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A sexy and hilarious new novel from the bestselling author of Perfect Strangers.
British and ballsy, Freya is a free-spirited Manhattan art dealer who thinks her live-in lawyer boyfriend, Michael, is about to propose. So what if he's as straight-laced as she is fearless - who needs passion? But when she shows up for their romantic dinner in a thousand-dollar dress and a new hairstyle, he takes her hand, looks deeply into her eyes, and asks if they can be-just friends.
Next thing she knows, Freya is paying a desperate visit to her long-time friend Jack, crashing his poker game and bunking temporarily with him. Tensions inevitably begin to rise. Freya's caustic take on Candace, Jack's luscious new girlfriend, is cramping his style. Besides, he has to finish writing the great American novel, and prove himself to his wealthy father. But he is willing to help Freya out (of his apartment, that is).
Meanwhile, Freya's biggest dilemma is that she needs a date (and fast) for the wedding of the century: her younger sister has nabbed the most eligible bachelor in London. Freya desperately wants someone to show off, and suddenly, Jack, in all his sexy blond gorgeousness, is starting to look more and more like wedding - if not exactly marriage - material.
From New York to London, and all the urban hot spots, watering holes, and dating disaster grounds in between, Just Friends is a delightful, devilishly clever look at the enduring quest to find "the one." Robyn Sisman is the author of Perfect Strangers and Special Relationships. She lives in London. CHAPTER 1
Freya peeled off her clothes and stood in her underwear, contemplating her reflection. She wanted to look her best for Michael tonight. There had been no time to go home to change; she must make do with this cramped ladies' room beneath her office. Her new dress hung from the cubicle door: a cool thousand dollars' worth of palest pink that shimmered with a tracery of opalescent beads - a Cinderella dress chosen to make her as feminine and delicate as a porcelain doll. That was the look she was aiming for, less femme fatale, more ... femme, plain and simple.
Let's go somewhere special, he had said over breakfast on Monday morning, somewhere we can talk. Questions had exploded in her head like popcorn in a hot pan. Talk about what? Why not right here in the apartment? Freya had choked them back. Instead, she'd done a lot of shopping.
But all week long she had carried his words around with her, a time bomb in the pit of her stomach, tick-tick-ticking as the days passed. Was this It? Was she about to become Mrs. Normal, grouching about schools and the state of her suburban lawn?
With a hand that was not quite steady Freya twisted the tap and splashed her cheeks with cold water. On with the war paint. She began to make up her face - a pencil to darken the pale arches of her eyebrows, mascara to bring her light-blue eyes into focus. Which lipstick? Scarlet Woman was out, obviously. So, frankly, was Vestal Virgin, a relic of her infatuation with an artist who had left her for a seventeen-year-old. Ah-hah, Crimson Kiss, that was more like it. She slid the color back and forth over her lips, then bared her teeth, satisfactorily white against the red. I floss, you floss, we all floss. God bless American dentistry.
But what if she was wrong? Maybe Michael just wanted to discuss the new service charge for the apartment, or to finalize plans for their trip to England. Freya cocked her head to fix an earring, considering this possibility. No, she decided. Michael was a lawyer, and a man: habit was his middle name. Every January he bought his suits in the sales, always two, always Armani, either navy or charcoal. He called his mother on Sunday evenings (allowing for the time change to Minneapolis), got his annual hay fever shot right after Groundhog Day, and always tipped ten percent on the nose. There was nothing unpredictable about Michael, thank God. If he wanted to "talk
British and ballsy, Freya is a free-spirited Manhattan art dealer who thinks her live-in lawyer boyfriend, Michael, is about to propose. So what if he's as straight-laced as she is fearless - who needs passion? But when she shows up for their romantic dinner in a thousand-dollar dress and a new hairstyle, he takes her hand, looks deeply into her eyes, and asks if they can be-just friends.
Next thing she knows, Freya is paying a desperate visit to her long-time friend Jack, crashing his poker game and bunking temporarily with him. Tensions inevitably begin to rise. Freya's caustic take on Candace, Jack's luscious new girlfriend, is cramping his style. Besides, he has to finish writing the great American novel, and prove himself to his wealthy father. But he is willing to help Freya out (of his apartment, that is).
Meanwhile, Freya's biggest dilemma is that she needs a date (and fast) for the wedding of the century: her younger sister has nabbed the most eligible bachelor in London. Freya desperately wants someone to show off, and suddenly, Jack, in all his sexy blond gorgeousness, is starting to look more and more like wedding - if not exactly marriage - material.
From New York to London, and all the urban hot spots, watering holes, and dating disaster grounds in between, Just Friends is a delightful, devilishly clever look at the enduring quest to find "the one." Robyn Sisman is the author of Perfect Strangers and Special Relationships. She lives in London. CHAPTER 1
Freya peeled off her clothes and stood in her underwear, contemplating her reflection. She wanted to look her best for Michael tonight. There had been no time to go home to change; she must make do with this cramped ladies' room beneath her office. Her new dress hung from the cubicle door: a cool thousand dollars' worth of palest pink that shimmered with a tracery of opalescent beads - a Cinderella dress chosen to make her as feminine and delicate as a porcelain doll. That was the look she was aiming for, less femme fatale, more ... femme, plain and simple.
Let's go somewhere special, he had said over breakfast on Monday morning, somewhere we can talk. Questions had exploded in her head like popcorn in a hot pan. Talk about what? Why not right here in the apartment? Freya had choked them back. Instead, she'd done a lot of shopping.
But all week long she had carried his words around with her, a time bomb in the pit of her stomach, tick-tick-ticking as the days passed. Was this It? Was she about to become Mrs. Normal, grouching about schools and the state of her suburban lawn?
With a hand that was not quite steady Freya twisted the tap and splashed her cheeks with cold water. On with the war paint. She began to make up her face - a pencil to darken the pale arches of her eyebrows, mascara to bring her light-blue eyes into focus. Which lipstick? Scarlet Woman was out, obviously. So, frankly, was Vestal Virgin, a relic of her infatuation with an artist who had left her for a seventeen-year-old. Ah-hah, Crimson Kiss, that was more like it. She slid the color back and forth over her lips, then bared her teeth, satisfactorily white against the red. I floss, you floss, we all floss. God bless American dentistry.
But what if she was wrong? Maybe Michael just wanted to discuss the new service charge for the apartment, or to finalize plans for their trip to England. Freya cocked her head to fix an earring, considering this possibility. No, she decided. Michael was a lawyer, and a man: habit was his middle name. Every January he bought his suits in the sales, always two, always Armani, either navy or charcoal. He called his mother on Sunday evenings (allowing for the time change to Minneapolis), got his annual hay fever shot right after Groundhog Day, and always tipped ten percent on the nose. There was nothing unpredictable about Michael, thank God. If he wanted to "talk