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

Harriet put the tiny dog down and picked up the shattered remains of her pot without complaint. “That dog is called Ruffles. And he’s too big for this apartment.”

“I refuse to stand in the middle of Central Park and call for ‘Ruffles,’ so I renamed him. Do I smell coffee?”

“You can’t rename a dog.”

“You can if someone was stupid enough to name him Ruffles in the first place.” Daniel strolled into the bright, sunlit kitchen and helped himself to coffee. “What sort of name is that for a big macho dog? It will give him an identity crisis.”

“It’s the name he was given,” Harriet said patiently. “It’s the name he knows and responds to.”

“It’s a name that embarrasses him. I’ve done him a favor.” Daniel took a mouthful of coffee and checked his watch. There were always demands on his time, and lately there was never enough time, a factor due in part to the extended length of his morning run.

“You’re later than usual. Did something happen? Did she finally talk to you?” Harriet threw the shards of pottery away and carefully scooped up what was left of her plant.

Daniel knew that the moment he left she’d be repotting it carefully and giving it whatever attention it needed to make a full recovery.

“Yeah, we talked.” If the few words they’d exchanged could be counted as talking. He’d asked a few questions. She’d responded. But her responses had been brief and designed to offer him no encouragement whatsoever. She’d made it clear she was more interested in his dog than in him, which might have crushed the spirit of a man with less knowledge about relationships.

Although there had been no verbal indication that she was interested, there had been nonverbal cues.

In the fleeting second before the barriers had gone up, he’d seen interest.

He wondered who was responsible for those barriers. A man, presumably. A relationship gone bad. He saw plenty of examples in his working day. People who had affairs, grew apart or simply fell out of love. Love was a chocolate box of heartbreak and disaster. Pick your flavor.

“She talked to you?” Harry’s face brightened. “What did she say?”

Very little.

“We’re taking it slowly.”

“In other words she’s not interested.” Fliss walked into the kitchen. She was wearing yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a pair of black running shoes with a neon purple flash. She grabbed her keys from the countertop. “Obviously a woman of sense. Either that or you’re losing your touch. So does this mean you won’t be walking Ruffles tomorrow?”

“I’m not losing my touch and yes, I’ll be walking Brutus . And, by the way, he has a few behavioral issues, the most significant of which is not coming when he is called.”

“That must be a whole new experience for you.”

“Very funny. Any tips?”

“I don’t have any advice to offer on relationships except maybe don’t do it.”

“I was talking about the dog.”

“Oh. Well, you could start by calling him by a name he actually recognizes.” Fliss made for the door. “And if he has behavioral issues, then at least that’s one thing the two of you have in common.”

Three

Dear Aggie, if there are plenty of fish in the sea, why is my net always empty?

Molly let herself into her apartment, dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and headed straight to the shower.

Ten minutes later she was back at her computer. Valentine curled up in a basket underneath her desk and put his head on his paws.

Sunlight flowed in through the windows, bouncing off the polished oak floor and illuminating the handwoven rug she’d picked up from a textile design studio she’d discovered on a trip to Union Square. In one corner of the room was a large wooden giraffe that her father had shipped to her from a trip to Africa. No one glancing at her overflowing bookshelves would have been able to discern much about her character. Biographies and classics nestled against crime fiction and romance. Also on the shelf were a few remaining author copies of her first book, Mate for Life, Tools for Meeting Your Perfect Life Partner.

Do as I say, don’t do as I do , she thought. She’d dedicated it to her father, but probably should have dedicated it to Rupert. For Rupert, without whom this book would never have been written.

But to do that would have meant risking exposure, and she had no intention of letting anyone discover the real person behind “Dr. Aggie.”

No. Her father was the safest option. That way she could ensure that everything she’d built stayed standing and she could push the whole Rupert episode, as her father called it, into a mental box labeled Life Experience.

When she’d first moved to New York, she’d shared a room in a dingy walk-up in the outer reaches of Brooklyn with three women who had an addiction to beer pong and all-night parties. After six months of panting up one hundred and ninety-two stairs (she’d counted every one) and taking the subway into Manhattan, Molly had blown the last of her savings on a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a building several blocks away from Central Park. She’d fallen in love with the apartment on sight, and with the building, with its cheerful green door and iron railings.

She’d fallen in love with her neighbors, too. On the ground floor was a young couple with a baby and one floor above them was Mrs. Winchester, a widow who had lived in the same apartment for sixty years. She had a habit of losing her keys, so now Molly kept a spare set. Directly above Molly were Gabe and Mark. Gabe worked in advertising and Mark was a children’s book illustrator.

She’d met them on her first night in her apartment when she was trying to fix a misbehaving lock on her door. Gabe had fixed it, and Mark had made her dinner. They’d been friends ever since and new friends, she’d discovered, were sometimes more reliable than old ones.

The friends she’d had from childhood had abandoned her in droves when her life had fallen apart, reluctant to be sucked down into the deadly quicksand of her humiliation. At first there had been a few supportive phone calls, but as the situation had worsened, the support and friendship had trickled to nothing. They’d behaved as if her shame was infectious. As if by standing side by side with her, they might catch whatever she had.

And in a way she didn’t blame them. She understood the hell of having reporters camped outside the house and of having your reputation shredded online. Who needed that?

Plenty of people wanted fame and fortune but no one, it seemed, ever wanted to trend on Twitter.

It had made her decision to leave London even easier. She’d started a new life, complete with a new name. Here in New York, she’d met new people. People who didn’t know. The people in her apartment block were wonderful, and so was the Upper East Side. Amidst the vast grid of tree-canopied streets and avenues, she’d discovered a neighborhood flooded with New York history and tradition. She loved it all, from the ornate prewar co-op buildings and brownstone row houses to the classic mansions along Fifth Avenue. It felt like home and she had her favorite haunts. When she couldn’t be bothered to cook she’d nip out and pick up a panini or homemade pastry from Via Quadronno between Madison and Fifth, and when she felt like celebrating she’d head to Ladurée and indulge herself in a selection of macarons.

She’d explored Manhattan and discovered hidden salsa clubs, arts clubs, jazz clubs. She roamed the galleries, the Met, the Frick and the Guggenheim. But her favorite place was the sprawling expanse of Central Park, a brisk ten-minute walk from her small apartment. She and Valentine spent hours exploring hidden corners together.