines and hidden meanings, spoke to Cohen on a deeply personal level.

His Dali was interesting and meaningful and exotic and so, yes, River could notice that.

Then there was the old Mexican war sword he found at a market fair Christine once dragged him to. She was looking for attractive antiques, hoping to bring class to their New York penthouse. She wanted expensive and delicate items to show the world that she wasn’t just a soul-sucking gold-digger who married into money, but a woman of refined sensibility and excellent taste. Within half-an-hour Cohen was out of his mind with boredom, because who gave a damn about which tiny art-deco coffee cups they should use? Christine didn’t even drink coffee, claiming that caffeine gave her wrinkles, while Cohen preferred industrial-sized mugs for his use, so why the hell did they even need twenty-four gold embossed thimbles for coffee anyway? At this point, he’d made his way to the weaponry room and had been idly looking through old Civil War rifles when he’d seen the sword, long, sleek and dangerous, with a wrapped handle the dealer told him was an anomaly for such a weapon. Cohen picked the sword up and felt his hand thrum to life, as though it were made for him. The sword felt right in his hand, almost an extension of himself, and he bought it without a second thought. Christine had taken one look at it and shuddered, telling Cohen that it wasn’t going anywhere near her walls. But Cohen loved it and so kept it in his office until his move to London, when he put it in a glass cabinet here.

His sword was sleek and silver and told a story, so yes, River could notice that.

But no.

What River first noticed when they walked into his living room was his calligraphy set. Her mouth dropped open in delight, and within thirty seconds, before he even had time to ask her if she would like a

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