by Cara Colter
She’s a breath of fresh country air...
...in his big-city life!
When Jessica Winton’s dream job falls into her lap, she’s thrust from a small town into bustling Manhattan—and faced with tycoon Jamie Gilbert-Cooper. Her notoriously steely new boss is infamously tough to please, so Jessica’s stunned when he reluctantly takes her under his wing! As she comes alive in this exciting new world, she wonders: How much of that’s because of Jamie?
A Fairytale Summer!
Can the magic of friendship lead to love?
Once upon a time...
Jessica, Daisy and Aubrey left a Copenhagen music festival as lifelong friends after coming to the rescue of an adorable dog and his eternally grateful owner. What they didn’t realize is that they’d also left the festival with...
...a fairy godmother
CEO Vivian Ascot has watched over the three women ever since their extraordinary act of kindness. And it saddens her to see how they’ve gradually lost sight of their dreams over the years. So, this summer she anonymously bequeaths each of the girls a special gift to nudge them toward...
...happy-ever-after
They just need to find the courage to believe that each of Viv’s gifts could bring them a lifetime of happiness—and to embrace romance along the way!
Discover Jessica’s story in Cinderella’s New York Fling by Cara Colter
And look out for Daisy’s and Aubrey’s stories
Coming soon!
Dear Reader,
Enchantment.
At the heart of every successful romance story is that sense of being transported into a world where magic can happen, where an ordinary life can be transformed and where a fairy tale can unfold when it is least expected.
My relationship with the other writers in this series, A Fairytale Summer!, might sound like the beginning of a joke: once there was a Canadian, an Englishwoman and an Australian... But, in actual fact, the experience has been an absolute dream.
Sophie Pembroke and Ally Blake bring voices to this series that are fun, fresh and young. Their ideas have been bold, creative and inspiring. I can’t wait for you, the reader, to fall in love with them as much as I have!
As a writer, it is so rewarding to be the one who waves the magic wand. Welcome to the summer enchantment that Sophie, Ally and I have created just for you.
With best wishes,
Cara Colter
Cinderella’s New York Fling
Cara Colter
Cara Colter shares her life in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, with her husband, nine horses Thanand one small Pomeranian with a large attitude. She loves to hear from readers, and you can learn more about her and contact her through Facebook.
Books by Cara Colter
Harlequin Romance
A Crown by Christmas
Cinderella’s Prince Under the Mistletoe
The Vineyards of Calanetti
Soldier, Hero...Husband?
Housekeeper Under the Mistletoe
The Wedding Planner’s Big Day
Swept into the Tycoon’s World
Snowbound with the Single Dad
His Convenient Royal Bride
Tempted by the Single Dad
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To Ally Blake and Sophie Pembroke.
There was a knock on my door one day, and two lovely strangers stood there and said, “Can you come out and play?”
Praise for
Cara Colter
“Ms. Colter’s writing style is one you will want to continue to read. Her descriptions place you there.... This story does have a HEA but leaves you wanting more.”
—Harlequin Junkie on His Convenient Royal Bride
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Excerpt from Bound by the Prince’s Baby by Jessica Gilmore
PROLOGUE
IT ALL HAPPENED so quickly.
But then, that is probably what most people would say of a catastrophe. One hardly gets out of bed in the morning meticulously planning for disaster. No, it has a tendency to spring on one when it is least expected. At my advanced age—seventy-four—things going awry should hardly take me by surprise.
But they do, and it did.
I was walking through Faelledparken, delighted with both my escape from my tiresome head of security and with how the famous Copenhagen park had been transformed for the Annual Ascot Music Festival, held in a different country every summer.
The park had been turned into a lovely little village of colorful tents that featured all kinds of drinks, food, trinkets and souvenirs. There were smaller stages scattered throughout for some of the less well-known singers and bands to perform. Street performers juggled and did cartwheels and magic tricks.
This year’s festival was titled Carlene to Celine and Everything in Between. I thought it was very catchy and modern, though one of the PR men—they prefer the term “marketing executive” now—had the audacity to roll his eyes when I suggested it. I wished, for a very brief moment, that the super suave, I’m the expert on everything man, with his hyphenated name, was walking with me to see how that title was displayed everywhere, eclipsed by the much larger Ascot Presents.
The name Ascot even eclipsed Carlene, which, of course, was my intention, though I would act properly horrified if anyone pointed it out as the shameless publicity move for Ascot that it was. When I took my inherited family fortune to the next level—the Ascot brand was now a household name in products that ranged from pharmaceuticals to kitchen faucets—I learned that women in business had to be shrewd and smart, and very careful not to let anyone know just how shrewd and how smart they were.
Carlene herself, the headline act, would be performing in about fifteen minutes and throngs of people were heading through the park to the stadium. Certainly no one took any notice at all of me, a gracious elderly lady in a colorful head scarf, sunglasses and a sweater that was...er...perhaps a touch bulky.
It was all very exciting, and there was a kind of energy to the crowd that was invigorating. But little by little I began to feel that familiar bombardment that reminded me why I avoided crowds.
That man needs some vitamin C.
That woman needs a baby.
The thoughts were coming faster and faster and were followed by a heightened perception of the crowds being quite crushing and the evening being very warm.
I hadn’t exactly counted on the heat when I thought of Denmark on a summer’s evening or when I stuffed Max under my sweater.
People are always so quick to offer their judgments, and I’m sure many people would say having a dachshund snuggled under my sweater at such a crowded venue was practically inviting trouble.
But Max suffers from separation anxiety and it had been made worse by jet lag and a hotel room he was unfamiliar with. The poor little fellow could hardly go pee he was so discombobulated. The only place he seemed to settle was under my sweater. I felt a bit like a mother kangaroo with her joey, a nice feeling, since I had never had children myself.
That nice feeling lasted precisely until I walked by a performer who chose the very moment of my passin
g to clank a pair of oversize cymbals together.
Max let out a yelp, scrambled up my belly and chest leaving, I’m sure, a trail of red welts that marked his desperation.
He exploded out the neckline of my sweater, leaped onto my shoulder and hesitated for only one brief moment before he launched himself over my back.
I whirled in time to see him hit the ground and tumble. He was wearing the most adorable little sailor outfit and the hat fell off. He found his feet and raced off, in the opposite direction of the crowds heading to the stadium.
“Max!”
You would think the desperation in my voice would have been enough to stop the little bugger, but no, he cast one glance back at me, looking distinctively pleased, not frightened in the least, and quickly lost himself in the sea of legs marching toward me.
I practically risked my life to rescue the hat from the crush of stamping feet before attempting to follow him. I can’t describe the pure panic I was feeling, clutching his jaunty little hat to my chest. That little dog is my whole world. I practically own the earth, and in that second, I was aware I would trade every single bit of my fortune for him.
The futility of trying to follow him soon became apparent. I could not make my way through the crowds. Frankly, it was like being in a nightmare where you are trying to run and you cannot move.
My invisibility was terrifying. It was as if no one saw me at all as I pushed the wrong way. I got only brief, annoyed glances, as if I had been drinking too much. As if to confirm the worst suspicions of all these strangers, I suddenly stumbled and felt my ankle turn. Pain shot through it.
I allow myself very few vulnerable moments, but there I stood, paralyzed and trembling, wondering if my ankle, which felt as if a red-hot poker had been thrust through it, was going to give out on me. If it did, surely I would be trampled.
And then she appeared, like an angel. A young woman stopped in that endless push toward the Carlene concert, and looked at me. People flowed around us unceasingly, as if we were two rocks in a stream.
I knew right away she was a good person. Her eyes were huge and brown and probably the gentlest eyes I had ever seen.
“Are you all right?” she asked me. She spoke English, without an accent, which made me think she was North American. She touched my shoulder.
I practically threw myself into her arms and instead of pushing me away, as if she was being accosted by a crazy person, her arms folded around me.
She was very slender, and yet she felt ten feet tall and enormously strong.
“My dog,” I sobbed. “He’s escaped. He went that way.”
Feeling foolish and old I stepped back from her embrace, wincing at the pain in my ankle, and pointed a quavering arm in the direction Max had gone.
It was then I noticed she was with a man. He was one of those supremely attractive types, who have an inborn knowledge of their own superiority. He had that way about him, of a very good-looking man, as if he was doing this woman some kind of favor by being with her. Even though she was being protective of me, I actually, despite my distress, felt very protective of her.
“Ralph,” she said, pronouncing it in the German way, Rolf, “this poor woman has lost her dog. Can you go find him?”
He gave her an astonished glare and looked, rather pointedly, at his very expensive wristwatch. It was clear he didn’t want to miss the opening song of the concert, had probably put out a lot of money for front row seats.
The woman gave him a look.
I saw right away that she was seeing things about him that she had not seen before or maybe had seen but, in the heat of romance, had dismissed. I think he saw her blossoming awareness, too, because he turned begrudgingly to me and with the outmost reluctance asked after the dog.
“What kind of dog?”
“He’s a dachshund. He’s wearing a sailor suit.”
The man—I decided I hated him in general, and him for her in particular—raised an eyebrow at her that spoke absolute volumes. We’re going to miss Carlene’s opening set for a crazy old lady who probably doesn’t even own a dog. But he set off the way they had come.
“His name is Max,” I called out helpfully, but I realized that man was not going to go through the crowd shouting for the dog.
I began to tremble uncontrollably, partly from the pain in my ankle, but mostly from thinking of Max lost out there in this absolute sea of people.
“Are you hurt?” the young woman asked me.
“I seem to have turned my ankle.”
She quickly had her shoulder under my arm, and again I realized she was much stronger than she appeared. She practically carried me out of the press of the crowd and off to a tea stand set up under a colorful yellow-striped awning, with a scattering of mismatched plastic tables and chairs under it.
A young woman was just getting up from a table. She was clutching her Carlene ticket as if she had waited her whole life for this moment. She saw me, crying, and she saw my angel, and she hesitated, and then made a decision.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, approaching us. She had short dark hair and she was quite petite, like she could be cast for Tinker Bell in Peter Pan. She had some kind of instrument slung over her shoulder in a case—perhaps a violin or a ukulele, making me think that, as well as being desperate to see the Carlene concert, she might be one of the lesser known performers here. She was British, like me, and for some reason I found that quite comforting.
“Not really. My friend has lost her dog. And hurt her ankle, I’m afraid.”
Friend.
Not Crazy lady keeping her from the concert.
“Oh, dear,” she said, and then I had two angels, as she rushed to support my other side. The tent café was empty—of course it was, everyone was heading to the concert—so we had no problem finding a nearby table.
“Do you think you need medical attention?” the British girl asked.
“I need my dog!” I said and my voice came out in an embarrassingly quavering wail.
“What kind of dog?” she asked gently.
Again, I was so grateful not be asked why I had brought a dog to the event. Even though Denmark is one of the most dog-friendly nations I have ever visited, obviously bringing Max this evening had been pushing it just a wee bit.
“A dachshund.”
She won me forever when she smiled at me, her green eyes sparking with good humor, and said, “I adore dachshunds. What’s his name? I’ll go have a look.”
“His name is Max.” I hesitated a moment, thinking of the man’s reaction, but anything that would help had to be divulged. “He’s wearing a sailor suit.”
“A dachshund in a sailor suit,” she said. “Honestly, you have made my day. Maybe my whole week.”
This from someone on her way to the most coveted concert of the year! But she put the Carlene ticket in her pocket, as if it didn’t matter a whit to her, and was soon lost in that crowd, shouting after Max.
My remaining angel went and fetched me a cup of hot tea.
She was just the loveliest girl in an understated kind of way. She was dressed in a rather unexciting pair of capris and a knit tank top I could only describe as the color of porridge. Aside from her eyes, which were quite astonishing in both the doe-darkness of them and their size, she was what I might call plain. She had shoulder-length, light brown hair, and even, but unremarkable features, and the willowy build of those disinterested in food.
She obviously intended to distract me, because she chatted, even though she had that reserved air about her of the type who would not enjoy being chatty with strangers. She told me her name was Jessica Winton, and that she was from a small town in Canada, where she owned a bookstore named, adorably, The Book and Cranny.
“Difficult to compete with the online giants,” I commented.
“Not really,” she said, “because my view
is that a bookstore is no longer just about selling books. If anything, the online world is creating an even deeper need for connection.”
She went on to say that people thought brick-and-mortar bookstores were going to go the way of the dinosaur, but she disagreed. She felt bookstores needed to reinvent themselves as the hub of the community.
I could see she did have a gift for connection, because I felt connected just talking to her. I could also see that she was an astute businesswoman, and she reminded me, just a bit, of my younger self. She had succeeded in taking my mind off both my missing dog and my throbbing ankle.
I indulged my curiosity about her. “Do you travel a great deal?”
She gave a little self-deprecating snort. She told me she had never traveled abroad before, and that this was her first real adventure. She said that all her previous adventures had been between the covers, and then added of books and gave a little laugh. I could tell, even as distracted and panicky as I was about poor Max, that her adventure might not be turning out exactly as planned.
“Is that man your boyfriend?” I asked, putting unnecessary emphasis on that. One of the few perks of being old is you can be as direct as you want.
Jessica hesitated, and then looked uncomfortable. “We’ve been back and forth online for nearly a year. This is our first actual time together. I thought...”
She let her sentence drift off, but I’m afraid I could tell exactly what she thought, poor thing.
With an ocean between them, and his rather stellar good looks, she had thought he was her Prince Charming.
I had nearly finished the tea, and despite how much I might have enjoyed my companion in other circumstances, I felt deflated and exhausted, and as if I needed to go back to my hotel room, to the inevitable finger-shaking of my head of security, and to begin to mourn the loss of my beloved Max.
But just as I had given up hope, that girl who had put her ticket in her pocket emerged from the crowd, and she was with another girl. They could have been sisters, they looked so much alike with that spiky, very short hair, and both of them with petite builds.
