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

Love is a journey. Carry a map.

—Paige

Lucas gave up trying to stay away from her. Partly because his willpower was weaker than a single strand of thread, and partly because Eva wasn’t someone who valued emotional distance or personal space. She was like the puppy they’d rescued. Affectionate, trusting and tactile.

He went back to work, and for the next few days submerged himself in his fictional world and his characters. They occupied his mind to such an extent that the real world faded to nothing. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was the best book he’d written to date. Now, finally, he almost had something he was excited to show to the world.

Beyond the windows of his study the sun shone, touching the snow-covered trees with dazzling flecks of silver, as if someone had decorated the park in glitter especially for the festive season. People rushed about in the streets, keen to finish Christmas shopping. Lucas saw none of it. He wrote and rewrote, editing ruthlessly, tightening the story, deepening the characters, polishing the prose. Night merged with day and he worked such long stretches that occasionally when he glanced up and saw that it was dark again he realized he’d missed almost all of the daylight hours.

If it hadn’t been for Eva, he would have starved or died of dehydration, but she appeared by his side at regular intervals, bearing nutritious treats that barely required him to remove his hands from the keyboard. Tiny bite-size quiches made with crisp buttery pastry and garlic-infused slivers of exotic mushrooms, crostini with roasted peppers and goat cheese, a light-as-air mousse made from smoked salmon and cream. Each piece was a feast of melting flavor, designed to be eaten in one mouthful, but without a compromise on taste and quality. Sampling her food, he had no trouble understanding how Urban Genie’s success had grown so rapidly. Eva had an innate sense of what food would perfectly complement the occasion, whether that occasion was a glamorous wedding, or an author who didn’t have time to look up from his manuscript.

Apart from those moments where she brought him food and drink, she was careful not to disturb him, although occasionally he heard her on the phone talking to Paige and Frankie, or singing in the kitchen as she cooked.

They always ate dinner together, but afterward he often worked late into the night. It was during one of his late-night work sessions that he heard her screams.

He was out of his chair in an instant, heart pounding, his tension magnified by the fact that he’d been reading over a scary scene.

He pushed open the bedroom door. The bedside light was on and he saw Eva sitting up in bed, her hair soft and tangled, her eyes wide.

“Eva? What the hell is wrong?” He looked around the room, expecting to see masked raiders, but instead there was just Eva, shivering. “What happened?”

For a moment she didn’t answer and then she pulled the covers up under her chin. “Can you put the light on?”

“The light is on.”

“I mean the main light. I want more light.” Her teeth were chattering and he flicked on all the lights in the room and strode to the bed.

“What happened?”

She looked white and shaken. “Bad dream.”

“You had a nightmare?” He settled on the bed next to her and pulled her into the curve of his arms. “What about?”

“I was in the kitchen, and I was cooking for a bunch of people, and— On second thought, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He glanced at the nightstand. “You read one of my books?”

“I thought it was the polite thing to do. Big mistake. You’re good at what you do, but what you do isn’t for me. Don’t be offended.”

Far from being offended, he was touched. “I can’t believe you read my book.”

“I wanted to know more about your writing. Now I wish I didn’t.”

Smiling, he tightened his grip on her. “It’s fiction, sweetheart.”

“I know, but it’s also scarily real. I don’t mind books about zombies and aliens because I don’t bump into many of those in Bloomingdale’s, but the guy in your book was charming and I don’t know if I would have spotted that he was a killer.”

“You have excellent radar, remember? You would have detected that something wasn’t right.”

“I might not. I’m not programmed to be suspicious.”

“I love that about you.” He wished he hadn’t used the word love, but she didn’t seem to notice.

She rubbed her fingers over her brow. “I’m seriously spooked. Don’t you spook yourself when you write it?”

“Sometimes, that’s when I know that what I’m writing is good.”

“Do you have to write with the lights on?”