Real Romance - By Ginny Baird Page 0,2

a single other woman. They got along, had some laughs. And, even though he never could interest her in that deep-thinking literary fiction that always had him so enthralled, at least they both liked to read.

He worked in the cafe, she sold books. He, after all, wrote books—even if he couldn't sell them. There was a strange logic to their arrangement. And a comfort, too. From one day to the next, Marie knew that Cecil would be there. And until today... that had been enough.

David absentmindedly twirled his pencil, then tapped its eraser against his ledger. Someday soon, his boss Caroline was going to spend her profits wisely and hire an official accountant. In the meantime, David looked at his chance to serve as both optician and bookkeeper as an opportunity. Next year, when he planned to open his own shop, the financial experience would come in handy. Then, he sighed, any rules about employee-client fraternization would be self-imposed. Or, not.

David knew it was wrong, really wrong, to hit on the women who came in here. And he almost never did. But when they handed him their cell phone numbers with a wink and a smile and a maybe-we-can-see-each-other-sometime look, it was pretty damned hard to resist. He was a red-blooded male, just like the next guy. And when they had legs like Suzanne, or breasts like Rebecca....

David rubbed his temples and glared at the column of numbers in front of him, willing the insubordinate figures to make sense. But the only figure that stood out in his mind belonged to one Marie McCloud. Not that she was as voluptuous as some of the women he'd dated. Not even that she was more beautiful. But there was something in the way she'd widened her eyes when she'd looked at him. Something in the warm flush of color on her skin.

David shook his head, thinking himself stupid for believing they'd made any kind of meaningful connection.

He turned half-heartedly and scanned through the contacts on his cell phone. Thursday afternoon, already. If he hoped for a respectable date—or even a not-so-respectable one—by the weekend, David would have to start calling soon.

But suddenly, he had the unusual notion that he'd be more happy spending his Saturday night with a book.

Marie blew into the cafe like a gust of autumn wind and settled her purse on the counter.

"Decaf, darling?" Joanne smiled, swabbing a dollop of cream off the faux marble serving bar.

Marie stared back at the older woman, somehow unable to fix her gaze. "Yes. No. I mean, I don't—"

Joanne extended a wrinkled hand in Marie's direction. "Slow down there." She had to be in her seventies, but with her batik skirt and sleek silver braid, sometimes looked more like a willowy teenager gone prematurely gray.

Joanne dropped her rag and leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. "What's wrong, doll? That Cecil done some—"

She fell silent as the ponytailed man materialized at her side.

"Morning, Marie." He smiled, and his even teeth shone white beneath his aquiline nose.

Marie sighed. "It's way past noon, Cecil. How long have you been here?"

He swiveled his head and glared at the clock. "Oh, since nine. Time flies when you're having fun."

Marie groaned. "Short cappuccino, Joanne. Double foam, nix the caffeine."

"Hey, Marie," Cecil said, when Joanne went to steam the milk. "About our dinner tonight..."

Marie adjusted her new frames and fumbled for an excuse. Somehow, in light of her lunchtime encounter, eating with Cecil seemed downright unappetizing.

"I have some revisions to do."

Marie smiled as his meaning dawned.

"Oh, Cecil, of course I understand. I have a little project I'm working on myself." She drew a sharp breath, wondering where on earth that had come from.

"You do?" Cecil asked, his gray eyes narrowing. At one time Marie would have called the color smoldering, like embers. But right now it looked... like smog.

She pulled two singles from her wallet as Joanne set her coffee down in front of her, puzzling at her new perspective. Surely, twenty minutes with a handsome optician wouldn't—

"A book?" Cecil pressed.

"Has to be romance," Joanne chimed in, securing the lid on the paper cup.

But Marie just turned the color of a very ripe tomato, picked up her cappuccino and left.

This time of day, right before closing, Marie normally perused the aisles to be certain everything was shelved properly. The upscale store paid its staff well to ensure a user-friendly environment for the average book buyer. But occasionally there were slip-ups, like when a new employee mistakenly placed Growing Old Gracefully