Read Romance books for free


A big variety of genres offers in worldlibraryebook.com. Today we will discuss romance as one of the types books, which are very popular and interesting first of all for girls. They like to dream about their romantic future rendezvous, about kisses under the stars and many flowers. Girls are gentle, soft and sweet. In their minds everything is perfect. The ocean, white sand, burning sunā€¦.He and she are enjoying each other.
Nowadays we are so lacking in love and romantic deeds. This electronic library will fill our needs with books by different authors.


What is Romance?


Reading books RomanceReading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.
In this genre the characters can be both real historical figures and the author's imagination. Thanks to such historical romantic novels, you can see another era through the eyes of eyewitnesses.
Critics will say that romance is too predictable. That if you know how it ends, thereā€™s no point in reading it. Sorry, but no. Itā€™s okay to choose between genres to get what you need from your books. But in romance the happy ending is a feature.Itā€™s so romantic to describe the scene when you have found your True Love like in ā€œfairytale love story.ā€




Read romance online


On our website you can read books romance online without registration. Every day spent some time to find your new favourite book in the coolest library. Tablets and smartphones are the most-used devices to read electronic books. Our website is very easy to use. No need for registration. Access around the clock.
Let your romantic story begin with our electronic library.

Read books online Ā» Romance Ā» CATHEDRAL by Patrick Sean Lee (novels to improve english .txt) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«CATHEDRAL by Patrick Sean Lee (novels to improve english .txt) šŸ“–Ā». Author Patrick Sean Lee



1 ... 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 ... 29
Go to page:
Do you want to know what I think?ā€

ā€œSure, fire away,ā€ he says leaning forward. As he awaits my simple solution to his dilemma he casually brings the glass of wine to his lips.

ā€œDonā€™t go swimming anymore. Go get your pen and tablet of paper and sit down. Like the TV commercial says, just do it.ā€

Matthew is amused by that suggestion and grins over the edge of his wineglass. He swallows what is in his mouth, and his eyes twinkle as he stares across the table at me. But he doesnā€™t say a word.

ā€œWhat? Not a good idea?ā€

Finally, ā€œOh, itā€™s a great idea, just not practical. First off, I never write on a tablet or in a notebookā€”Iā€™d never finish a book. Second, you just donā€™t sit down and crank out great writing.ā€

ā€œThen crank out not-so-great writing. Or crank out junk if thatā€™s what it turns out to be. I guess my point is, crank out something. You can always change it, and who knows, maybe some of that junk will be really good junk.ā€

Matthew slowly lowers his glass onto the table, knocking over his King and Queen. The smile fades into a serious look, and Iā€™m all the sudden beginning to think; Iā€™m not as dumb about his game as he assumed I was! He remains quiet for a long time. Too long. He isnā€™t just staring, heā€™sā€¦heā€™sā€¦I can almost feel him trying to enter my mind through my eyes. Itā€™s disconcerting, and I blink. What, Mr. Klutz, Mr. World-Famous-Author, Mr. Matthewā€¦Swimmer In The Sea? What are you thinking, and do I want any part of it?

ā€œSay somethingā€¦ā€

He blinks and then releases me fromā€¦whatever that was. Iā€™m relieved, and he begins. ā€œDo you have any idea what youā€™ve just done?ā€

I do not, and I tell him so.

ā€œYouā€™ve given me the very same advice that every instructor of writing I ever sat in front of gave me, and that somehow Iā€™ve forgotten. Itā€™s that old thingā€”you nailed itā€”write something, even if itā€™s crap!ā€

ā€œSoooā€¦now youā€™re back on track, right?ā€ I sip a bit of wine from my glass. Itā€™s smooth and flavorful, and so I take some more, waiting, again, for Matthew. He seems to be contemplating something deeper than just an agreeing laugh, or a yes, or even a noā€”designing some response that is entirely out of the ordinary.

ā€œWhy donā€™t you help me? Be my editor? Sit with me and help me finish it?ā€

I laugh out loud. Nothing ordinary about those small requests.

ā€œNo, Iā€™m serious. You hate my books, youā€™d be perfect!ā€

ā€œI donā€™t think so. Thanks anyway. And I donā€™t hate themā€”just that one.ā€

ā€œBut you read a lot, right?ā€ he asks with an excited edge to his voice. The faraway look that he had in his eyes a moment ago is gone. Matthew lifts the glass again and this time takes a healthy drink. Yes, heā€™s excited, but something tells me itā€™s not so much about my ability to help him as it isā€¦

Still, the thought of participating in the writing of a book, of actually helping a famous author, is intriguing. I consider it, but only for the length of time it takes me to jump two moves ahead in my mind. Heā€™s been writing for years. Iā€™ve never written anything more profound than a grocery list. Checkmate, we both lose. Not only has he written another loser, heā€™ll probably stick my name on the acknowledgments pageā€”or worse, alongside his on the cover.

ā€œNoā€¦ā€

ā€œIsabella, youā€™re the first person Iā€™ve ever met whoā€™s had the courage to tell me what I honestly thought myself about ā€˜Saving Isabelleā€™. I know you can do it! Help me!ā€

ā€œPlease donā€™t use my name and the title of your book in the same sentenceā€¦ā€

ā€œPlease! Iā€™m stuck.ā€

We met less than an hour ago. I mean, really met.

He doesnā€™t move a muscle; heā€™s like a statue, or a photograph thatā€™s come to life that I find myself studying. Iā€™m wise enough to the world; Iā€™ve heard them all, stillā€¦

ā€œI donā€™t know the first thing aboutā€¦ā€

ā€œThatā€™s precisely my point. You donā€™t have to, and in a way itā€™s even better that you donā€™t.ā€

ā€œDonā€™t your editors advise you what to leave and what to cut out after theyā€™ve read what youā€™ve written? Theyā€™re your best shot I should think.ā€

ā€œI have to get them a manuscript first. Even so, theyā€™re not concerned with literature so much as the houseā€™s bottom line. ā€ Matthew laughs at that in a mocking way. ā€œYouā€™re an intelligent female readerā€”about mid-thirties? Youā€™re my market. You can show me immediatelyā€”at least from where I am right nowā€”where Iā€™ve fallen down andā€¦I thinkā€¦how to change course and get back on track again. Whatdā€™ya say? Just your opinion, nothing technical.ā€

Put in those terms, I believe heā€™s right. At least I can tell him that his story sucks, which, judging from ā€˜Saving Isabelleā€™, Iā€™m betting it does. And then I think, what ifā€¦what if my suggestions actually enable him toā€¦?

ā€œI have to leave next week. That doesnā€™t give me much time to even read what you have, let alone suggest ways to fix it. Like I could anyway.ā€

ā€œThatā€™s plenty of time.ā€

ā€œI have no experience, no qualificationsā€¦ā€

ā€œYes you do. Youā€™re a great chess player. Thatā€™s an analytical thing. You can do it, Isabella.ā€

I think in a way heā€™s right. I want to think heā€™s right, anyway. He has leaned forward, elbows resting firmly on his side of the board, chessmen scattered as though the cavalry arrived during our conversation and ripped through their flanks. His hands are folded, resting on my side of the board, the sides of them barely touching my Queen. His smile is soft and genuine and despite the misgivings I have, my ego tells me to go for it. I can always walk away.

I am intrigued by his offer. I am flattered. But Iā€™m not stupid.

ā€œNo. Thank you for asking, but no.ā€

He leans back slowly. I know he wants to say, ā€˜Please!ā€™ Instead he merely shrugs.

ā€œWell, at least think about it, okay?ā€

ā€œIā€™ll give it some thought. Good night Mister Ash,ā€ I say. I rise and leave him sitting there on the chair, rubbing another wound, and I head for the stairs.

I have no intention of ever thinking about his offer again.

Daybreak

Matthew

 

 

I slept well last night except for the pain in my knee that woke me three times, the need to pee that woke me another, and the image of Isabella that kept me up during the time in between those. Yet, oddly enough, I am refreshed, having gotten at least half an hourā€™s worth or sleep.

The wine sat wellā€”a 2003 vintage Chateau St. Michelle. Hardly what I might have expected from an out-of-the-way mountain lodge, and its selection by the Davenports lifted my opinion of them from earthy all the way to complex. Mrs. Davenport might prefer coffee sludge from a percolator, but her taste in fine wine showed nothing of that peculiarity.

I am not a religious or superstitious man, but the entire day seemed driven, or at least prodded onward, by hands outside my range of knowledge. If not by divine ordinance, then by what command did I stumble into the orbit of Isabella Barrington? Simple fate cannot explain it adequately. Neither can prayer, as I have forgotten, even, the words to grace before dinner. But then, what?

It is four fifty-eight a.m. Here I lay, my eyes following an imaginary spot on the ceiling that moves along one minute, and then is thrust back to its starting point the moment I blink. As though it had never moved to begin with. My brain, however, is following the movement of Isabella; the raising of her hand, the turn of her head that makes her hair hesitate before following, the forming of a tiny smile. I need not concentrate or force the images, neednā€™t try to keep them in focus, unmoving, captive. They do not wander, but rather hold themselves constant, like shadows in the moonlight that refuse to be shaken off the ground.

I feel the soft touch of her. The sensation of fingers that inadvertently brushed against mine is here with me, occurring again, again, again, as though she stands invisible before me with the intent to conquer me in yet another way.

She has, and probably doesnā€™t even realize it.

It is five a.m. A soft glow of silver has begun to make the features of my room lighten to the point where the bathroom door is identifiable, and other objects as well. The chair with my pants draped over it and the table beneath the window are the most clear, and I notice that I didnā€™t fold my pants last night. I admit to myself that I was, and am, perhaps, a little obsessed.

She said no, but then followed up by saying sheā€™d think about it. That means she will, if I play my cards right. Iā€™ve always been a lot better at poker than chess. Jesus, it hits me, sheā€™s probably president of some poker club somewhere too!

Weā€™ll see.

How much longer did she say she had here? I think a week. How long will it take me to break through her defenses, I wonder? No matter. Sheā€™s here. Iā€™m here. Iā€™ll start at breakfast.

God, I hope her schedule doesnā€™t include hiking. There must be other pretty much non-physical activities to do. I mean, itā€™s a lodge! What Iā€™d give to see a swimming pool out there behind the place. What Iā€™d give to see her lounging beside itā€¦

The book, the book. I know sheā€™s intrigued. What if Patterson or King asked you to read and comment on one of their next best sellers? Asked you to read the manuscript? I am in their leagueā€¦or used to be. Certainly she must know that.

Phase one: begin to charm her to death at breakfast, but no more chess.

I have all day.

Daybreak

Isabella

 

 

My first thought as I open my eyesā€¦I wonder what that guyā€™s book is all about?

Why do I wonder something as ridiculous as that? Maybe I was dreaming of becoming a footnote of thanks on his acknowledgement page. Something a little more glorious than my name on a bill from a supplier or the gas company.

Shower time, girl. Get up! Letā€™s see if Mr. Davenport will let you take one of the horses out for a trot into the forest after breakfast!

The morning sun lights the window on this side of the house in a warm glow. I pad over and push the curtain aside. The sky is dark blue still, but stunningly clear. My eyes dart left and right.

1 ... 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 ... 29
Go to page:

Free ebook Ā«CATHEDRAL by Patrick Sean Lee (novels to improve english .txt) šŸ“–Ā» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment