Miracle On 5th Avenue Page 9

  He absorbed that, filing away the details. “I would have said your flaw was being too trusting.”

  “I don’t see that as a flaw.” She rinsed the knife. “It’s hard to get close to people and have fulfilling friendships if you always suspect people are hiding things from you. That’s probably your biggest flaw, isn’t it? Not trusting enough.”

  “I would have said that’s one of my good qualities. So when you tried online dating, what did you write on your dating profile?”

  “I didn’t write desperate, trusting blonde seeks wild sex, if that’s what you’re asking.” She opened the oven and gave the tray of tomatoes a little shake. “In the end online dating didn’t work for me. I need to be able to see someone in person to know if they’re okay. I have good instincts. And although it’s a perfectly valid way to meet people, especially in today’s busy world, I would prefer to meet someone organically.”

  “You want an organic orgasm?”

  She laughed. “That’s the goal. And everyone needs a goal, don’t you think? It’s fine. I’m not going to meet anyone if I hide away inside my apartment, so I’m determined to get out. That’s the first step. I want to go on a few dates.”

  “So you don’t want to go straight for the orgasm and cut out the in-between stage?”

  “No.” She closed the oven. “I can’t go to bed with someone I don’t know. I’ve never had a one-night stand. For me, sex is tied up with caring about someone.”

  “You don’t hold much back, do you?”

  “No. I’m not what you might call a mystery. I’m pretty much an open book—Jake says I’m an audio book, because everything I’m thinking comes out of my mouth.”

  The description made him smile. “Who is Jake?”

  “Paige’s fiancé. And now that’s enough questions about me. What’s your favorite food of all time?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Everyone has a favorite food. Either something that is delicious, or something that’s associated with a wonderful happy memory. What were your favorites when you were a child? Something that takes you right back there and brings back all the warm feelings.”

  He thought back to family gatherings and his travels through Europe. “I enjoy good cheese. Particularly with the right wine. It was one of the benefits of my French book tour.”

  “Is that where you bought all that wine?”

  “Some of it. Some of it I’ve been collecting for a while.”

  “Do you actually drink any it?”

  “Of course, although some bottles are valuable. I’m saving them for a special occasion.”

  “If I had good wine, I’d drink it. But then I guess you’d say I’m more of a ‘live for the moment’ kind of girl.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and he tried not to think about which moment he’d like to live in with her right now.

  “The soufflé you made last night was good.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She picked up her pen and scribbled on the pages in front of her. “I’m trying to decide what to make tonight. Any requests?”

  “You choose. Which cookbooks do you use? Or do you rely on the internet?”

  “Neither. I use my grandmother’s recipes, or I make them up.” She must have seen something in his face because she smiled. “Relax. I’m not making anything for you I haven’t made a hundred times already. You’re not a guinea pig and I’m not going to poison you. Have you ever written that in one of your books? A killer who poisoned his victims?”

  He wondered why she thought the killer had to be a man.

  “No, but it’s something I’m considering.”

  “How do you decide on the crime?”

  “It comes from the personality and motivation of the killer. Jack the Ripper was good with knives, which was what led people to speculate that he might have been a surgeon.”

  She returned to her cooking. “No wonder you have trouble sleeping at night. You spend your entire working day thinking about horrible things.”

  “I find them more interesting than horrible.” He watched, transfixed, as she sliced some garlic, drizzled oil and added a pinch of salt. She was astonishingly skilled with a blade. “Who taught you to use a knife?”

  “Not Jack the Ripper.” She threw him an amused look. “My grandmother, and then I worked in a few kitchens straight out of college. It’s a skill you develop pretty fast unless you want to lose a finger.” She scattered the ingredients over a baking tray and slid it into the oven alongside the other tray. Strands of hair wafted down over her face and she pursed her lips into a round O and blew them away gently as if she was blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

  “What are you making?”

  “I’m roasting tomatoes and peppers, which I’ll then turn into soup. When you’re busy, you can take a portion out of the freezer, add a chunk of crusty bread and have something nutritious in less time than it takes you to open a whiskey bottle.” She gave him a pointed look that he chose to ignore.

  He decided that the creative process behind cooking was not so different from his writing. She started with an idea, added a bit of this and that, adjusted it according to instinct and then served up something intended ultimately to please.

  “Now, for breakfast would you like my special eggs Benedict or buttermilk pancakes?”

  He was about to tell her once again that he didn’t eat breakfast but the sound of pancakes was too good to turn down. They took him right back to his childhood and family holidays spent in Vermont.

  “Do the pancakes come with a side of bacon?”

  “They could, if that’s what you’d like.”

  “It is.” It was the first time anyone had used the kitchen, and she’d used every available inch. The counters were piled high with glossy fruits and vegetables. It looked haphazard, but he had a feeling it wasn’t. “Do you always sing when you cook?”

  “Singing is good for the mood. So is walking, but it doesn’t look as if the weather is going to let me do that anytime soon.” She put bacon in the frying pan and made pancake batter without weighing anything or consulting a recipe. “I might go for a stroll later if it eases.”

  The relaxed atmosphere vanished. “You’re not leaving the apartment in this storm. They’ve canceled bus services, announced a ban on driving and shut down the subways. The bridges and tunnels are shut and there are no flights leaving from any airport.”

  “I don’t want to fly, drive or use the bus. Just walk.”

  “Have you even looked through the window today?” He stood up, found the remote control and flicked on the TV that was concealed in the living room.

  The news channels were dominated by the blizzard as the news anchor warned everyone, in serious tones, to stay indoors. “The storm has flooded low-lying beaches, brought down trees and power lines leaving thousands without electricity…”

  “Oh, those poor people.” There was distress in her voice and Lucas flicked off the TV.

  “Are you convinced?”

  “Yes.” She returned to her cooking. She whisked the batter and poured it into the hot pan, waiting while the surface bubbled.

  After a few moments she flipped the pancake, timing it perfectly.

  Finally she slid it onto a plate, added the bacon and handed it to him along with a bottle of maple syrup. The color reminded him of whiskey.

  The pancakes were soft, golden and delicious, the sweet drizzle of warm maple syrup a contrast to the crispy perfection of the bacon.

  He took a mouthful. “You asked me about my favorite food. This is my favorite food.”

  “You said you didn’t have a favorite food.”

  “Now I do.” He cleared his plate, wondering why he was suddenly so hungry when for so long he hadn’t cared what he ate. “So you seem to spend plenty of time with my grandmother. Why not spend that time with your own?”

  For the first time since he’d hauled her off the floor of his apartment, his words were met with silence.

  “Eva? Why
not just spend more time with your own grandmother?”

  “Because she’s dead.” Her voice thickened and without warning tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  Seven

  In times of crisis, keep your lipstick red and your mascara waterproof.

  —Paige

  “I’m sorry. Ignore me.” Eva grabbed a napkin and dabbed her eyes but it was as if she’d developed a leak, as if her emotions had swollen and grown, pressing against the outer layer of her self-control until gradually it had cracked, allowing her feelings to escape.

  Through the scalding blur of tears she was vaguely aware of Lucas watching her.

  She expected him to make his excuses and escape faster than a gazelle trying to outrun a lion, but he didn’t move.

  “Eva—”

  “It’s perfectly fine.” She blew her nose hard. “This happens sometimes. I think I’m doing great and then it hits me from nowhere like a horrible gust of wind, and it blows me off my feet. I’ll bounce back. Don’t look so alarmed. Ignore me.”

  “You want me to ignore the fact you’re upset? What sort of person do you think I am?”

  “You’re a horror writer. And a woman in tears is probably your own personal idea of horror.” She took a ragged breath and got herself under control. “I’ll be fine.”

  “But you’re not ‘fine,’ are you? Talk to me.”

  “No.”

  “Because you don’t know me? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

  “It isn’t that. I don’t want to be the dark cloud in anyone’s day. It’s better to be the sunshine than the rain.”

  “What?” Dark brows came together in a frown. “Who the hell told you that?”

  “Grams.” Tears spilled over again and he sighed and spread his hands in a gesture of apology.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you but, Eva, everyone gets upset sometimes. You shouldn’t feel you have to hide it.”

  “You do. Isn’t that why you haven’t told anyone you’re here?” She scrubbed her hand over her face and he gave a faint smile.

  “Good point. Since you’re now hiding here with me, why don’t we agree that we don’t have to hide how we feel, for the moment at least?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Thank you. And now you should go and write. You have a deadline.” His kindness cut the last threads of her control and she turned her back on him to hide the spill of tears. She expected to hear his footsteps on the stairs as he retreated to a place of safety, but instead she felt his hand close over her shoulder.

  “When did she die?”

  She was torn between desperately wishing he’d leave her alone and wanting to talk about how she felt. “Last year. In the fall, when the leaves were changing color. I kept wondering how everything around me could seem so vibrant when she was gone. And I feel guilty being sad because she was ninety-three. And she didn’t linger or anything. That was great for her but hard for me because it was a shock.” She still remembered the phone call. She’d dropped the mug she’d been holding, spilling scalding coffee all over the floor and her bare legs. “She’d be furious if she could see me now—” She blew her nose again. “She’d remind me that she’d had a great life, was very loved and had all her mental faculties right up until the end. She always focused on what was right in her life, not what was wrong, and she’d want me to do the same. But that doesn’t stop me missing her. And now you’re standing there thinking ‘what am I supposed to do with this sobbing woman,’ but honestly you don’t have to do anything. Just go about your business. I’ll be fine. I’ll just be extra nice to myself for a little bit until I feel better.”

  But he didn’t leave. What he did was turn her around and pull her into his arms.

  It was so surprising that for a moment she didn’t move. Then the unexpected sympathy tipped her over the edge and Eva dissolved into great choking sobs. She felt the strength of his hand on her head as he stroked her hair gently, while his free arm held her close.

  He held her while she cried herself out, murmuring soft indistinct words of comfort. She breathed in male warmth and felt the reassuring weight of his arm supporting her and she closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d been held like this. It shouldn’t feel this good. He was a stranger, but there was something about the strong embrace that filled the emptiness inside her.

  Finally, when she was drained of emotion, he eased her away from him so that he could see her face.

  “What does ‘being extra nice to yourself’ involve?” The kindness in his voice connected straight to her insides.

  “Oh, you know—” She sniffed. “Not telling myself I’m fat, or beating myself up for not exercising as much as I should, or for eating that extra square of chocolate.”

  “You do that?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” She rubbed at the damp patch she’d made on his shirt, embarrassed but at the same time grateful. “I feel better. Thank you. I never would have thought you’d be such a brilliant hugger. You’d better let me go or I’ll be crying all the time just to get you to hug me. Go and work.”

  “Tell me you don’t seriously think you’re fat.”

  “Only on a bad day, but that’s because I love food and if I’m not careful I do become a little extra curvy.”

  “Extra curvy?” There was a seam of laughter in his voice. “Is that like extra strong coffee? In other words more of the part that’s already good?”

  “Now I know why you’re a writer. You know exactly which words to use.” She forced herself to step back. “Thanks for making me feel better.”

  “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” The laughter was gone from his voice. “You think you’re doing fine, you think you have it all under control, and then suddenly it slams into you. It’s like sailing on a smooth ocean and suddenly a giant wave hits from nowhere and almost swamps your boat.”

  No one had ever described the way she was feeling so perfectly.

  “That’s how you feel?”

  “Yes.” He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek gently. “It’s supposed to get easier, so hang in there.” His gaze held hers and there was a new intimacy, and a strange, unexpected heat that stole through her against her will.

  Arousal.

  He was comforting her, and she was aroused. She would have been embarrassed, except she saw her own feelings mirrored in the depths of his eyes.

  “You should go and write.”

  “Yes.” His voice was roughened at the edges and he let his hand drop and stepped back. “And you should cook.”

  They were both stiff and formal, both denying the moment.

  Eva went back to the kitchen, trying to forget how it had felt to be held by him.

  She cooked all day, stirred, whisked, simmered and tasted while on the other side of the huge glass windows the storm blew itself to a frenzy. New York was eclipsed by swirling white, the streets and the buildings blurred by snow. Restaurants, bars and even Broadway had closed.

  Eva felt a pang of concern for the emergency services and people who still had to be out in that terrible storm. She hoped no one was injured.

  Occasionally she glanced up the stairs, but the door to the office remained closed. Lucas, she knew, was dealing with his own injury.

  At lunchtime she took up a tray, but heard the soft thud of computer keys through the door and decided writing was more important than food. She retreated downstairs with the tray and went back to her cooking.

  Paige called twice, the first time to ask questions about the engagement party they were planning for a client based in Manhattan, and the second to check Eva’s availability for New Year’s Eve.

  “I’m available.” Eva turned the heat down under the pan she was using and reduced the sauce to a simmer. “I’m completely, totally available.”

  “Good, because I want you to meet someone.”

  “I want to meet someone, too.” She tried not to think about how it had felt to be held by Lucas. He
’d been comforting her, that was all.

  “How are things going there? When will you be home?”

  Eva glanced out of the window. “I’d planned on staying as short a time as possible, but the storm has changed that. Can I let you know? I’ve sent over some ideas for the proposal, and I’m working on the Addison-Pope engagement dinner.”

  She ended the call and with everything in the kitchen under control, she turned her attention to decorating the tree, trying not to think of the Christmas two years before when she had done the same thing with her grandmother.

  It was early evening and Eva was on her way back to her room to shower and change when the door to Lucas’s office opened.

  He stared at her, unfocused, as if he was in another world.

  Maybe she should have knocked on his door earlier. It wasn’t healthy to work so long without a break, was it?

  “How did it go? Did you make a grilled cheese sandwich?”

  “I made another banquet.” His voice was hoarse and then he smiled. “You’re a genius.”

  “Me? I’m just a cook who talks too much.” Her heart bumped against her chest. How could she ever have thought he wasn’t her type? It had been easier to dismiss him when she’d thought he was just an insanely handsome face, but now she knew he was kind, too. And he wasn’t one of those men who were uncomfortable with emotions.

  “Your talking is the reason I’m writing.”

  Her tummy did a little flip. “That’s good to know, and thank you for not yelling at me about the tree. It is a little bigger than I thought it would be. I’ve taken photos and sent them to your grandmother. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t mention you, but I wanted her to know I’m doing my job.”

  “Right now you could give me a partridge in a pear tree and I wouldn’t give a damn.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair and Eva wondered how doing that made him even more handsome. If she ran her fingers through her hair she looked as if she’d made contact with an electric fence.