Mr. November by Lori Foster

Author:Lori Foster [Lori Foster]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9780373259564
Google: rTAWgyWze-AC
Amazon: 0373259565
Barnesnoble: 0373259565
Goodreads: 511584
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2001-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

Amanda watched as Josh stepped into her quaint little eclectic home. She flipped on a wall switch, which lit a tiny side-table candle lamp. While he stood in the doorframe, she went on through the minuscule family room and into the kitchen to turn on the brighter fluorescent overhead lights. Whenever she needed light to work by, she used the two-seat kitchenette table. Even now, it was filled with photos and contracts for the calendar.

Her home was barely big enough for one, and with Josh inside, it was most definitely crowded. Especially when he closed the door. He looked around with a sense of wonder, then said the most unexpected tiling.

“I thought you were rich.”

After all the emotional upheaval, Amanda burst out laughing. She peered at Josh, saw his look of chagrin, and laughed some more.

His expression changed and he stalked toward her. “I do love it when you laugh.” She stalled, realization of their situation sinking in, and he said, “I also thought you’d be immaculate.”

Shrugging, Amanda looked around at the clutter. “No time. I work a regular forty-hour week like most people, then put in another twenty hours or more a week on projects. My place is never really dirty, but yes, it’s usually messy.”

Dishes filled the small sink and an overloaded laundry hamper sat on the floor. Amanda shrugged again. She did what she could, when she could. If Josh didn’t like it, he shouldn’t have invited himself in.

“I wasn’t complaining,” he said. “It just surprised me. Will you show me the rest of your place?”

Amanda gathered herself. She’d explain things to him, but there was no reason for more hysterics, no reason for an excess of the pitiful, useless tears and dramatics fit for the stage.

What had happened to her was the least tragic thing that had occurred that awful night. She wouldn’t allow herself to pretend otherwise.

“There’s not much to show, only the four rooms. You’ve already seen two of them, the family room and kitchen.”

“No television,” he noted.

“It’s in my bedroom, along with a stereo, through here.” The house measured a mere fifty feet by thirty feet. The front double doors were centered on the overall width of the house, which put them into the far left of the family room. An open archway, draped with gauzy swag curtains in lieu of a door, showed her bedroom. The curtains weren’t adequate for privacy, but since she lived alone, it had never mattered.

Straight ahead of the family room was the kitchen. The two rooms seemed to meld together, with only the side of the refrigerator and the location of her tiny table to serve as a divider.

The kitchen was just large enough for a stacking washer and dryer, a parlor table, an apartment-size stove and her refrigerator. The cabinets were almost nonexistent, but open shelving and one pantry offered her all the storage space she needed.

At the back of the house, opposite the kitchen, was the minuscule bathroom that opened both into her bedroom and into the kitchen.

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