Notes:
1. I apologise to everyone who has me on author alert for an entirely different genre. After not writing for so long, I'm trying my hand at something different. Let's see how it goes!
2. I fully expect no-one to read this story. The Paradise is an obscure choice but there's something about it that draws me in; I can't help myself. If it appeals to you too, feel free to leave me a review!
Disclaimer: The Paradise belongs to the BBC/Masterpiece and Emile Zola. It is not mine.
Intrigue was not the principal emotion John Moray felt upon first seeing Denise Lovett; that came later. No, first came surprise, then concern, then a deep stab of magnetic attraction with a hint of lust.
He'd stepped out of the coffee shop across the street with a spring in his step, heading towards the office. He strode around a corner, thoughts intent upon his first meeting of the day, when he ran headlong into a small figure coming the other way. His coffee sprayed every which way; the person he collided with bounced onto the footpath with an undignified flail of limbs. He gave a muffled curse and dropped the takeaway cup, leaning down to help the stranger to her feet.
As their eyes met, he was shocked by the thrill he felt pass through him: something he'd not felt in longer than he could recall. Her eyes were a vibrant shade of blue. Periwinkle, he thought to himself. Her eyes were framed by a face that was pure perfection in Moray's eyes: clear skin, pink pouting lips and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair fell in long blonde waves down her back, over her green corduroy jacket, almost to her waist. She wore the most sinful pair of jeans he'd ever seen, clinging perfectly to her curves and tempting him to touch. And oh, he wanted to touch; he wanted to touch so very much. He automatically helped her to her feet and attempted to snap himself out of the stupor he felt.
'I'm so sorry; are you alright?' He asked as he gently held her elbow. 'I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.'
The girl laughed. 'No need to apologise,' she replied in a lilting Scottish brogue. 'I should have been paying more attention; it seems like you came off the worst for our encounter,' she gestured to his chest, which was now splattered with what seemed like half of his cappuccino. 'I'm just a little dusty, myself.' She smiled gaily at him.
He grinned back. There was something about this girl which drew him in, made him forget about his ruined suit and the meeting he would now be late for. He wanted to forget about his plans and take this girl for coffee and learn everything about her all at once. He couldn't explain it; it was as if she were a magnet, drawing him to her.
'I need to dash,' the girl continued. 'Good luck getting the coffee out, and have a nice day!' She picked up her bag from the footpath and skipped off around the corner in her little green ballet flats before John could utter another word. He watched her go with regret, wishing they'd talked longer. He didn't even know her name.