Despite her age, Marjorie Whitcomb is resigned to spinsterhood. One disastrous marriage has convinced her that the kind of man she wants does not exist. He is simply a figment of her imagination... and her fantasies.
Colton Mitchell has had Margie in his peripheral vision for two years. He always considered her 'quirky', with her vintage clothes and quiet manner. He never saw the real woman until he had to drive her home one night. From her vintage turquoise kitchen to her garter belt and stockings, he then realizes that she is a young woman with very old-fashioned ideas about love and marriage. And that's the very moment in which he decides that she isn't quirky, she is perfect!
But how close is Colton to Marjorie's idea of the perfect man?
He shouldn't have been surprised, yet he was by the absolute perfection of the area. Overstuffed furniture dominated the room. The dark wood accent pieces were polished to a high shine; crocheted doilies were placed on the arms of the furniture as well as under anything that could possibly scratch the surface of the antique pieces. There was a lovely bar set on a silver tray, complete with ice bucket and highball glasses. Several decanters of liquor with which to offer guests a choice of beverage were clustered on another tray. Photographs in ornate silver frames were scattered about the room and he watched fascinated as Marjorie dropped gracefully to her knees in front of the fireplace and quickly started a fire.
"I would have done that," he offered gently when he found his voice.
"I'm used to it," she replied rising. "Would you still like coffee, or something stronger?" she asked, looking at her toes.
Colton considered for but a moment before answering.
"Coffee if that's not too much trouble," he replied. A cocktail could be made much too quickly.
"Not at all, I'll just be a few minutes."
"May I come with you? I'd like to see more of this remarkable house."
Margie paused as though considering and then shrugged her shoulders before motioning for him to follow her. He wasn't disappointed. They passed through a lovely dining room and he absorbed as many details as he could. It was purely Victorian, the china closet fair to bursting with china, teapots and silver accessories. A richly colored oriental carpet covered the center of a gleaming hardwood floor and the table and chairs were heavy mahogany. A huge etched mirror hovered over the sideboard reflecting the soft lights of the chandelier she switched on as they passed through.
It was the kitchen that had his mouth dropping open. Several generations ahead of the rest of the furnishings, it was straight out of the 1950s and top of the line.
Large black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern made up the floor. All the appliances were turquoise, even the sink. The dining set was chrome with turquoise and white leather seats.
"Have a seat, Mr. Mitchell," she suggested as she washed her hands at the sink and dried them with a white towel that hung from a three pronged rack. "This will take a bit."
Colton sat and watched as she pulled a vintage turquoise stool away from a corner of the kitchen and lifted the steps out. Before he could rise, she was standing on the seat and reaching into a cupboard over the refrigerator. Raising her arms high also made her dress creep up and he could see the lace edging on her black slip. On her tiptoes now, she reached for a stainless steel percolator and he smiled. This would take a while, he thought, delighted. He hadn't seen one of those since he was a child visiting his grandparents.
A split second later she teetered, and he lunged from his chair, grasping her around her hips. His hands hiked her dress higher and with her above him he could clearly see the tops of her stockings, lacy garters, and the sweet white curves of her inner thighs. Dry mouthed, he helped her down, his hands shaking as he tried to convince himself it had been an accident.
"I would have gotten that down for you," he scolded, not sure if he was angry at her or himself.
"I'm fine now," she squeaked out. "It was silly of me. Please sit."
Colton obeyed, watching as she filled the pot with cold water, scooped coffee into the steel basket and seated it in the pot before plugging it in. Efficiently, she moved around the kitchen, getting out cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, matching creamer and teaspoons. She placed a cloth napkin beside each of their places and a plate of cheese and crackers in the middle of the table.
"I'm hungry," she admitted as she nibbled on a cracker.
"Me too," he grinned as he helped himself.
Conversation lagged as they each watched the lightly colored brew begin to bubble up into the clear glass top of the pot. She evaded his personal questions but seemed willing to discuss the house. It had been left to her by her Aunt and Uncle whom she'd lived with since the loss of her husband, caring for them right up until the end. Questions about her marriage were deflected but she agreed with him that it was a fabulous house. She adored anything from the Victorian Era and was fascinated by the fifties, remarking that it seemed a much simpler time during which the roles of men and women were clearly defined.
"Would you have liked to live back then?" he asked her smoothly when the color of the coffee suited her and she unplugged the pot.
"I think I would," she replied, not turning to look at him. "This will have to sit a few minutes or it will be full of grounds," she explained as she busied herself at the sink.
"I'm in no hurry," he replied.
Finally, she brought the pot to the table, setting it on a hot pad. Carefully, she poured each of them a cup before sitting down again.
"Miss Whitcomb," he remarked after taking a sip, "this is delicious, but it occurs to me you've forgotten to call the garage about your car."
"Oh damn," she cried, setting her cup down with a clatter and scurrying across the kitchen to the rotary telephone hanging on the wall. Flipping up the calendar she located and dialed a number and waited, nibbling her nail. After several minutes she hung up.
"They're closed," she sighed as she returned to her chair.
"I imagine so, it's after seven," Colton replied. Taking another sip, he hid a grin and continued. "You know, Miss Whitcomb, were we really living in the fifties, a man might spank his woman for uttering such language and forgetting something as important as having her car serviced. Not to mention climbing on that stool and risking injury," he finished calmly.
Watching her carefully, he took note of the way her wide blue eyes flew to his face in shock. The hand holding her cup began to tremble and she used both hands to carefully set it back on its saucer, but not before spilling a significant amount. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were open as though she wanted to say something but couldn't. Gently, he reached across the table and with a finger under her chin, closed her mouth.
"There would have been no point in arguing. As you suggested, roles were clearly defined in those days. Yes, I would have been justified in taking your hand, guiding you over my knees and lifting your skirts. If you were very naughty, I would have pulled down your panties and painted your bottom a charming shade of red. Depending on the serious nature of your offenses, I may have had you stand in a corner, holding up your dress and displaying your red cheeks for my pleasure. What have you to say about that, Miss Whitcomb? Still have an affinity for the fifties?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
A Timeless Woman is now available on:
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Note: I previously posted that the title of this book would be, His Little Margie. The title was change when we realized the title implied the book might be an age-play novel, which it is not. Sorry for any confusion.