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

Eva slid her legs out of bed and reached for Lucas’s shirt, pulling it on to keep the worst of the night chill away.

The arms fell past her fingers and the hem to midthigh. Rolling the sleeves back, she walked barefoot out of the bedroom in search of him.

The door to his office was open, but at first glance the room appeared to be empty. The light was out and the laptop lay closed on his desk. She was about to turn away and search for him downstairs when she saw his figure sprawled on the sofa. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Something about the way he sat, the utter stillness, tugged at her heart.

She’d never seen anyone who looked more alone.

Everything about his body language told her that he didn’t want to be disturbed, but how could she leave him? Particularly as she was the likely cause of his current agony. Because he was in agony, she was sure of that.

“Lucas?”

He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t look at her. “Go back to bed, Eva.”

“Are you joining me?”

“No.” He shut her out as effectively as if he’d closed the door.

All that intimacy, the closeness they’d shared, evaporated like morning mist. If she wasn’t still experiencing the delicious and unfamiliar aches and tingles, she might have thought she’d imagined the whole thing.

She wished she could turn the clock back to those incredible hours where neither of them had been aware of anything but each other. But that time had passed.

Making a decision, she walked into the room. “Talk to me.”

“You don’t want that.”

How could he possibly think that? “If you’re regretting what we did, then this involves me, too.”

“Why would I regret it?”

She swallowed, aware that she was on very, very delicate ground. “You loved her. It probably feels like a betrayal, but—”

“Eva, you don’t want to have this conversation.”

Her heart was thudding. “You mean, you don’t want to have it.”

He swung his legs to the floor. His eyes glittered in the darkness. “No. I meant what I said. You don’t want to have it.”

Why would he think she wouldn’t want to talk?

Was he assuming that she’d been hoping for more from him than just a night of great sex? Was he afraid she’d read more into the night before than she should have?

“Do you think it will hurt me if you talk about your wife? I’m not naive, Lucas. I don’t think last night was about love or anything like that.” She ignored the tiny voice in her head that told her how much she really did want it to be about love. She wasn’t going there. She didn’t dare go there. “But I’d like to think we’re friends. I want you to talk to me. I want you to tell the truth.”

“You’re not ready to hear the truth.” He stared at the whiskey in his hand and then at her. “You want love so badly, but what if it doesn’t turn out the way you hope it will? Have you ever wondered whether you might be better off without it?”

Her heart felt swollen and heavy. “You’re saying that because you lost the love of your life, but I still believe it’s better to love that way than never to love at all. You’ll love again, Lucas. I know you will. It may not feel that way now, and I know you’ll never forget her, but one day you’ll find someone who makes you happy.”

She clamped her mouth shut. She probably shouldn’t have said any of that. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready to hear it. He didn’t believe it.

There was a long silence and when he finally spoke his voice was harsh. “You’re such an idealist. Such a dreamer. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Love is nothing like the vision you have in your head. It isn’t some glowing, perfect thing where everyone dances under sunshine and rainbows. It’s messy and untidy and it hurts like hell.”

“You feel that way because you lost her, but—”

“I feel that way because it’s true. You think I’m grieving because we shared the perfect love? Then let me shatter your illusions once and for all. There was nothing perfect about our love. But I did love her, and that made everything so much harder.”

“I know, but—”