New York, Actually

by Sarah Morgan

  The man stopped beside her. “He sat for you.” His smile was easy, his gaze warm. “He never does that for me. What’s your secret?”

  “I asked nicely.” She stood up, conscious of the sweaty tendrils of hair sticking to her neck and annoyed with herself for caring.

  “Looks like you have the magic touch. Or maybe it’s the British accent that does it for him. Brutus—” The man gave the dog a stern look. “Brutus.”

  Brutus didn’t even turn his head. It was as if the dog didn’t know he was talking to him.

  Molly was puzzled. “Does he often ignore you?”

  “All the time. He has a behavioral problem.”

  “Behavioral problems usually say more about the owner than they do about the dog.”

  “Ouch. Well, that puts me in my place.” His laugh was a rich, sexy sound and heat ripped through her body and pooled low in her abdomen.

  She’d expected him to be defensive. Instead, she was the one who was defensive. She’d built walls and barriers that no one could pass, but she was sure that this man with the dangerous blue eyes and the sexy voice was used to finding his way around barriers. She felt breathless and swimmy-headed, and she wasn’t used to feeling that way.

  “He needs training, that’s all. He’s not very good at doing what he’s told.” She focused on the dog, rather than the man. That way she didn’t have to deal with the laughing eyes of his insanely attractive owner.

  “I’ve never been too good at doing as I’m told either, so I’m not going to hold that against him.”

  “It can be dangerous for a dog to challenge authority.”

  “I’m not afraid to be challenged.”

  That didn’t surprise her. One glance told her this guy knew his own mind and walked his own path. She also sensed that the smooth layers of charm and charisma concealed a core of steel. He was a man only a fool would underestimate. And she was no fool.

  “You don’t expect obedience?”

  “Are we still talking about dogs here? Because this is the twenty-first century, and I like to think of myself as progressive.”

  Whenever a situation or person unsettled her, she tried to detach herself and imagine what advice she’d give as Aggie.

  Feeling breathless and tongue-tied around a man can be uncomfortable, but remember that however attractive he is, underneath he has his own insecurities even if he doesn’t choose to show them.

  That didn’t make her feel better. She was starting to think this man didn’t have a single insecurity.

  It doesn’t matter how you feel on the inside, as long as you don’t show it on the outside. Smile and act cool and he is never going to know that he turns your insides to the consistency of pulp.

  Smile and act cool.

  That seemed like the best approach.

  “You should try taking him to obedience classes.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a thing?”

  “Yes. And it might help. He’s a beautiful dog. Did you buy him from a breeder?”

  “He’s a rescue. The casualty of a vicious divorce case up in Harlem. The husband knew that Brutus was the one thing the wife loved more than anything in the world, so he fought for him in the divorce. His lawyer was better than hers, so he won and found himself with a dog he didn’t want.”

  Molly was appalled enough to forget about the strange melting feeling going on inside her. “Who was his lawyer?”

  “I was.”

  Lawyer. She’d missed that one on her list of possible professions, but now she wondered why because it was a perfect fit. It was easy enough to imagine him intimidating the opposition. He was a man used to winning every battle he fought, she was sure of that.

  “Why didn’t he give Brutus back to the wife?”

  “Firstly because she’d moved back to Minnesota to live with her mother, secondly because the last thing he would ever do was something that would make his ex-wife happy and thirdly because, much as his wife loved the dog, she hated him more. She wanted to make his life as difficult as possible so she made him keep the dog.”

  “That’s a horrible story.” Molly, who heard plenty of horrible stories in her working day, was shocked.

  “That’s relationships.”

  “That’s one divorce. That’s not all relationships. So you rescued him?” That revelation exploded all her preconceived ideas about him. She’d assumed he was the sort who put himself front and center of his life, rarely inconveniencing himself for anyone, but he’d saved this beautiful, vulnerable dog who had lost the only person who had ever loved him. He might be handsome and a sharp talker, but he was obviously a good person. “I think it’s great that you’ve done this.” She rubbed Brutus’s head, sad that this animal had paid the price for people’s failure to work out their differences. When relationships fell apart the fallout was far and wide. She knew that better than anyone. “Poor guy.” The dog nudged her pockets hopefully and she smiled. “Are you looking for treats? Is he allowed?”

  “He’s allowed. If you have a spare.”

  “I always carry them for Valentine.” Hearing his name, Valentine was by her side in a flash, possessive and protective.

  “Valentine?” The man watched as she fed both dogs. “Is he a man substitute?”

  “No. Last time I checked he was definitely a dog.”

  He flashed her a smile of appreciation. “I thought maybe you’d given up on men and settled for the love of a good dog.”

  That was closer to the truth than he could have imagined, but she had no intention of admitting it to anyone, least of all someone who seemed to have the world at his feet. What would he know about how it felt to have your weaknesses publicly exposed? Nothing.

  And she had no intention of enlightening him.

  Her past was hers and hers alone. More private than a bank account, hidden securely behind a firewall that allowed no one access. If there was a password, it would be Screw Up. Or possibly Major Screw Up.

  “Valentine isn’t a substitute for anything or anyone. He’s my number one dog. My best friend.”

  Her gaze collided with his and she felt the connection like a physical jolt.

  She had the jitters, and she couldn’t remember when that had last happened to her. It was his eyes. She was willing to bet those devilish eyes had encouraged more than a few women to throw caution to the wind. There was probably a label on him somewhere saying Handle with Care.

  She tried to ignore the way she was feeling, but her heart had other ideas.

  Oh no, Molly. No, no, no. Her inbox was filled with questions from women wanting to know how to handle men exactly like him, and while she might be excellent at giving advice, her expertise ended there.

  Somehow sensing he was the topic of conversation, Valentine wagged his tail hard.

  She’d found him abandoned when he was still a puppy.

  She still remembered the look on his face. A little startled and a lot hurt, as if he couldn’t quite believe someone had actually chosen to dump him in the gutter rather than keep him. As if that action had caused him to question everything he had ever believed about himself.

  She knew the feeling.

  They’d found each other, two lost souls, and bonded instantly.

  “I called him Valentine because he has a heart-shaped nose.” That was the only detail she was prepared to share. Time to leave. Before she said something, or did something, that might lead her on a path she had no intention of walking. “Enjoy your run.”

  “Wait—” He put out a hand to stop her. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you. You live near here?”

  The knowledge that he’d been watching her while she’d been watching him gave her pulse rate another workout.

  “Near enough.”

  “Then I’ll be seeing you again. I’m Daniel.” He held out his hand and she took it, her body ignoring the warnings of her brain. She felt his fingers close around hers, the pressure firm. She imagined he knew what to do with those hands and imagini
ng it gave her that breathless feeling that made it difficult to think properly.

  She was having trouble focusing, and in the meantime he was looking at her expectantly, waiting.

  “Let’s try this again,” he murmured. “I’m Daniel, and you’re—”

  Her name. He was waiting for her to tell him her name. And judging from the amusement in his eyes he knew exactly why she was tongue-tied.

  “Molly.” There were still days when it felt unnatural using that name, which was illogical because Molly was her name. Or one of them. The fact that she’d only started using that name since she’d moved to New York shouldn’t matter.

  She gave him no more than that but still she saw him file it away and knew it would be remembered. She sensed he wasn’t a man who forgot much. He was smart. But even if he found out her last name and looked her up, he still wouldn’t find anything. She’d checked.

  “Join me for a coffee, Molly.” He released her hand. “I know a great little place near here that makes the best coffee on the Upper East Side.”

  It was somewhere between an invitation and a command. Smart and smooth. An effortless overture from a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word rejection.

  But he was about to learn, because there was no way she would be joining him for coffee or anything else.

  “Thanks, but I have to get to work. Enjoy your run, you and Brutus.”

  She didn’t give him a chance to argue, or herself a chance to doubt her decision. Instead she ran. She ran through the dappled sunshine and the scent of blossoms, Valentine by her side and temptation nipping at her heels. She didn’t turn her head even though not doing so made her neck ache and was a bigger test on her willpower than anything she could remember for a long time. Was he watching her? Was he annoyed that she’d turned him down?

  Only when she’d covered what she considered to be a safe distance did she slow her pace. They were close to one of the many ankle-level dog drinking fountains, and she stopped to catch her breath and let a thirsty Valentine drink his fill.

  Join me for a coffee…

  And then what?

  And then nothing.

  When it came to relationships she was great with the theory but bad in practice. How bad was a matter of public record. First came love. Then came pain.

  You’re a relationship expert, but you’re hopeless at relationships. Do you even know how crazy that is?

  Oh yes, she knew. And so did a few million strangers. Which was why these days she was sticking with the theory.

  And as for smooth lawyer Daniel, she guessed it would take him around five minutes to forget everything about her.

  * * *

  He couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  Annoyed and a little intrigued by the novelty of that experience, Daniel pressed the buzzer and Harriet opened the door.

  He smelled fresh coffee and something delicious baking in the oven.

  “How was your run?” She had a tiny Chihuahua under her arm and Daniel clamped his hand on Brutus’s collar, intercepting the enthusiastic surge of energy that was about to propel the dog through the door.

  “Are you seriously going to leave these two together? Brutus would eat him in one mouthful.”

  Harriet looked confused. “Who is Brutus?”

  “This is Brutus.” Daniel removed the lead and the German shepherd bounded into the apartment, his tail smacking into one of Harriet’s plants and scattering soil and blooms across the floor.

  Harriet put the tiny dog down and picked up the shattered remains of her pot without complaint. “That dog is called Ruffles. And he’s too big for this apartment.”

  “I refuse to stand in the middle of Central Park and call for ‘Ruffles,’ so I renamed him. Do I smell coffee?”

  “You can’t rename a dog.”

  “You can if someone was stupid enough to name him Ruffles in the first place.” Daniel strolled into the bright, sunlit kitchen and helped himself to coffee. “What sort of name is that for a big macho dog? It will give him an identity crisis.”

  “It’s the name he was given,” Harriet said patiently. “It’s the name he knows and responds to.”

  “It’s a name that embarrasses him. I’ve done him a favor.” Daniel took a mouthful of coffee and checked his watch. There were always demands on his time, and lately there was never enough time, a factor due in part to the extended length of his morning run.

  “You’re later than usual. Did something happen? Did she finally talk to you?” Harriet threw the shards of pottery away and carefully scooped up what was left of her plant.

  Daniel knew that the moment he left she’d be repotting it carefully and giving it whatever attention it needed to make a full recovery.

  “Yeah, we talked.” If the few words they’d exchanged could be counted as talking. He’d asked a few questions. She’d responded. But her responses had been brief and designed to offer him no encouragement whatsoever. She’d made it clear she was more interested in his dog than in him, which might have crushed the spirit of a man with less knowledge about relationships.

  Although there had been no verbal indication that she was interested, there had been nonverbal cues.

  In the fleeting second before the barriers had gone up, he’d seen interest.

  He wondered who was responsible for those barriers. A man, presumably. A relationship gone bad. He saw plenty of examples in his working day. People who had affairs, grew apart or simply fell out of love. Love was a chocolate box of heartbreak and disaster. Pick your flavor.

  “She talked to you?” Harry’s face brightened. “What did she say?”

  Very little.

  “We’re taking it slowly.”

  “In other words she’s not interested.” Fliss walked into the kitchen. She was wearing yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a pair of black running shoes with a neon purple flash. She grabbed her keys from the countertop. “Obviously a woman of sense. Either that or you’re losing your touch. So does this mean you won’t be walking Ruffles tomorrow?”

  “I’m not losing my touch and yes, I’ll be walking Brutus. And, by the way, he has a few behavioral issues, the most significant of which is not coming when he is called.”

  “That must be a whole new experience for you.”

  “Very funny. Any tips?”

  “I don’t have any advice to offer on relationships except maybe don’t do it.”

  “I was talking about the dog.”

  “Oh. Well, you could start by calling him by a name he actually recognizes.” Fliss made for the door. “And if he has behavioral issues, then at least that’s one thing the two of you have in common.”

  Three

  Dear Aggie, if there are plenty of fish in the sea, why is my net always empty?

  Molly let herself into her apartment, dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and headed straight to the shower.

  Ten minutes later she was back at her computer. Valentine curled up in a basket underneath her desk and put his head on his paws.

  Sunlight flowed in through the windows, bouncing off the polished oak floor and illuminating the handwoven rug she’d picked up from a textile design studio she’d discovered on a trip to Union Square. In one corner of the room was a large wooden giraffe that her father had shipped to her from a trip to Africa. No one glancing at her overflowing bookshelves would have been able to discern much about her character. Biographies and classics nestled against crime fiction and romance. Also on the shelf were a few remaining author copies of her first book, Mate for Life, Tools for Meeting Your Perfect Life Partner.

  Do as I say, don’t do as I do, she thought. She’d dedicated it to her father, but probably should have dedicated it to Rupert. For Rupert, without whom this book would never have been written.

  But to do that would have meant risking exposure, and she had no intention of letting anyone discover the real person behind “Dr. Aggie.”

  No. Her father was the safest option. That way she could ensure th
at everything she’d built stayed standing and she could push the whole Rupert episode, as her father called it, into a mental box labeled Life Experience.

  When she’d first moved to New York, she’d shared a room in a dingy walk-up in the outer reaches of Brooklyn with three women who had an addiction to beer pong and all-night parties. After six months of panting up one hundred and ninety-two stairs (she’d counted every one) and taking the subway into Manhattan, Molly had blown the last of her savings on a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a building several blocks away from Central Park. She’d fallen in love with the apartment on sight, and with the building, with its cheerful green door and iron railings.

  She’d fallen in love with her neighbors, too. On the ground floor was a young couple with a baby and one floor above them was Mrs. Winchester, a widow who had lived in the same apartment for sixty years. She had a habit of losing her keys, so now Molly kept a spare set. Directly above Molly were Gabe and Mark. Gabe worked in advertising and Mark was a children’s book illustrator.

  She’d met them on her first night in her apartment when she was trying to fix a misbehaving lock on her door. Gabe had fixed it, and Mark had made her dinner. They’d been friends ever since and new friends, she’d discovered, were sometimes more reliable than old ones.

  The friends she’d had from childhood had abandoned her in droves when her life had fallen apart, reluctant to be sucked down into the deadly quicksand of her humiliation. At first there had been a few supportive phone calls, but as the situation had worsened, the support and friendship had trickled to nothing. They’d behaved as if her shame was infectious. As if by standing side by side with her, they might catch whatever she had.

  And in a way she didn’t blame them. She understood the hell of having reporters camped outside the house and of having your reputation shredded online. Who needed that?

  Plenty of people wanted fame and fortune but no one, it seemed, ever wanted to trend on Twitter.

  It had made her decision to leave London even easier. She’d started a new life, complete with a new name. Here in New York, she’d met new people. People who didn’t know. The people in her apartment block were wonderful, and so was the Upper East Side. Amidst the vast grid of tree-canopied streets and avenues, she’d discovered a neighborhood flooded with New York history and tradition. She loved it all, from the ornate prewar co-op buildings and brownstone row houses to the classic mansions along Fifth Avenue. It felt like home and she had her favorite haunts. When she couldn’t be bothered to cook she’d nip out and pick up a panini or homemade pastry from Via Quadronno between Madison and Fifth, and when she felt like celebrating she’d head to Ladurée and indulge herself in a selection of macarons.