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

“I think we already have enough festivity around here.” He eyed the Christmas tree. Its lush branches were now trimmed with silver and interwoven with delicate lights. He wondered if its extravagant height was supposed to compensate for the lack of festive cheer in the rest of his apartment. “That is one hell of a tree. Clearly you’re a woman who doesn’t believe that less is more.”

“Not when it comes to Christmas trees.” She smiled, and he saw that her lipstick was candy-cane pink. It reminded him of the indulgent sweet treats he’d enjoyed as a child.

“Anything else?”

The irrepressible dimple appeared. “That’s a personal question, Mr. Blade.”

“You’re living in my apartment and I’ve seen you in your pajamas. I think we’ve already ventured into personal.” He didn’t mention the fact that he’d held her. He didn’t need to. He’d felt the shift in their relationship and he knew she had, too. A casual attraction had transformed into an intense awareness that electrified the air.

And it wasn’t just physical. Each conversation with her revealed something new.

She was a treasure trove of inspiration.

He paused by the wall of wine. “What are we eating?”

“Roasted vegetable and goat cheese tartlet, followed by sage-and-pumpkin ravioli. I made something you could eat by your computer if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to. I want to eat with you and a special meal calls for a special wine.” He walked to the chiller and picked a white. “I first tasted this on a book tour in New Zealand and had a crate of it shipped over. It’s spectacular.”

“How the other half lives. Half a glass for me,” she said. “I’m a cheap date. And if I drink before I’ve finished cooking, I can’t vouch for the food. In fact, maybe I shouldn’t drink at all. I don’t want to lose my inhibitions.”

“You have inhibitions?” He opened the wine. “Where are you hiding them?”

“Very funny. Some people like the fact that I’m easy to read. But you, of course, are probably wondering about my evil side.”

Maybe he wasn’t with her, but he certainly was with the character he was developing. She was shaping up to be the most duplicitous character he’d ever written. And he’d rather think about her than the flesh-and-blood woman standing in front of him.

He poured, watching the wine swirl into the glass. “Try it. It’s delicious.”

“Are you going to dazzle me with a speech about tropical notes and an undercurrent of sunshine and all that jazz? Or do you save all your flowery words for your books?”

He thought of the gritty reality he’d been writing. “Something like that. Drink.”

She sniffed and then sipped, slowly, cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure he wasn’t poisoning her. “Oh.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then took another sip. “Why does the wine I drink at home never taste like this? Is it expensive?”

“It’s worth the money.”

“In other words, it is expensive. I guess you know a lot about wine.”

“It’s one of my hobbies.”

She put her glass down and turned back to the food. “I’m guessing answering your mail isn’t one of your hobbies.” She put a plate in front of him. It was a work of art. The scalloped edges of the pastry were crisp and golden, the surface of the tartlet a swirl of color. “Are you planning on dealing with it?”

He picked up his fork. “I’m not here, remember? I can’t open mail if I’m not here.”

“But what if it’s something important?”

“It won’t be.”

“But it could be.” She was persistent. “Can I open it for you?”

“Do you really want to?”

“Yes. Someone might be waiting for an answer from you. Don’t you have an assistant?”

“My publisher has a team who deals with all my professional communication.”

She watched anxiously as he took a mouthful. “Well?”