I Heart New York by Lindsey Kelk Page A

a Woo Woo to be seen.
    ‘We’ll have two Perfect Tens,’ the guy ordered. ‘Sorry, you like them?’
    ‘This is my first time here, I’ll have to try it.’ It took me a moment to realize he’d just bought me a drink. ‘I mean, thank you.’ I was desperately trying not to blush and completely blanked. He ran his hand through his light brown hair, which moved just enough to make my heart melt but was still short enough to make it through a game of squash unscathed. Probably.
    ‘So you’re a freelance what?’ he asked as the bartender presented us with a pair of huge, citrussy-looking drinks.
    ‘Oh, writer,’ I said, taking a sip. Whatever alcohol was in this was well hidden behind a whole lot of pineapple juice. It was the perfect summertime drink. ‘I write children’s books.’ It didn’t seem worth going into any more detail at this point. That and the fact that I was struggling to put my thoughts into a workable sentence. He was so ridiculously hot!
    ‘That’s great,’ he said, pulling the straw out of his drink and sipping straight from the glass. Manly. ‘It must be fulfilling to do something so creative.’
    ‘Uh-huh,’ I nodded, realizing too late that I was making really short work of this drink and not really wanting to go into why I wasn’t creatively sated by writing about toys that go on magic journeys when they shake their musical bells. ‘And what do you do?’
    ‘I work on Wall Street,’ he said, almost an admission. ‘It’s not exactly creative, huh?’ Even sitting down and wearing a suit I could see how worked out his upper body was. As unaccustomed as I was to talking to a hot man in a hot bar, I could feel my confidence having a crack at coming back up again, like the little engine that could. If that little engine was fuelled by vodka.
    ‘But it must be challenging?’ I said, trying to slide my empty glass back onto the bar without him noticing. No such luck. ‘I can’t imagine how much responsibility that must be.’
    ‘Well, yeah,’ he agreed, signalling to the bartender to refill my glass. I reached for my purse and he held out his hand. ‘It is challenging and thankfully, it’s well paid, so I can afford to buy children’s book writers drinks.’
    ‘You buy a lot of children’s book writers drinks?’ I asked, attempting to flirt. I was rusty but good God, I was going to have a go.
    ‘Just you and JK Rowling, if I ever meet her,’ he joked. Pulling out his wallet, he passed the bartender what looked suspiciously like a hundred dollar bill, simultaneously impressing and terrifying me. ‘So I gotta ask, do two drinks get me your name?’ he asked, passing me a refreshed glass.
    ‘Angela,’ I obliged, sipping slowly. ‘Angela Clark. And does accepting them get me yours?’
    ‘Tyler Moore,’ he said, replacing the wallet and removing something else. A tiny silver business card case. ‘So, Angela, are you on vacation in New York or are we lucky enough to add you to our swelling ranks of writers?’
    ‘You’re lucky enough to have me for a while,’ I said, trying not to stare at his chest. Reaching in and out for the wallet had revealed a thin white shirt that in turn hinted at a very hard, very toned six-pack. ‘I’m staying for the time being, but I’m not sure how long for.’
    ‘I hope it’s long enough for me to take you out,’ he said, opening the business card holder and passing me one of the cards. I took it and slipped it straight into my bag. I didn’t want to lose it. ‘Where are you staying?’
    ‘The Union,’ I spotted the men on the sofa standing up and throwing bills on the table. ‘On Union Square?’
    ‘I love that hotel. There’s this great noodle place across the square too, haven’t been there in ages,’ he said, swapping the business card holder for a BlackBerry. How many pockets did he have in there? His jacket was like the Tardis. ‘Well now you’ve got me hungry, how about dinner on Thursday? Could I get your