Miracle On 5th Avenue. Sarah Morgan
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eat.”
“I’m not hungry. I came down for whiskey.”
She told herself his drinking habits were none of her business. “You should eat something. Good nutrition is important, and you are hungry.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Because you’re moody and irritable. I’m the same when I’m hungry.” She hoped she sounded kind rather than judgmental. “Of course it could be that you’re moody because your work isn’t going well, but you never know. Eat. If nothing else, it will make you nicer to be around.”
“What makes you think my work isn’t going well?”
“I saw the computer screen—there were no words on it.”
“The process of writing isn’t all about putting words on the page. Sometimes it’s about thinking, and staring out of the window.” But there was an edge to his tone that told her she’d touched a nerve.
“I have a friend who’s a writer and she tells me that when the words are flowing it feels like magic.”
“And when they’re not, is that a curse?”
She served the meal. “I don’t know. I’m not a writer, but I’m guessing it could feel that way. Is that how it feels?”
“Maybe I’m moody and irritable because I have an overnight guest I wasn’t expecting and didn’t want.”
“Maybe, but why don’t you eat something and we’ll find out. Being hungry isn’t going to help your mood or your brainpower.” Eva pushed the plate in front of him and saw his expression change.
“What is that?”
“It’s a perfect soufflé. Try a mouthful.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not—”
“Here’s a fork.” She handed it to him and dressed the salad leaves with organic olive oil and balsamic vinegar she’d bought on her trip to Dean & DeLuca.
“Who goes to the trouble of making a complicated soufflé for supper at home?”
“Who goes to the trouble of buying an oven as beautiful as that one and not using it?” She pushed the salad toward him. “It’s like buying a Ferrari and keeping it in the garage.”
In some ways he reminded her of a Ferrari. Sleek. Beautiful. Out of her league.
“The oven came with the apartment. I don’t cook.”
And she had a feeling that everything in the apartment was the best. “If you don’t cook, what do you eat?”
“When I’m working? Not much. Sometimes I order takeout.”
“That’s shockingly unhealthy.”
“Most of the time I’m too busy to care what I’m eating.”
She watched as he slid his fork through the light, airy soufflé. Try it, she thought, and discover what it’s like to care about what you’re eating.
He took a mouthful and nodded. “It’s good.” He took another mouthful and paused. “No, I’m wrong about that.”
She was offended. “You don’t think it’s good?”
He took a third mouthful and a fourth and then lowered his fork down slowly. “First she drugs her victims—”
“Excuse me?”
He stared down at his plate. He didn’t seem to have heard her. “She invites them to dinner. A romantic evening. Soft music. Wine. It’s all going well. He thinks he’s going to get lucky—”
“And then she breaks the bottle over his head?”
He glanced up and blinked. “She would never do anything so unsubtle.”
“But I would,” Eva said sweetly, “if you insult my cooking.”
“When did I insult your cooking?”
“You said it wasn’t good.”
“It’s not good. It’s better than good.” He slid the fork into the fluffy soufflé, examining it closely. “It’s perfect. Like eating a cloud.”
His compliment thawed the frosty atmosphere and Eva watched as he cleared his plate. “In that case I forgive you.” Although she wouldn’t have admitted it, she was relieved to see him eating. The vast, empty fridge had worried her. Not eating was a bad sign. She knew. She’d lost fifteen pounds after her grandmother had died. Getting through each hour had been hard and every day had felt like a month. Sympathy swelled inside her.
He stared at his plate. “If you were going to poison someone, how would you do it?”
Sympathy evaporated. “Keep being obnoxious and you might find out.”
He put his fork down slowly. “Was I being obnoxious?”
“You were questioning whether my food was poisonous.”
“Are you always this sensitive?”
“Is it sensitive to be hurt when someone criticizes your professional abilities? If someone asked you how you choose to bore your readers, you’d be similarly offended.”
“I never bore my readers.”
“And I never poison the people I cook for.”
“My question was abstract, not personal. I was speaking hypothetically.”
“Then your timing was bad. Abstract is when you don’t have a plate of freshly cooked food in front of you.”
His gaze locked on hers and she noticed that his eyes weren’t black, but a velvety dark brown. A slow dangerous heat spread through her body until her limbs had the liquid consistency of warm honey.
He was the first to lower his gaze. “You’re right. I was hungry.” He helped himself to another roll, his voice level. “And, for the record, I do own a Ferrari I keep in the garage.”
Her heart was pounding. What just happened? What was that look? “You own a Ferrari in New York City?”
“Hence the reason it stays in the garage for most of the winter. Apparently it doesn’t like idling in traffic or the bitter cold.” He glanced across at her plate. “You’re not eating?”
“I want to make sure you don’t die before I take a mouthful.”
He laughed, and in that instant she understood exactly why he had to fight off women. That smile held an indecent amount of seductive charm. She hastily started eating to take her mind off the direction her thoughts were taking.
“So tell me,” he said, breaking off a piece of roll, “what hell do you intend to inflict on my apartment?”
“Excuse me?”
“At least spare me pine needles.”
“I have a Nordmann fir arriving any minute.”
“Cancel the order.”
“You can’t have Christmas without a tree.”
“I’ve managed it for the past three years.”
“All the more reason to have an extra big one this year.”
“There is no logic behind that statement.”
“I don’t tell you how to write your book. Don’t tell me how to decorate your apartment.”
“The difference is that readers are waiting for my book. I’m not waiting for you to decorate my apartment.” The smile was gone. “In fact, the last thing I want is for you to decorate my apartment, so why would I let you go ahead and do it?”
“Because