By Rachel Joyce
It truly is Christmas Eve. Binny has 4 hours to make Christmas occur and she or he couldn't believe much less like wishing completely happy tidings of excellent will to all males - least of all to Oliver. it's raining, her home is falling aside, the streets are jammed with humans and it's all Oliver's fault. Darting right into a store to flee a talk, Binny reveals herself within the type of position she might by no means quite often stopover at. yet in among the cabinets is a stunning resource of peace.
A appealing gem of a brief tale from Rachel Joyce, bestselling writer of The not likely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Perfect.
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Additional resources for A Faraway Smell of Lemon
The irony of the comment was meant for Jennie alone. Mrs Owen was obviously impressed by the politeness of tone. ' Mrs Owen beamed, and Jennie groaned inwardly. A sudden excuse occurred to her. 'Er—Mrs Owen, I quite forgot the shopping. ' 'That's really not necessary,' Jennie parried. ' Mrs Owen's word was the final one. 'It would be rather nice to walk down together. ' Mrs Owen smiled sweetly and Derek returned her smile with warmth, giving her his arm. They set off slowly down the street. 'This is very convenient, Jennie.
Impulsively she put out her hand. He took it and held it, his long fingers enveloping hers. ' He laughed, still holding her hand, a sardonic gleam in his eye. ' Jennie flushed. She tried to extricate her hand from his, but before she could do so, a voice called from behind her. ' Jennie shook off Derek's hand. 'What a good idea. ' Mrs Owen looked at Jennie and at Derek, and a wide smile crinkled over her face. ' A comic archness crept into her features. ' Jennie blanched and then controlled her voice.
Derek grinned and straightened an imaginary knot at his throat. 'My attire, on the other hand, is impeccable,' he drawled. Jennie noticed that the jeans, stretched smoothly over his long muscular legs, were as worn as hers, his sky-blue shirt was open at the neck. Unwillingly too, she took in the tautness of his stomach, the curly gold-brown hair which escaped from the open button of his shirt, the strong tendons of his surprisingly bronzed neck. A disturbing thought flashed through her mind.