The Marriage List by Jean Joachim Read Free Book Online Page B

expecting to
take her out to eat on Saturday and she had cooked. She picked up
the phone.
    "Hi there," she said, when he answered before
she took another sip of wine.
    "Carrie? Saturday… You're not canceling on
me, are you?" His tone became urgent and questioning.
    "A change of plans," she corrected, sitting
up straight putting her feet back on the floor.
    "No dinner?"
    "Dinner here. Okay?" She chewed her lip.
    "Your place?"
    "I found an old recipe of my mom's and
decided to make it. It's in the oven cooking now…smells great."
    "Hmmm. What is it?"
    "Boeuf Bourguinon."
    "I'm impressed and salivating already."
    "Keep your pants on, handsome…" Carrie smiled
and sat back on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee
table.
    "What made you think…"
    "Tuesday night?"
    "I'm salivating in that department, too."
    She laughed. "Are you assuming we'll…"
    "Not assuming anything here…but a guy can
hope, can't he?"
    "Tomorrow will be our third date." Carrie
picked up her wine glass and took a sip.
    "Our fourth."
    "The first one was business," she corrected
him.
    "That's what you think."
    "It was a date? You didn't even kiss me
goodnight!" She put her feet down and sat up.
    "Checking you out before puckering up."
    She laughed.
    "Same time tomorrow? Or do you want me to
come over tonight and…uh…stay until tomorrow…then I'm sure to be on
time," he chuckled.
    "Good try. Six o'clock like we said and don't
be late or I'll start without you…"
    "Start what without me…oh…the food! I
see."
    She giggled, shook her head, hung up the
phone, and got up to check the oven.

Chapter Eight
     
    By five thirty on Saturday, Carrie put
finishing touches on her makeup, and then she was ready. She wore a
long-sleeved, cream-colored cotton sweater, low cut over
skin-tight, stretchy jeans. Around her neck was an amethyst pendant
that hung down almost to her breasts. She added the matching
earrings and fluffed her hair.
    The Beouf Bourguinon was in the oven,
warming up. The aroma filled the apartment and seeped out from
under the door, wafting down the stairs to fill the narrow hallways
and tiny vestibule. The table was set with her best dishes, white
with tiny butterflies and flowers in shades of lavender and light
green. The small round table was covered with a lavender cloth to
the floor, topped by a shorter one in darker purple layering the
setting. The crystal wine and water glasses were shining and there
was one silver candlestick with a light green candle perched in the
middle of the table. Pretty romantic, he might get ideas. He's
already got ideas, I have to make up my mind what I want to
happen.
    Carrie dabbed a little lilac perfume on her
wrists and between her breasts. Just as she was putting the stopper
back on the perfume, the buzzer to the outside door sounded. She
looked at her watch, two minutes of six. She giggled to herself as
she walked over to the outer door release button, surprised by the
excitement bubbling up inside her.
     
    ****
     
    As soon as he opened the wrought iron front
door to the brownstone, Grey smelled the French stew cooking. I
hope that's coming from Carrie's place. As he climbed the two
flights of stairs, the aroma grew stronger and he felt his stomach
rumble in response. He held an expensive bottle of red wine in one
hand and a dozen red roses in the other. A smile grew on his face
as he was pretty confident he'd get the chance to make love to her.
He'd been thinking about Carrie all week, the taste of her lips,
the feel of her breasts, the firmness of her butt. Being able to
enjoy a baseball game together was icing on the cake. Unlike other
women, she had crawled under his skin quickly, inching closer to
his well-protected heart.
    When she opened the door, she looked
beautiful and he was right, the wonderful cooking smell came from
her apartment. He kissed her lightly, handed her the flowers and
stepped inside. Expecting to find, like every other woman her age,
an apartment sparsely furnished in