The Little Brooklyn Bakery. Julie Caplin

      ‘Ouch, I felt that.’

      ‘You were supposed to. Mmm, it’s delicious.’

      ‘Sure you can eat all of that? It’s a mighty big cake. Lots of calories.’

      With a deliberate lick of her lips, ignoring the hopeful expression on his face, she savoured the tangy citrus sweetness of the frosting around her mouth, sighed heavily and gave him a smug look. ‘Oh yes, I’m going to enjoy every last one of them.’

      ‘You’re heartless, English. Heartless.’ He shook his head in mock sorrow, his lips curving in shared amusement.

      ‘You’d better believe it,’ she said, taking another thoughtful bite of the soft sponge, enjoying the exchange and ignoring the little butterfly-like flutters dancing in the pit of her stomach. Nothing to see here, she told herself firmly. Good looking, charming and totally shallow, light-hearted fun and nothing more. It was a while since she’d flirted with anyone and it felt rather liberating, especially when it didn’t mean a thing.

      ‘So, Mr Man About Town, can you fill me in on the local neighbourhood? I need to find somewhere to buy bed linen and towels.’ She paused. ‘Although maybe you’re not the best person to ask.’

      ‘Excuse me.’ He pointed to himself with his thumbs. ‘Man About Town. In touch with my feminine side.’

      ‘Really?’ She gave him a direct look.

      ‘And no, I’m not gay.’

      ‘I never said a word.’

      ‘It’s an inevitable side-effect of working on a women’s magazine. You absorb shopping stuff by osmosis. If you want serious thread count – see, I know this stuff – Nordstrom Rack for quality and discount, or T.J.Maxx for discount and a free for all. Just a couple of blocks away on Fulton Street. Here, let me mark on the map for you.’

      ‘I need to find a supermarket too, to buy …’ she couldn’t quite bring herself to say ‘groceries’.

      ‘A supermarket.’ He pursed his lips around the word, lifting the smooth column of his throat. ‘Jeez, I love how you say that, it’s so prim and proper.’ He grinned recklessly again. ‘Kinda sexy.’

      Sophie rolled her eyes at him, ignoring the thought that someone must have invented the word for him. ‘You need to get out more.’

      He laughed and scooted his chair closer to hers, pulling open the map. ‘Here, got a pen? I’ll mark a couple of grocery stores for you.’

      ‘I don’t have a pen.’

      ‘Here you go.’ He rooted in the canvas-and-leather man bag slung over his shoulder. Of course he had a man bag, he was so a man bag sort of man.

      ‘Associated Supermarkets on Fifth and Union Street is good. Not the nearest, but definitely one of the nicer ones. Turn right out of here, go down Union Street and then it’s a good six blocks but worth it. I’m guessing you can cook if you’re the new food columnist. I’ll have to get you to cook dinner some time, as we’re practically neighbours.’

      She raised a single eyebrow at his casual assumption, a trick she was inordinately proud of. ‘Sounds like a plan,’ she said, before adding just as he took a sip of coffee, ‘and you can do my washing.’

      With a choked laugh, he nearly spluttered his drink all over the table. ‘I like you, English. Funny girl. We’re going to get on just fine.’

      Sophie gave him a considering look.

      ‘Come on.’ He rose to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. ‘I’ll show you the way to the subway station and then from there you can walk on down to Fulton Street, to get your home wares. We’ll take a rain check on dinner as I’m sure you want to get settled. And I doubt you’ve got any laundry yet …’ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. ‘And you do know washing in the States is something completely different?’

      As she put her hand in his, there was no little frisson of electricity, no gentle sizzle between them, no … a bloody great thunderbolt of lust that almost floored her. Todd McLennan was more than bad news, he was the sort of news that she needed to stay well, well away from.

       Chapter 4

      For most of the subway journey, Sophie had been fascinated by the fantastically chic woman opposite her wearing a perfectly tailored black suit and her hair swept up in a perfect chignon. Despite her sleek elegance, Sophie couldn’t help staring at the clumpy white trainers on her feet. It made her smile. The epitome of New York chic and practicality.

      She pulled her cardigan around her. The carriage was a bit too cool, although she shouldn’t complain, as the fearsome air conditioning made a welcome contrast to the rich, warm fug of the London underground. The train streaked along, the station names unfamiliar and yet familiar, East Broadway, 2 Avenue, 42 Street Bryant Park, 47–50 Street – Rockefeller Center, and then suddenly 57 Street, her stop. With a quickening heart she grasped the pole as the train jerked to a halt, her pulse racing as she stepped out with the crowd swarming towards the exit.

      New York proper.

      She’d still woken at stupid o’clock this morning but had enjoyed a leisurely coffee out on the deck. Yesterday, after Todd had shown her the subway and helped her buy her a monthly metro card, he’d directed her down Bergen Street and then down Hoyt Street which led straight to Nordstrom on Fulton Street, with T.J.Maxx right next door. Even without looking at the map, it had been pretty easy to navigate. Despite her love of London, she had to admit she was rather taken with the straightforward grid system. It made finding her way back via a rather fab grocery store, so easy. She still thought, despite Todd’s protestation that it was impossible to get lost, that it was perfectly possible if you didn’t know your East from your West or your North from your South. Some of those streets went on for miles.

      Laden down with new bedding and a bale of towels, after spending far too long browsing among designer goodies, she’d only bought the basics in the supermarket and had treated herself to the rare convenience of a ready-roasted chicken. There was even a choice. Rosemary and lemon, garlic and herb or Caribbean. She’d also bought a copy of CityZen, leafing through it as she ate her solitary supper.

      When a seat came free on the subway, she sat down, taking the time to have another look at the magazine. No one ever need know that her first port of call was the Man About Town column. Todd’s picture leapt out from the glossy pages, his blue eyes enhanced perfectly by the open-necked shirt he wore. It was a great photo. The slight curve of his lips lazily (and yes, sexily) smiling up at her, as if he knew exactly what she and every other woman on the planet were thinking. She pursed her lips with a tolerant smile and shook her head. Todd oozed charisma and charm … and he knew it. He was the sort of person you should treat like an adorable puppy, knowing that his winsome friendliness was totally indiscriminate.

      As the train pulled into the station, she tucked the magazine back into her bag and let herself be carried along by the swell of people. She found herself deposited outside on the pavement, almost projected into the blare of the New York traffic. She stopped dead, exactly the way she hated tourists in London doing, but really! When you looked up, you kept looking up and up and up. Ignoring the tuts around her, she cricked her neck as she followed the line of the skyscrapers. She was really here. Manhattan. For a moment she stood and stared upwards, taking in the sight of the towering giants dwarfing everything around them, feeling slightly dizzy. The frisson of anxious nerves that had danced and sung in her veins since she’d woken to the alarm in her apartment vanished with a sudden unexpected bolt of excitement. New York. Seen in countless films, it felt both familiar and strange at once. This was going to be her life for the next six months. All the fear and roiling uneasiness that had been stored up for the last ten days, tightening the tendons in her neck, lining her stomach with nauseous intent and pinching