Miracle On 5th Avenue. Sarah Morgan

Cold. Distant. Intimidating. Formidable.

      And obviously not a lover of herbal tea.

      Her brief glimpse inside his study had shown her that the room was nothing like the rest of the apartment. It smelled of wood smoke and leather, and had both personality and warmth. A warmth that came from more than the flickering fire. Unlike the rest of his apartment, his office space had been furnished with loving care and attention. Two worn, deep leather sofas faced each other across a low table piled high with books. Not coffee-table books chosen as a design accent, but real books, thumbed at the corners and stacked haphazardly as if they’d only recently been read.

      There had been a desk, she remembered, dominated by what appeared to be a very expensive computer, and there was also a laptop. The room was graced with the same soaring glass windows that enveloped the rest of the apartment, but the image that remained with her was of the bookshelves. They’d stretched from floor to ceiling and were packed with more books than she’d ever seen in her life outside a library. The covers didn’t match and leather-bound volumes were interspersed with the less durable paperbacks, the lines on their spines suggesting that they were well-read and well loved.

      She was curious to know what Lucas Blade read when he wanted to escape from his own work and his own world. Did he read crime fiction or something different?

      She’d had no opportunity to take a closer look. With a single glance and a few carefully chosen words, he’d made it clear that she was intruding on his space.

      He didn’t want her here. She wasn’t welcome.

      But before she’d turned away, she’d learned one other thing. Perhaps the most important thing of all. Whatever Lucas was doing in his office, it wasn’t writing.

      The computer screen had been blank. Had it been smaller, she might not have noticed but as it was she’d managed to read two words—Chapter One.

      There had been nothing else.

      What had he been doing up there in the weeks he’d supposedly been hiding away and writing? What had he been doing while she’d been familiarizing herself with his kitchen?

      Not working, that she was sure about.

      In the few awkward moments before she’d plucked up the courage to knock on his door, she’d heard silence. There had been no sound. Nothing. No rhythmic rattle of fingers on a keyboard. No tap of the space bar. No soft whirr of a printer.

      If she hadn’t seen him disappear inside, she would have assumed the room was empty.

      She felt a pang of empathy.

      After her grandmother had died she’d struggled to drag herself out of bed. If it hadn’t been for her friends, she probably wouldn’t have bothered.

      Where were Lucas’s friends?

      Why weren’t they banging on his door and bringing him hot meals? Why weren’t they insisting he left the apartment?

      Because they thought he was in Vermont. Everyone thought he was in Vermont.

      Only she knew differently.

      She glanced up the elegant curve of the stairs to the closed door, wondering how to handle the situation. She wasn’t exactly in a position to criticize him for his lack of social life. She couldn’t even get herself a date. She was hardly qualified to rekindle his flagging inspiration, or whatever it was that was preventing him from writing. All she could do was make sure he was well fed. That, at least, was within the scope of her experience.

      What would tempt him? It had to smell good, be quick and easy to eat and not too heavy.

      She opened the fridge, now fully stocked, and pulled out cheese, eggs and milk.

      She’d whip up a soufflé, light and fluffy, serve it with some of the fresh salad leaves she’d purchased earlier. And she’d make bread.

      Who could resist the smell of freshly baked bread?

      For the next few hours she whisked, poured and kneaded. She rarely consulted a recipe and never weighed anything. Instead she relied on instinct and experience. Neither had failed her yet. She added rosemary and sea salt to the dough and made a few notes in the small book she always carried so she could add the recipe to her blog later.

      She’d started her blog, Eat with Eva, as a way of recording and remembering all that her grandmother had taught her. To begin with she’d only had a few loyal followers, but they were growing rapidly and what had started out as an interest and a hobby had turned into a passion and a job. She’d been as surprised by the discovery that she could earn her living doing what she loved as she was by the surge in her own ambition.

      She wanted this to be big. Not because she wanted fame and fortune, but because she wanted to spread the word about good, simple cooking to everyone. With that objective in mind, she tried only to use simple ingredients that could be easily sourced. She wanted people to use her recipes after a hard day at work, not just for the occasional dinner party.

      She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t cooked. One of her earliest memories was of standing on a chair next to the stove, concentrating as her grandmother taught her how to make the perfect omelet.

      At Urban Genie, she rarely did the cooking herself. Her job was to outsource catering, and she spent her days discussing menus, meeting with new suppliers, managing budgets.

      It was a pleasure to be back in the kitchen, especially a kitchen as well equipped as this one. And part of that pleasure was the feeling of being close to her grandmother, as if this memory and the happy feelings were something that couldn’t be erased by her absence. It was a way of keeping her alive, of remembering the touch, the smells, the smiles that had been exchanged during activities exactly like this one.

      She’d discovered that a legacy wasn’t money, it was memories. And inside her was a treasure trove of a thousand special moments.

      She shaped the dough into rolls, scored the tops and placed them on a baking tray.

      Out of the corner of her eye she spied the knife that Lucas had left on the table.

      Having witnessed plenty of accidents in the kitchens where she’d worked, she was obsessively careful with knives.

      After a moment, she picked it up and slid it into the back of one of the drawers so that it was hidden from view.

      It occurred to her that if he tried to harm himself with that knife it would now be covered in her fingerprints and she paused, horrified by her thought process.

      She pushed the drawer closed, exasperated with herself and also with him because she knew exactly who had put that thought in her head. He had, with his comments about never really knowing a person. Even though she disagreed with him, his words had seeped into her mind and contaminated her usually sunny thoughts, like poison dropped into a clear mountain stream.

      Unsettled, she slid the softly curved rolls into the oven. Hopefully Lucas would give them a more positive response than he had the herbal tea.

      While she waited for them to cook, she tidied up. At home her untidy nature had been a source of argument between herself and Paige, who had shared an apartment with her for years. The only exception to her tendency to drop things where she stood was in the kitchen. Her kitchen was always spotless.

      Timing it perfectly, she removed the rolls from the oven, leaned in to inhale the delicious fragrance and transferred them to a wire cooling rack. The magic of baking never failed to charm her.

      While she waited for the soufflé to rise, she pulled out her phone and took a photo of the rolls, focusing in on the domed, crusty surfaces. She posted it to her Instagram account and noted that the number of her followers had rocketed since the day before. She’d been experimenting, working out what time of day attracted most traffic.

      Frankie loathed social media. Paige, the business brain behind their company, understood the importance of building a connection with customers but had no