Miracle On 5th Avenue (From Manhattan with Love 3)
He smiled. “No. I prefer to be in the dark. Scarier that way.”
“Do you ever read happy fiction where the characters are still alive at the end?”
“Not often.”
She shivered and glanced toward her phone. “What time is it?”
“Three in the morning. I was writing. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Sorry I disturbed you. You’d better go back to work.”
“I was thinking it was time to go to bed.” He stood up, stripped off his clothes and slid under the covers with her, drawing her into his arms again.
“Can we leave the light on?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. If there’s a serial killer in the room, I want to see him.”
* * *
Two days later Eva walked into his office and put a parcel down on his desk. “Merry Christmas.”
“You bought me a gift? That’s sweet of you, but you shouldn’t have. There’s nothing I need.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. Open it.”
He turned back to the package and slid his finger under the paper, releasing the tape. “It’s a book.”
“Not just any book.”
The paper fell away and he picked up the book and turned it over. “Pride and Prejudice.” He looked up at her. “You bought me Jane Austen?”
“You need to discover another side of reading. Relationships don’t all end in death and misery. The story is emotionally complex and, most important, it has a happy ending. I’m trying to show you that not all fiction has to end with all the characters sliced into tiny pieces, or with broken hearts. There are other options.”
He put the book down. “Eva—” His tone was patient. “I write about crime.”
“I know! Your book gave me screaming nightmares.” She was still embarrassed about that, but had decided there was no point in pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be scared in her reading. “Thanks to you, I’m never going to be able to sleep with the light off again and I’m probably not going to be able to take a cab anywhere.”
“It’s crime fiction. People die.”
“But why can’t they just be injured and then cured by a kind, caring doctor?”
He looked amused. “Because then the book wouldn’t be about a serial killer.”
“He could meet someone kind and fall in love—”
“Eva,” he interrupted her gently. “Don’t read what I write. Then it won’t upset you.”
“But maybe if you wrote happier fiction, you might not have such dark, twist
ed thoughts about love. You could start with a short story where no one dies.” She looked at him hopefully and he sat back in his chair and shook his head.
“So if this is a Christmas gift, I guess I need to give some thought to yours.”
“There’s nothing I need.”
“You haven’t written a letter to Santa?”