Carrot and Coriander Read Free Page A

now he saw it up close, with chestnut highlights. He smiled back. A real smile this time, his pleasure genuine because she was sweet, nice, and he was beginning to think she might be so much more.
    “Would you like to join me? Unless you’ve got other plans, of course…”
    ‘Other plans’ would have extended only as far as the fish and chip shop two streets away. He found himself accepting her invitation to lunch, and it was not until afterwards that he remembered he was filthy, hadn’t showered in days, and probably smelled like moldy cheese. Still, it was done now. And he could always have his soup outside.
    Except she had other ideas. “Great. Lovely. Just come on inside then, when you’re ready. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
    * * * *
    And so she was, all homely and sweet and wholesome, folding freshly washed laundry into a pile for ironing, as he entered from the back garden. He estimated her to be around forty, almost twice his age, but shit, she was still hot. In a moment of weakness his unruly mind conjured up a distinctly graphic image involving Mrs Saunders, her ironing board, and maybe a couple of clothes pegs. She’d be naked, naturally, and draped on her back along the length of her ironing board, her hands secured beneath it. Her thighs would be spread wide, her pussy slick and glistening, open to his touch. The clothes pegs would be pressed into service as nipple clamps. Crude perhaps, but perfectly functional. Maybe he could even find another one for her clit…
    His cock started to harden as he warmed to his theme so he stifled it, fast. He was here to eat. He cleared his throat, then, “I need to wash my hands, if that’s alright?” And the rest!
    “Of course. Help yourself. I’ll get your soup.”
    She drifted across the large kitchen to rummage in a cupboard, pulled out two pretty yellow and blue bowls then set them on the worktop next to the stove. A large pan sat there, wisps of steam floating from its surface. Mrs Saunders picked up a spatula and stirred its contents gently before ladling generous helpings into each bowl. She carried them carefully over to the table under the window then set them down. Moving up close to Callum as he rinsed his hands under the warm tap, she dug in the drawer next to the sink for cutlery. He was amazed—her closeness was doing nothing to help reduce his inconvenient hard-on. It might be just her, that pleasant, flowery smell perhaps. Not overtly and intentionally sexy perhaps but still, there was a distinct—something—about the alluring Mrs Saunders of the downcast eyes and inappropriately placed rockery.
    He eyed her over his shoulder, strangely irritated at the effect she was having on him. She seemed oblivious to his growing discomfort, concentrating on sawing huge chunks of white bread from a fat, round loaf. He had a suspicion the bread was home-made too. Walking somewhat awkwardly he managed to seat himself at the table and grabbed the napkin she’d set out for him to drape discreetly over his lap.
    The soup was surprisingly delicious. And the bread. He had two helpings of each. They ate in near silence, but Callum was acutely aware of her. It seemed to him intensely awkward that they should be sharing a meal, a table. And by the way she studiously avoided looking at him he suspected she was just as ill at ease. But still, here they were. In her kitchen. Eating together. Eventually, he was first to give in.
    “How old’s your little boy, Mrs Saunders?”
    “Three. And it’s Miss.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “It’s Miss Saunders, not Mrs. Rachel.” Her smile seemed shy, uncertain. As though she wasn’t sure he even wanted to know her name.
    He wasn’t entirely sure either, in all honesty, but since they were being nice…
    “I’m Callum. Callum O’Neill.”
    She stretched out her hand politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr O’Neill. Callum.” She amended at his slight frown.
    He took her hand, noticing once more its small