Julie Caplin - The Little Brooklyn Bakery - A heartwarming feel good novel full of cakes and romance!

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.

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 at the muscles in her shoulders, suddenly gave up its grip. With an almost involuntary little skip, she turned and checked her bearings. 57th Street.

She walked quickly, matching her pace to blend with everyone else, her nose alert to the smell of hot dogs and pretzels as she passed a couple of fast-food stands and her ears picking up on the American accents around her. Ahead, a tower block with a jagged silhouette of diamond-shaped glass panes beckoned. Recognising the magazine headquarters, she picked up her step. Up close it was even more imposing. What looked like hundreds of floors of steel and glass rose upwards from the original 1920s stone building which now made up the base.

Following the tide of people, trying to look nonchalant – after all, she was one of them now – she entered through the double doors and almost gasped. It was much cooler inside but the space was huge. Two escalators rose several stories up, alongside a wall of glass and water, the sound of the rushing liquid amplified by the space. She gulped. The country mouse had come to town.

Turnstiles guarded the entrance which people gaily slipped through. She turned right to the reception desk and waited while the girl behind it finished tidying the paper on it, before fixing a bored gaze upon her.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, hi, I’m …’ Words deserted her. ‘I’m … here …’ The name of the woman she was supposed to ask for had vanished. Completely wiped from her memory. ‘I’m starting work here today.’

‘Department?’

‘ CityZen Magazine.’

‘Name?’

‘Sophie. Sophie Bennings.’

The girl scanned her computer screen, her mouth tightening as if it really was too much trouble. Her frown deepened. She looked at Sophie again.

‘Can’tseeyoudownhere. Needa name.’

‘Pardon?’ Sophie could barely interpret the girl’s accent and quick-fire delivery.

‘I need a name.’

‘Erm …’ Sophie’s mind went blank. ‘Trudy … Trudy …’ No, it had gone. ‘Hold on a minute.’ Rummaging in her bag, she searched for her mobile. Why hadn’t she been more organised and written everything down?

Security was clearly tight. And she had no clue where she was supposed to be going.

The girl looked over her shoulder. ‘Morning, Sir. Can I help you?’

Dismissed summarily, Sophie paled and cursed her own stupidity. Emails. There were emails with everything in them. Where was her phone? She pulled out her purse. Make-up bag. Keys. No phone.

With horrible realisation, she remembered. Faffing about with the unfamiliar American adapter, plugging her phone in to charge.