Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson

know you, Nate,’ I began. ‘I don’t know how you feel about this lady. I’m presuming it is for a lady?’

      Nate’s eyes were very still. ‘It is for a lady, yes…’

      ‘Well, I’m not sure what to say.’

      The dark eyes remained intent on mine. ‘Please say what you think, Rosie.’

      ‘Um…it’s just that looking at you…well, you just don’t strike me as a man in love. Not truly, passionately, completely in love.’ I hesitated. Was that too much?

      ‘Go on,’ Nate insisted.

      ‘Or, at least, you don’t look like I imagine a man in love to look like. Not that I really know, of course…What I mean is I don’t…um…’ Mayday, mayday, mad Englishwoman in mortal danger of swallowing own foot! I chose a different approach. ‘I haven’t seen that many people who really look like they’re in love. My maternal grandparents did—even in their late eighties they walked everywhere hand in hand and would frequently finish one another’s sentences. Sometimes it was like they only had one mind between them. But they were definitely in the minority.’ I made a mental list of people in my life: Mum and Dad, Celia and Jerry, James, Ed, Marnie…I could honestly say that I had never seen any of them truly in love with someone. ‘This may be wrong, but I reckon if you love someone you shouldn’t need a whole day to determine how you feel about them. You should just…know, I guess. That sounds really harsh, doesn’t it?’

      Nate smiled but his eyes were far away. ‘No…you’re right. I should know. But I don’t. I—just don’t. People think I’m crazy; I mean, Caitlin’s beautiful, obviously. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not all it could be, you know?’

      After another silence, the lop-sided grin made a fleeting reappearance. ‘So, what about you, Rosie Duncan?’

      The question was a bolt from the blue. ‘Pardon?’

      Nate let out a laugh at my befuddled expression. ‘Ha, sorry, did I floor you there?’

      I swear he could hear my heart beating. ‘I—I thought we were talking about your story.’ Aha, nice move, there—the patented Duncan Dodge™—perfect for avoiding awkward questions. Sometimes it even works…But not today.

      The dark eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, we were. But your story seems so much more interesting.’

      ‘Well, I’m not the one ordering flowers.’ A masterstroke.

      My opponent held his hands up and laughed out loud, a sound that seemed to warm every corner of the store. ‘Touché! I surrender! So we’ll talk about me and me alone, then. If that’s the rule of our conversations I hereby agree to abide by them from now on. But I’ll remain intrigued: how do you know so much about what a man in love looks like?’

      We were entering forbidden territory and I felt my defences building, but something about Nate’s countenance prevented me from changing the subject. An inexplicable calm overcame me and the weirdest thing happened: I found myself wanting to trust this relative stranger. And that never happens. My words faltered as I ventured out onto uncertain terrain. ‘Well…I don’t know, really…I thought I did once, but…’

      ‘Go on.’ His voice was gentle and low—almost a whisper. I wasn’t sure I should continue. I mean, I didn’t really know him. But something about the softness of his expression made me continue.

      ‘But I was wrong. And it won’t happen again.’

      Surprised by this, he sat back, looking perplexed. ‘That sounds incredibly final, Rosie. I figured you as the ultimate romantic.’

      ‘I work with flowers. It’s an occupational hazard,’ I smiled, the old vulnerabilities beginning to show as I found myself hiding behind humour to avoid honesty. ‘I see romance every day. For other people. And it’s great—for them. I’m more than happy to watch other people’s dreams come true, because…’

      ‘It’s safer?’ Nate finished, with perception that was far too sharp for comfort.

      I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to remain In Control.

      ‘That’s a great shame,’ he remarked quietly. ‘So…the officially designated subject of Me and My Love Life it is then. I guess you read about my engagement?’

      His honesty startled me. ‘Celia told me. I don’t usually read the gossip columns, of course. Congratulations, then. I suppose that answers the question of what your story is.’

      Nate looked away. ‘It isn’t true, Rosie. That is to say, it shouldn’t be true. I still can’t figure out how I ended up engaged. See, I never expect things to go well but they have a habit of happening to me anyway.’ His eyes returned to me. ‘Know what I mean?’

      I had to smile. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I expect the best—always—and it never seems to happen for me. Maybe we should swap lives for a bit and then we’d both be happy.’

      A huge grin lit Nate’s features. ‘I like you, Rosie. Can we be friends?’

      Taken aback, I laughed. ‘We are friends.’

      Nate shook his head and waved his hand. ‘No, you don’t understand. I mean I’d like to get to know you—well. Look, Rosie, here’s the deal. It’s obvious I need some of your romantic optimism in order to enjoy my love life and…well…I guess you could use a healthy dose of pessimism to keep your heart safe. I’ll order flowers if you’ll listen to my muddle of thoughts and we’ll ask Old Faithful to provide the coffee. OK?’

      It was the most improbable and idiotic suggestion I think I’ve ever heard in my life so far. But I liked it.

      ‘OK, Mr Amie, you have a deal.’

      ‘So, what did Nate say about Caitlin?’ Celia was in grave danger of bouncing off her seat with anticipation.

      ‘Nothing,’ I replied truthfully, knowing this would never satisfy the active volcano sitting opposite me at the large maple table in her apartment. True to expectations, the Saturday tranquillity of the apartment was shattered as Mount Celia erupted.

      ‘He can’t just say nothing!’ she spluttered. ‘He must have said more?’ I shook my head and braced myself for her reaction. ‘Nate Amie is so infuriating! How can he not know whether he’s engaged or not? What is he thinking? He can’t possibly be in love with Caitlin Sutton! Doesn’t he know she can never make him happy?’

      I reached into the M&H Bakers bag and pulled out another of Luigi’s near-legendary double-choc-chip cookies. ‘I don’t think he expects her to make him happy,’ I said, taking a bite and thinking back to the conversation yesterday. ‘I think that’s the point: he doesn’t ever expect good stuff to happen. But it just does for him. So maybe he thinks he’ll be pleasantly surprised after all.’

      Celia scratched her head. ‘Seneca,’ she pronounced solemnly.

      ‘Who?’

      My nutty friend shook her head in pity at her ignoramus English companion. ‘Do you know nothing about Classics with all your generic history? Seneca was a Roman philosopher who actively practised pessimism, so nothing ever came as a surprise to him when bad things happened. His theory was that, this way, good things would always be a fortuitous occurrence because they were never expected. A classical genius he may’ve been, but that man has a lot to answer for.’

      ‘Celia, being your friend is a constant education. I am in awe.’

      She shot me a look and jumped up as another thought sent her hurtling onto a new topic. ‘Well, you won’t have seen this yet, but here we are.’ She produced a crisp copy of the New York Times, quickly flicked through till she found the article and read out the headline triumphantly. ‘“A Real English Rose Thrives in the Heart of Manhattan”—how about that?’

      The