When his head ducked, he saw those whiskey brown eyes deepen, darken. He heard her breath catch. Felt the sudden trembly chill in her fingertips. And then his mouth dived down and settled on hers.
She tasted like warm, dark chocolate. Rich. Soft. Meltable.
Nothing in the universe tasted exactly like chocolate. Not good chocolate. Not really exquisite chocolate.
But she did. And no, it wasn’t the Bliss she’d been indulging in that put that “exquisite taste” idea in his mind. It was her. Her mouth. Her taste. Her lips molded under his, melted under his. She went still, on the inside, on the outside.
And damn it. So did he.
Praise for the work of USA TODAY bestselling author Jennifer Greene
“Jennifer Greene’s writing possesses a modern sensibility and frankness that is vivid, fresh, and often funny.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Woman Most Likely To…
“This is a must read book. Great job, Ms. Greene!”
—Old Book Barn Gazette on
The Woman Most Likely To…
“Combining expertly crafted characters with lovely prose flavored with sassy wit, Greene constructs a superb tale of love lost and found, dreams discarded and rediscovered, and the importance of family and friendship….”
—Booklist on Where Is He Now?
“Crisp, pulls-no-punches humor….”
—Publishers Weekly on Where Is He Now?
Blame It on Chocolate
Jennifer Greene
MILLS & BOON
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Recent books by Jennifer Greene
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To incurable chocoholics everywhere.
Of all the vices worth enjoying, this one seems awfully close to number one.
I gined ten pounds researching this book for you.
Taste-testing the best truffles on the planet was hard work! But worth it.
Trust me on this….
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK BUZZED on Monday morning, Lucy Fitzhenry leaped out of bed. It was hell waiting for that alarm. She hated wasting time on sleep when her life was so brimming full. She wasn’t just jazzed to start the day; she was kite-high and dancing-ready.
She made it three feet across the room before the nausea hit. One second she was fine, the next she was beyond miserable. Thankfully she made it into the bathroom before a major upchuck.
Afterward, she knelt on the cold tile with her elbow crooked on the toilet seat, too weak to get up—at least for another couple seconds—feeling infuriated in general.
She knew she was getting an ulcer. This was the third time in the last two weeks her stomach had done the revolt thing, and healthy twenty-eight-year-old women with cast-iron stomachs didn’t hurl for no reason, so that had to be it. An ulcer. An ulcer caused by stress.
It was tough for a fussy perfectionist who’d always been big on responsibility and doing the right thing and making everyone happy to suddenly take on wickedness. She was trying. She was putting her whole heart into it. But it definitely wasn’t coming naturally, so she had to struggle at it, and changing one’s personality was unavoidably stressful.
Her stomach rolled one more time, but the ghastly part of the nausea seemed to have passed. She hoped. Slowly she pushed to her feet, opened the glass doors to the shower, and flicked on the faucets.
She’d had the clear glass shower doors put in last week. That, and her sleeping naked, were two visible signs that she was gaining on her wickedness goal. Another concrete measure of progress were the purple satin sheets on her bed. Temporarily she didn’t have a guy to vent all this new wildness on, but one thing at a time. Her stomach needed to recover from all these personality upheavals before she gave it any more stress.
By the time she climbed out of the shower, she was not only