In Charlie Glass’s Slippers, a clever spin on Cinderella, Charlie Glass—a heroine as loveable as Cannie Shapiro and Bridget Jones—inherits her father’s shoe empire and snatches up a drop-dead-gorgeous, multi-millionaire Prince Charming. But is he truly the key to her happily ever after? Read on for an excerpt–and a chance to win a copy of this delightful book by Holly McQueen! Out tomorrow!
“Charlie,” Jay says. He smiles, leans down, and places the softest of kisses on my cheek, only an inch or two from my mouth. “I hope I’m not interrupting work. It’s just that I thought if Charlie Glass couldn’t come to me, I ought to come to Charlie Glass.” He lifts his right hand, in which he’s holding a proper wicker picnic basket.
“Dad’s cook was making shepherd’s pie, so I’ve brought us some. With lemon tart for afters.” He’s taking a tightly wrapped dish and a couple of proper china plates out of the hamper. “Better that than some miserable sandwiches, or a nibble of salad. At least, that’s what I thought. I mean, quite a lot of the girls I’ve dated before tend to get the vapors at the mere thought of carbs. You know, the kind of borderline anorexics who think mineral water is a food group. But if salad is what you’d prefer . . .”
Okay, this is a tricky one. Shooting through my head are several competing thoughts:
1) Jay is tired of dating borderline anorexics! (Great news);
2) Jay hasn’t accidentally mistaken me for a borderline anorexic (possibly not such great news);
3) Shepherd’s pie shepherd’s pie shepherd’s pie shepherd’s pie.
Greed (and aching hunger) crowd out the first two thoughts. “Shepherd’s pie is perfect! In fact, this whole thing is perfect, Jay.” I go and sit down, cross-legged, where he’s indicating that I should sit, on one side of the crate. The smell of the shepherd’s pie, now that Jay is peeling off the foil covering, is mouth-watering. “I don’t think,” I add, sincerely, “that I’ve had such an amazing dinner as this in a long, long time.”
He looks delighted (though probably not quite as de-lighted as I do when I see exactly what he’s serving onto the two plates; the mash looks creamy and the meat looks lightly caramelized, and I feel as though I’ve died and gone to heaven before even tasting so much as a mouthful). “I hoped you’d like it! I mean, I don’t get the impression, Charlie, that you’re the kind of girl who only wants to go out to the most expensive restaurants and the most exclusive nightclubs. It’s what I find so refreshing about you,” he adds, sitting down beside me and clinking his glass against mine. “That you’d rather eat shepherd’s pie than salad. That you’re naturally gorgeous, without having to go to any effort.”
I choke on my mouthful of wine, and have to pretend it’s gone down the wrong way.
But really—naturally gorgeous? Without having to go to any effort? If only Jay knew about the eight solid hours of exercise I’ve put in since Saturday, and the miracles Rufus has just worked with his wonder-hands, and the Hairdressing Appointment that Time Forgot, and, of course, the agonies and indignities of Galina . . .
Actually, thank Christ he doesn’t know.
And if the reason that he fancies me is because I’m a breath of fresh air compared to his usual type, then it’s in my interest to have him not knowing for as long as humanly possible. Frankly, I’ll mainline shepherd’s pie if that’s something he finds attractive about me. I’ll go about the place with my nose in a horse bag of the stuff. I won’t even complain about all the additional hours of loathsome running I’ll have to do (clandestinely, of course) if it means that he keeps gazing at me with those incredible sexy eyes the way he’s doing right now.
Which shoe empire do you wish YOU could inherit? Jimmy Choo? Christian Louboutin? Tell us in a comment below to enter for your chance to win a copy of Charlie Glass’s Slippers by Holly McQueen. There will be 1 lucky winner!
Contest begins at 9:00 a.m. Monday, August 4th and ends at 9:00 a.m. on Monday, August 11th. Sorry, contest open to U.S. residents only. Please click here for complete contest rules.