دانلود رمان انگلیسی “درهم با مرد اشتباه” – رامکام خواستگاری بامزه و جادویی

How could your heart not lift at the sight of a bucket of sunflowers? If sunflowers were a song, they’d be ‘Dancing Queen’. The cheery little Abba earworm wriggled in, only to be squashed by the voice in Chloe’s head answering, Quite easily, actually, if today is the one-year anniversary of the day your heart got broken into a million pieces. ‘Closing in quinze minutes!’ called Aunt Daisy from behind the peonies. ‘You can bring the rest of the seaux in now.’ Seaux. Buckets. Chloe’s aunt, the colourful, fragrant owner of Coeurs et Fleurs (the conveniently rhyming French for Hearts and Flowers) used a French-English mash-up when conversing with Chloe, in the hope that this would help her pick up the language quickly. Chloe let out a sigh. ‘Oui, je suis on it.’ Even after a year, her French was nowhere near fluent. Not even conversant. Probably because, apart from turning up here for her job as trainee florist, she hardly ever went out, preferring to spend her evenings curled up on the sofa with only Patapouf and Netflix for company. The shop bell tinkled as she headed outside. Such a pretty sound. Everything in Paris seemed just that little bit more charmant than in Huddersfield. But she wouldn’t think about Huddersfield, today of all days. This was a day to be got through, to be endured, and thoughts of home wouldn’t help with that. Not at all. Mindfulness. That was what she needed. To focus on the here and now, appreciate the beauty of these sunflowers – tournesols – the sublime scent of the old English roses by the door. To be thankful for the fact that she was here, doing a job she loved, in the most beautiful city in the world. Practising her French – that helped. What was the French for bell? Cloche. Like the thing you use for forcing plants, or one of those nineteen-twenties hats. The bell – cloche – rang again as Chloe struggled back inside, a tin bucket of blooms in each hand, pushing the door with her bottom. As she did, one of the buckets tipped, slopping water onto the floor. ‘Prop it open!’ called Aunt Daisy, her tone exasperated. Chloe put the buckets down with a clatter, parked a trolley of house plants in front of the open door and fetched a cloth. She didn’t blame Aunt Daisy for losing patience. Chloe had been all kinds of hopeless today, moping around the shop in her cloud of sad. Distracted, clumsy, forgetful. Her mournful expression had probably wilted the flowers, put the customers off. At least, those customers who weren’t already unhappy, which in fact applied to an awful lot of them, given the shop’s location. But she couldn’t help her despondency. She’d known today would be horrible. An absolute pig – cochon – of a day. Twelve months since the wedding day that wasn’t. Her first un-wedding anniversary. Thank goodness closing time was in sight. She mopped up the water then headed outside again to bring in more buckets. In front of the shop, the Rue de Rondeaux wasn’t busy. Sundays in central Paris were generally quieter, and most shops were closed. Coeurs et Fleurs was an exception, being opposite a cemetery that saw many visitors over the weekend. Family members, tourists … lovers. It was a popular spot for a romantic stroll. At first, Chloe had found that strange. Who’d want to kiss among the dead? Make out behind a mausoleum? (Unless you were into that sort of thing. Turned on by thoughts of vampires, maybe. Rumours abounded of such goings on at night, on the far side of those high, spiked walls.) But if you ignored the thought of the million bodies apparently buried there, viewed the cemetery as just another park – Paris’s largest – it was a lovely, verdant place in which to lose yourself. A city oasis with a maze of treelined pathways and thriving bird life. She even saw the occasional fox as she cut through on her walk home. Chloe blocked the image of loved-up couples wandering those paths before it could further embitter her, and turned back to the flower displays in front of the shop. It had been a good day for rose sales – there were hardly any left. Those lovers again. Roses for the dead, roses for the living. And as always, white lilies had done well, the number-one bestseller of every funeral-friendly florist.