Miracle On 5th Avenue (From Manhattan with Love 3)

Released from that gaze, Eva let out her breath, feeling as if she’d just come out of hypnosis. What had just happened? Had she imagined it? Was she so desperate she couldn’t look at a man without thinking about sex?

She reached for a spare glass and helped herself to a slosh of whiskey. It burned her throat and cleared her head.

“And F. Scott Fitzgerald said, ‘First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.’’’ She put the glass down and intercepted his curious look. “My grandmother was an associate professor of English before she took early retirement. Instead of drinking that whiskey, I could make you one of my famous hot chocolates. I guarantee you won’t ever have tasted anything better. It might help you sleep.”

“I don’t have time to sleep. I need to write this damn book.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Why? You don’t know me.” His tone held a warning, but she ignored it.

“I know you’re hiding out here. And I know I’m the only one who knows. That makes you my responsibility. I want to help.”

“You’re not responsible for my emotions or my work.”

“If you don’t finish your book, my friend Frankie will never stop complaining. I have a vested interested in seeing you finish. So, you wrote your first story when you were eight, but when did you sell your book?”

“I was twenty-one. When I got the call from my agent— well, let’s just say I thought it was all plain sailing from there.”

“But it wasn’t.” She chose her words carefully. “I think when we lose someone close to us, it can be very hard to find the concentration necessary to complete tasks that used to be simple. And when the holidays come around, everything feels more acute.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you know how I feel, or that time heals all?”

“I wasn’t going to say either of those things.” She hesitated. “Maybe you’re trying too hard. You’ve been injured, so you should take it carefully and slowly. Be kind to yourself. Writing is natural for you. Maybe you should just focus on writing a few words at a time rather than thinking of the whole book. Like making a grilled cheese sandwich rather than a gourmet meal.” Seeing nothing in his expression that encouraged her to continue, her voice trailed off. “I’m shutting up now. Not another word on the subject from me. My mouth is zipped.”

He gave a faint smile. “I haven’t known you long, but I have a feeling that’s hard for you.”

“It is. I feel as if I might physically burst if I don’t talk.” She stared at his lips, wondering how they’d feel against hers. She knew instinctively that he’d be an expert kisser, and this time she was the one who swayed toward him.

The darkness created a false intimacy, cloaking common sense and facts that would be clear in the light of day.

“Go to bed, Eva. It’s late.” His voice was soft, but it was enough to rouse her from her sensual trance and the fantasies she definitely shouldn’t have been having.

“That’s man-speak for ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’” She sat for a moment, feeling as if there was something else she should say. Something had almost happened here tonight. Were they going to talk about it or pretend it had never happened?

“Good night.” There was a finality to his tone and she stood up.

It seemed they were going to pretend it had never happened. And that was probably best.

“Good night, Lucas. Get some sleep.”

Six

Be the sunshine, not the rain.

—Eva

The full force of the storm hit just after dawn. It swirled past the windows, dumping several more feet of snow on the New York streets.

Lucas didn’t notice. He’d worked most of the night, snatching a couple of hours’ sleep on the sofa when his brain was too tired to continue.

Despite the brevity of the nap, he’d woken refreshed and energized and ready to continue, and had carried on writing until he’d heard the sounds of Eva singing.

Not loudly, but enough to disturb his concentration.

He moved to the top of the stairs. From here he had a perfect view of the whole of the downstairs, including the kitchen.

When he’d moved, he’d brought nothing from his old life but his books. This place held no memories, nothing to remind him of the past. It was impersonal and it suited him that way.