A New Foundation Rochelle Alers (read aloud .txt) 📖

or sweatshirts, and boots for a pale blue linen shirt, navy slacks and black leather slip-ons. Her heart rate kicked into a higher gear when he smiled at her. It was the same apparent smirk he’d affected when modeling. It seemed to say I see you looking at me, and do you like what you see?

Hell, yeah, her inner voice said. Not only did she like what she saw, she also liked him. Sonja knew she had to stop denying that she liked and wanted Taylor for more than friendship. She’d had a few guy friends before and after her marriage, and now it was time for her to acknowledge that she wanted a relationship with someone willing to accept her and her imperfections, and for her it would be the same with him. Sonja wasn’t looking or asking for declarations of love, but rather respect. She wanted and needed a man to respect her and for him to treat her as his equal.

“Do you still want me to take the trunks upstairs?” Taylor asked, hoping Sonja didn’t notice the huskiness in his voice. He’d promised her they would remain friends, but now he wasn’t certain he would be able to keep his promise.

Sonja nodded. “Yes. I can’t believe someone would use luxury trunks rather than file cabinets to store paperwork. If I wanted to buy one of these today, the price tag would be more than forty thousand.”

“That’s crazy,” Taylor spit out. “I’d rather donate forty thousand dollars to my favorite charities instead of a single piece of luggage.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Taylor.”

He gave her a narrow look. “How do you know the price tag?”

“I spent a month in Italy on holiday at the beginning of the year. Instead of going to museums, I spent most of my time eating in restaurants off the beaten track and browsing through countless shops. There is a Vuitton shop in Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. That’s where I saw the trunks. I was told if I live in the States and wanted to purchase one, then it would be a special order.”

He slowly shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Taylor tried not to stare at Sonja and failed miserably. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from the wealth of curls framing her face and ending above her shoulders. When he’d met her at The Cellar he’d thought of her a seductress in red. If he had to give her a label, then it would be chameleon. She was able to smoothly transition from a seductress in red with a profusion of waves framing her face and makeup accentuating her best features to a fresh-faced ingenue while affecting a ponytail, jeans and running shoes. Tonight she’d changed again when she’d selected a tangerine-orange sheath dress, black ballet flats and a subtle hint of makeup. Smoky taupe shadow on her lids complemented her large brown eyes, and the orange lip color contrasted beautifully with the gold undertones in her complexion. And her curly hairstyle reminded him of a doll—the nickname with which her uncle had tagged her.

He set the carton of wine on the floor and sniffed the air, smiling. “Something smells delicious.”

Sonja closed the door, locking it, and then flashed a mysterious smile. “I know how much you liked the dishes at La Casa Del Mofongo, so I decided to make arroz blanco, frijoles rosados, pollo asado and flan for dessert.”

“I understood flan, and that’s about it. And I’m not ashamed to say that I could eat Spanish food every day.”

“I’m serving white rice, pink beans and roast chicken. Instead of a salad, I’ve decided to prepare a cheese and fruit platter. By the way, have you ever eaten pastelón?”

He shook his head. I don’t think so. What is it?”

“Puerto Rican lasagna. My mother gave my aunt the recipe and she in turn gave it to me. I’ll make it for you one of these days.”

“I suppose I’m going to have to up my game when cooking for you.”

Sonja rested her hands at her waist. “Are you talking about a throwdown, Taylor?”

“Not quite. But I can’t have you show me up.”

“Who taught you to cook?”

“My mother. In fact, she taught all of her children because she claimed once we left home she wanted us to be totally independent, and for her that translated into the ability to put a meal on the table.” He paused. “I’m going to take these trunks upstairs, then we can talk about cooking for each other.”

Taylor pulled the stair-climbing hand truck up the staircase and down the hallway to the smaller bedroom Sonja had claimed as her office. He noticed she had already put her personal touch on the space. She’d placed a laptop and printer on the desk, and framed photos occupied every flat surface. He peered closely at one with Sonja, her brother and her parents when she’d graduated college. There were others of her uncle, brother and father in uniform. Then there was another one with Sonja holding a baby in a christening gown. Not only was she titi, she was also a godmother. He left the trunks on the floor next to the desk, returned to the first floor and joined Sonja in the kitchen.

“It looks as if you’ve done more shopping.” Bottles of red, white and rosé were stored in a wine rack on the countertop.

Sonja turned and smiled at Taylor over her shoulder. “Yes, I did. Thank you for the wine. I didn’t know whether you were bringing anything.” Not only had she visited the wine shop, but also the florist and a craft shop where she’d purchased scented candles, bundles of potpourri and framed prints with pressed leaves and flowers for the bathrooms. She’d also stopped at the variety store to pick up an ample supply of paper clips, folders, notebooks, legal pads, rubber bands, sticky notes, a stapler, tape and a desk organizer caddy.

“I must admit your house now looks like a home.”

Sonja met his eyes. “It’s the