Icy Pretty Love by L.A Rose Read Free Book Online Page B

It’s like she’s full of light, and it leaks out wherever it can—through her eyes, her smile, the pearly polish on her fingernails, the silvery trim on her dress. Her rich dark hair is twisted up in a knot at the back of her head, held with a butterfly pin. Her eyes speak of secrets and promise. She’s never crept out of a stranger’s bedroom at three in the morning, hidden her bruises with makeup and sideswept bangs…I blink and remember to smile shyly.
    She looks up at Cohen and nods in greeting. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger. Interesting.
    “I’ve already ordered appetizers and drinks. I think you’ll find the vintage Domaine Pinot Noir here to be to your satisfaction indeed.” LeCrue smiles. Cohen still hasn’t said anything. It’s strange. Is he nervous? But judging by the way he spoke to that waiter, I guess, it’s definitely possible that silence is the closest he can come to being polite.
    “Is it the 1984?” I inquire. Fancy wine people make more wine every year. Pull one out of a hat and you’ll sound like an expert.
    “You’ve picked a young lady who knows her drink, Cohen! A girl after my own heart.” LeCrue chuckles like a department store Santa. “The 1979, in fact. But I think you’ll appreciate the notes of dark cherry.”
    Annabelle is still grinning at me like we’re sharing our most private thoughts. What kind of face would she make if she knew what was really going on?
    “How did you two even meet?” Claude demands. A fleck of spit flies from his upper lip and lands on the tablecloth.
    “Oh, you don’t want to hear that silly story,” I laugh lightly.
    “Trust me when I say that I do. It must have been a seriously miraculous circumstance for you not to have immediately run the other way!” He elbows Cohen, whose face goes from stony to Ice Age. Claude is one more bro-touch away from getting his lights punched out.
    LeCrue is staring at me expectantly. So is Annabelle. I’m going to need to invent something even Nicholas Sparks couldn’t come up with to convince them that any sane girl would want to marry Cohen Ashworth.
    But if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s making things up.
    “I was running late the night we met,” I begin, sprinkling my words with demure sideways glances at Cohen. “I’m from America, you see, and I moved to Paris to take care of my ailing mother, who…” I sniff. No harm in adding an emotional element. “The doctor said that night could be her last.”
    Annabelle rubs my hand. I soldier on. “I was in a rush to get to the hospital and say goodbye to her in time. We both called for the same cab. Cohen looked like the kind of important man who would keep a cab for himself, but he glanced at me and, without a word, let me have it.”
    The most important thing when telling a story is to have consistent characters. If I fed them some soup about Cohen doing something incredible, they wouldn’t believe it for a second. Small things, that’s the key.
    “I couldn’t get him out of my mind after that. He was so very…handsome.” That last part’s true, at least. Somewhere in Paris there’s a gay guy having dinner and daydreaming about his sexy rich boyfriend. “I never expected to see him again. But I did, three days after dear Mama Montgomery passed on. It was pouring rain and I had no umbrella. Suddenly this man walks out of the shop next to me, hands me his umbrella without a word, and walks off again, getting soaking wet.”
    All three of them are leaning forward now, fascinated. Cohen is pretending not to listen, but I can tell he’s impressed.
    “I wanted to return his umbrella, so…”
    I weave them a tale of investigation and success, of small kindnesses, of learning to see the man behind the mask. It’s all crap, of course. The mask is always the man. If you go hunting for humanity under a garden of razors, you’ll cut yourself to shreds. But they love it. People always love that type of story. At the end, I kick