New York, Actually: A sparkling romantic comedy from the bestselling Queen of Romance

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 that 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.

She’d explored Manhattan and discovered hidden salsa clubs, arts clubs, jazz clubs. She roamed the galleries, the Met, the Frick and the Guggenheim. But her favorite place was the sprawling expanse of Central Park, a brisk ten-minute walk from her small apartment. She and Valentine spent hours exploring hidden corners together.

She flicked on her laptop and reached for her water while she waited for the machine to boot. Her desk was cluttered. Papers stacked high, scribbles and notes, two coffee mugs abandoned and forgotten. When she worked, she focused and that included blocking out the mess.

When her phone rang she checked the caller ID and answered immediately. “Dad! How are you doing?” She listened as her father told her about his latest adventure. He’d moved from London a few months before her embarrassing fall from grace, something for which she would forever be thankful. Having retired from his job in an electronics company, he’d bought himself an RV and proceeded on an epic road trip of the continental US, exploring his homeland state by state. In a dusty, sunbaked town in Arizona he’d met Carly and they’d been together ever since.

Molly had met her once and liked her, but what she liked most of all was that her father was so happy. She remembered watching him, stumbling his way through those first few years after her mother had left, his confidence drowned in the wake of monumental rejection.

She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d started encouraging him to date. It had started in school, during her teenage years, when she’d realized that she was more interested in observing other people’s relationships than in having one herself. And observing had uncovered an ability to match people up. She could see it so clearly. Who would be good together and who wouldn’t. Whose relationship would last, and whose would crash on the rocks at the first sign of rough seas. Word had spread that she had a gift. And she loved using that gift. Why not? It was hard to find the right person in this crowded, crazy world. Sometimes people needed a little help.

They’d called her The Matchmaker. Which was a lot better than the name she’d earned herself a few years later.

At school, most of her lunchtimes and a large chunk of her evenings were taken up giving relationship advice. Having seen her father exhaust himself trying to please her mother and failing, she’d always encouraged people to be themselves. If you weren’t loved for who you were, a relationship had no future. She knew that. If you weren’t enough for someone, you’d never be enough.

No matter how hard he’d tried, her father hadn’t been enough for her mother.

Molly hadn’t been enough for her mother either.

Her father’s voice boomed down the phone, dragging her back to the present. “How’s my girl?”

“I’m good.” She deleted a few spam emails with a stab of her finger. “Busy. Working on proofs of my next book.”

“Always helping other people with their relationships. How about your own? And I’m not talking about Valentine.”

“I have plenty of men in my life, Dad. I have a packed schedule. Tuesday and Friday is salsa dancing, Thursday is spin class, Wednesday is cooking class, Monday is theater group—there are men at all those places.”

“But you’re single.”

“That’s right. It’s because I’m single I can do all those things.”

“Relationships are important, honey. You’re the one who always told me that.”

“I have relationships. I had supper with Gabe and Mark a few nights ago. Mark is taking an Italian cookery class. His tortellini is incredible, you should taste it.”

“Gabe and Mark are gay.”

“So? They’re my closest friends.” Although she’d never truly tested that friendship, of course. She’d discovered to her cost that the test of true friendship was whether you were willing to stand by someone being named and shamed. She seriously hoped she never had to test that out again. “And friendship is a relationship. They’re great listeners and very happy together. It’s good to be around them.”

“You know you’re a hypocrite? All those years you tried to pair me up with someone and told me to take the risk, but you won’t take the risk yourself.”

“That’s different. I didn’t like seeing you on your own. You have wonderful qualities that were crying out to be shared with someone special.”

“You have wonderful qualities, too, Molly.” He made a little sound. “Still feels weird calling you that.”

“It’s my name, Dad.”

“But not one we ever used until you moved to New York. Do you feel like Molly?”

“I definitely feel like Molly. I like being Molly. And I share Molly’s qualities with a bunch of people who appreciate them.”

A sigh reverberated down the phone. “I worry about you. I worry this is all my fault. I feel responsible.”

“You’re not responsible.” It was a conversation they’d had numerous times over the years, despite the fact that in the weeks and months after her mother had left, Molly had only ever cried in the bathroom where her father couldn’t witness her distress. The rest of the time she pretended she was coping well because she hadn’t wanted to make it worse for him. It was hideously unjust, she thought, that he felt guilty about something over which he’d had no control.

“Carly read your book. She thinks you have abandonment issues.”

“She’s right. I do. But I came to terms with that a long time ago.” Molly picked up her pen and started doodling on the pad next to her desk. Maybe she should get a coloring book. They were the latest non-medicinal stress reliever. She glanced at Valentine. “Maybe I could use a black marker pen and join your dots.”

“What?” Her father sounded confused. “Why are you using marker pen?”

“I’m not. It was a joke. Dad, you need to stop worrying about me. I’m the psychologist in this relationship.”

“I know, and I know people talk to you about everything. But who do you talk to, honey? Do something for me. Go on a date. Do it for me.”

“Do you have anyone in mind? Or should I just grab the first person I meet on the street?” She thought about the man in the park with the wicked blue eyes and the sexy smile. Just thinking about him was enough to get her heart pumping a little harder.

“If that’s what it takes. Just get out there. Get your confidence back. In all those things you go to, you’re telling me you haven’t met a single man who has gained your attention?”

“Not one.” Molly glanced at Valentine, pleased that he couldn’t talk. If he could, right now he’d be calling her a liar. “So where are you and Carly going next?”

“Traveling north to Oregon. We’re going to hike part of the Pacific Crest Trail.”

“Have fun and send me photos.”

“Carly has started a blog, You’re Never Too Old to Be Bold.”

“I’ll take a look. And now I need to go, I have a ton of work to do. Go and be bold. Only try not to do it in public. And give Carly my love.” With a smile, she ended the call and returned to her computer.

She was happy being single. And if that seemed like a strange admission for someone who specialized in relationships, she didn’t care. These days she separated her work life from her real life.

Her mind wandered back to the guy in the park. For a few forbidden seconds she wondered what it would be like to be with a man like him and then she snapped herself back to the present.

She knew what it would be like to be with a man like him. Trauma and trouble.

She wasn’t going to wonder if she was a coward for not accepting his offer of coffee.

It wasn’t cowardice, it was common sense.

It meant that she’d learned from experience, and experience told her that an invitation to coffee didn’t stop there. It was a beginning, not an end, and she wasn’t in the mood to begin anything. Especially not with a man like Daniel. Daniel…? She realized she didn’t know his last name.

She opened an email and read the question.

Dear Aggie, my mother picked out sexy underwear for my girlfriend but she’s refusing to wear it. Why?

With a groan of despair, Molly sat back in her chair and reached for her water.

Was the guy serious?

Because nothing says “I care” like underwear picked out by your mother.

Some men didn’t have a clue.

She sighed and started to type.

Not only was she making a good living by doing what she did, she was performing a public service.

* * *

The next day there was no sign of him.

Valentine ran in circles, sniffing the ground and the air, looking hopeful. When it was obvious that he was going to be playing alone he sent her a long reproachful look.

“Not my fault.” Molly paused to draw breath. “Or maybe it is my fault. I gave him the brush-off, but trust me, it was the right thing to do. Let’s go.”

Valentine sat, refusing to budge.

“There is no point in us hanging around because I can tell you now he’s not going to show. And that’s good. I’m glad he’s not here.” She felt an unfamiliar tug in her gut. “You have a lot to learn about relationships. They’re complicated. Even friendships. My advice is to lower your expectations. People let you down and disappoint you. I’m guessing dogs might be the same. Looking out for Brutus is a very bad thing.”

Valentine ignored her and sniffed the ground, passing up the company of a sleek-looking Labrador and an overenthusiastic bulldog in his search for his preferred companion.

Breathless from her run, Molly stretched and then sat down on a bench.

That feeling inside her couldn’t possibly be disappointment, could it? She’d spoken to him once. Once, that was all.

But they’d been exchanging glances for a week, and those glances had shifted from a look to a smile, and then the smile had shifted from polite to personal. The result was that she felt as if she’d known him for a while.

Annoyed with herself, she stood up and was about to continue with her run when Valentine gave an ecstatic bark and all but pulled the lead from her hand.

She turned her head and there was Daniel, strolling toward her, Brutus’s lead in his right hand and a tray filled with four cups in his left.

Even from this distance he was striking. A female jogger slowed her pace as she passed him, turning her head to check whether the rear view was as good as the front, but Daniel didn’t spare her a glance. Molly wondered if attracting female attention was so much a part of his life that he no longer noticed it.

Or maybe the reason he didn’t notice was that his gaze was fixed on her.

As he drew closer, her heart bumped hard against her ribs. Her dormant sexuality woke from its long sleep and awareness spread across her skin and settled somewhere deep in her belly. The knowledge that she wanted him came with a tremor of shock.

It brought back memories of the first time she’d met Rupert. It had been like touching an electric fence. Five thousand volts of pure sexual energy had shot through her, frying her brain and fusing her entire early warning system. Deprived of its protection, she’d stumbled blindly into that relationship, forgetting her personal limitations in that area. She’d recognized later, while analyzing it with the benefit of hindsight, that she’d been dazzled.

She’d never allowed herself to be dazzled again. No more broken hearts.

Dear Aggie, there’s this guy I really like, but I sense that getting involved with him would be a bad idea. On the other hand he makes me feel the way no other man ever has. What should I do?

You should listen to the voice telling you it’s a bad idea and run, Molly thought. Sprint, don’t jog. Sprint fast in the opposite direction.

The past three years had all been about rebuilding her career and her confidence. She wasn’t about to do anything that might threaten that.

There were areas of the park where dogs were allowed off the lead at certain times of the day, and this was one of them, so she let Valentine off the lead and he bounded toward Brutus, greeting him with tail-wagging ecstasy.

She removed the cap from her water and took a few hasty swallows.

Had he seen her sitting? Did he think she’d been waiting, hoping to see him?

She wished now that she’d carried on running.

Her father was right. She was a hypocrite. If she’d been offering advice she would have warned women to stay away from him, or at least be wary, and here she was as eager to see him as Valentine was to see Brutus.

“Sorry I’m late.” His smile would have lit a dark night and she felt something flutter behind her ribs.

It was a good job she was excellent at resisting men, otherwise she’d be in trouble.

“What are you late for?” She managed to sound normal. Relaxed. But it was all for nothing because his smile told her he knew she’d been waiting. And hoping.

She was sure that a man like him was used to women waiting and hoping.

How many hearts had he broken? How many dreams had he shattered?

“I would have been here ten minutes ago but the line was longer than usual.”

“The line?”

“At the coffee shop. Since you refused to come with me for a coffee, I brought the drinks to you.”

She’d come to the conclusion long ago that there were two types of people in life. There was the type who saw an obstacle and gave up, and then there was the type like him—people who ignored the obstacle and simply found a different way to reach their goal.

“I don’t drink cappuccino.”

“Which is why I bought tea. You’re British, so you have to drink tea.” Still holding Brutus, he sat. “English Breakfast or Earl Grey? That I couldn’t figure out.”

“So which did you bring?”

“Both. I’m a man who likes to cover all bases.”

“Are you always this persistent?”

He smiled, untangling Brutus from the lead with his free hand. “Fortune does not favor those who give up at the first hurdle.”

“Old Chinese proverb?”

“All American. One of mine. Sit. I said sit.”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Me or the dog?”

His eyes gleamed. “Both of you, but I’m guessing neither of you are going to listen. That’s how my day rolls.”

She didn’t sit, but she did smile. “What if I tell you I only drink peppermint?”

“Then I’m screwed.” He fed the lead under Brutus’s leg in an attempt to untangle it. “But you don’t seem to me to be a ‘peppermint’ type of woman. Maybe you don’t drink coffee, but you need your caffeine.”

“I do drink coffee. But not cappuccino. And I happen to love Earl Grey tea.”

“I’ll try not to be smug.” He handed her one of the cups. “Earl Grey. With a slice of lemon.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I never joke about beverages, especially after the week I’ve had. Caffeine is my drug of choice, during the daytime at least.”

She watched as Brutus and Valentine played together. “We can let the dogs off the lead here.”

“Brutus isn’t good at coming back when he’s called.”

“He’ll come back if Valentine is here.”

He evaluated the risk and then unclipped the lead. “You’d better be right about this or I have a feeling that the next time I see him I’m going to be picking him up from New Jersey.”

“He’ll come. Watch. Valentine!”

Valentine skidded to a halt and turned to look at her. Then he shot toward her and Brutus followed.

“Good boy.” She made a fuss and sent him off again.

“Do you have that effect on all guys?”

“Always.” She peeled the top off her cup to cool the tea. “I can’t believe we’re sitting on a bench in Central Park and I’m drinking Earl Grey tea with lemon.” She sat next to him on the bench, leaving enough space between them to be sure her leg wouldn’t accidentally brush against his. If talking to him had this effect on her, she didn’t want to risk touching. “Do you ever take no for an answer?”