Sarah Morgan - New York, Actually - A sparkling romantic comedy from the bestselling Queen of Romance

“Only when no is the answer I want. And in this case it wasn’t.”

Laughter drifted across to them and she glanced up and saw a woman in a long white bridal dress embracing a man in a suit while a photographer snapped away. The couple staged a few intimate embraces and Molly wished they’d picked a different place for their photos. The scene made her feel awkward. It didn’t feel as if it was something she should be witnessing, especially not with a stranger.

“Never understood the point of that.” Daniel stretched out his legs, as relaxed as she was tense. “Staged photos. As if they need to make a public statement about how happy they are.”

“Maybe they are happy.”

“Maybe.” He turned his head to look at her. “You believe in Happy Ever After?”

There was something about the intensity of that gaze that made it hard to remember what she believed about anything.

“Of course.” She believed in it for other people, just not for herself. Happy Ever After Together was her goal for other people. Her own goal was Happy By Herself. And she was doing well with that. “I guess it’s a good time of year for wedding photos. The blossom is pretty.”

“Let’s hope they don’t look back on those photos in five years’ time and think, ‘what the hell were we thinking?’”

It was exactly the sort of remark she might have made herself, except in her case she would have also been wondering how they met and what they had in common. Would it last?

“I gather you’re not married.” She took a sip of her tea, thinking that a man like him, who probably had the pick of women, was unlikely to tie himself to just one.

“I’m not married. How about you? Have you left some guy sated and exhausted in the bedroom?”

“Ten guys. There’s a chance they may never recover. If they’re still there when I get home, I’m calling an ambulance.”

He laughed. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that about you. If you’re ever looking for one guy to replace the ten, you know where I am.”

“You have the stamina of ten?”

“Want to test it out?”

“Not right now.” This was the type of exchange she was comfortable with. The type that went nowhere and was all superficial. And he was good at it. Good at that breathless, heady flirtation that was as light as a butterfly and just as unlikely to linger in one spot. “How about you? Do you have ten women waiting at home?”

“I hope not. I’m pretty sure I locked the door.”

He was so outrageous it was impossible not to laugh, too.

“You don’t believe in marriage?” The moment the question left her mouth, she regretted it. She wished she had picked an impersonal topic, like the unpredictable weather, or the sudden rush of tourists crowding the New York streets. Anything other than the intimate topic of relationships. Now he’d think she was invested in the answer, and then he’d wonder if, for her, this was more than a cup of tea on a park bench on a sunny spring morning.

“I’ve taken a lot of risks in my life—parachute jumping, BASE jumping—never marriage.” His tone suggested that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

“You see marriage as a risk?”

“Of course it’s a risk. If you find the right person, I’m sure marriage is great. But finding the right person—” he shrugged “—that’s the hard part. Easier to get it wrong than get it right. How about you?”

The dogs chased each other back to the bench and Daniel leaned forward to make a fuss over Brutus. She saw his shirt pull tight over his shoulders, molding to powerful muscle.

“Never.” She watched as he picked up one of the other cups and took a sip. “Who is the fourth cup for?”

“Me.”

“You bought yourself two drinks? You have a problem with decision making?”

“No. I have a problem with staying awake when I work until two in the morning. As I said, it’s my drug of choice. I need two coffees in the morning. These are my two coffees. So what do you do, Molly? No—let me guess. Your dog is well trained and you’re clearly a strict disciplinarian so you could be a teacher, but I sense that you’re not. I think whatever it is you do, you’re your own boss. You’re clearly smart, so I figure you have your own business. You work from home, maybe? Somewhere close to here. Writer? Journalist? Am I right?”

“To a point.” She felt herself instinctively retreat. She reminded herself that she worked under a pseudonym. It was like sliding on a disguise. “I do some writing as part of my job, but I’m not a journalist.”

“What do you write? Or are you going to make me guess? Is it dirty? If so, I definitely want to read it.”

She knew enough about human nature to know that not telling him would simply make the subject more interesting. “I’m a psychologist.”

“So you’re analyzing my behavior.” He lowered his cup. “I don’t mind admitting that’s a little unsettling. And now I’m going back over our conversation trying to remember what I said. On the other hand you’re still sitting here so it couldn’t have been anything too bad.”

She was still sitting here, and no one was more surprised about that than she was.

“Maybe I’m still sitting here because I think you’re a lost cause who needs help.”

He nodded. “I’m definitely that.” He watched as Brutus and Valentine played a rough game that involved rolling on the grass. “So are you going to take me on?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said I need help. It’s only fair to give me that help. If you want me to come and lie on your couch, that works for me.”

“You wouldn’t fit on my couch. How tall are you? Six-two?”

“Six-three.”

“Like I said. Too big.” In fact he was too everything. Too handsome. Too charming. Too much of a threat to her equilibrium.

As if to confirm that, he smiled at her. Might as well have turned a blowtorch on to ice, she thought, feeling herself melt. “It won’t make a difference if you smile at me. You still won’t fit on my couch.”

“You don’t need to worry.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I promise to be gentle with you.”

“Oh please —did you really say that?” Because her hand shook, she sloshed tea over her leggings. “Ow!” She sprang to her feet and his smile turned to concern.

“Take them off.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m serious. Basic first aid for burns. The fabric will carry on burning your leg.”

“I am not removing my pants in the park.” But she tugged the Lycra away from her skin and sure enough the burning eased.

“I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely contrite.

“Why are you sorry?” She grabbed a handful of napkins and pressed them against her thigh. “I was the one who spilled my tea.”

“But only because I made you nervous.” His voice was soft, his gaze intimate, as if they’d shared something personal.

“You didn’t make me nervous,” she lied. “I’m not used to sexual innuendo this early in the morning. Or men like you. You’re—”

“Cute? Irresistible? Interesting?”

“I was thinking more of annoying, predictable and inappropriate.”

His smile promised fun and sin and a thousand things she didn’t dare think about while she had hot tea in her hand.

“I made you nervous. And flustered. And if I were to analyze you, I’d say you’re a woman who hates to feel either of those things.”

Flustered? Oh yes, she was flustered. Being close to him made her feel light-headed and dizzy. She was agonizingly aware of every single detail, from the dark masculinity of his unshaven jaw, to the wicked glint in his eyes. But beneath the humor was a sharp eye for detail, and that worried her more than anything.