East of Manhattan

By Amanda Johnson

Julie and Scott Cutter made a deal: two years. Scott will spend two years working as a butler for a rich reality television star and then they will start the family Julie has always dreamed of. But Julie's fertility is not what she always assumed it would be, and what's more, her husband lives in the basement of his celebrity boss's Manhattan mansion instead of with her, across the East River in Queens. Oh, and Scott casually announces over brunch one morning he doesn't want kids anymore. Convinced spending an idyllic Fourth of July weekend in the Hamptons will change his mind, Julie makes one last-ditch effort to salvage her dream, only to be confronted instead by her worst nightmare and a dirty little secret that would change the course of her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books To Go Now
• Release date: Mar 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201600754

Book preview

Excerpt from East of Manhattan

There’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. This doesn’t feel right. I thought I was ready for this step, but it feels all wrong. I don’t have my life together yet. Scott might not want kids, after all. My mind slides to all the alcohol I drank last night, the wine this afternoon. Have I subconsciously damaged my chances for a healthy baby before I even knew there was one? I was so sure I would be elated in this moment, but instead all I feel is dread.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. One sec, comes a brash male voice on the other side of the door. In a flash, the door handle turns and the heavy white block of the outside world swings toward me. I look for a place to stash the pregnancy test, but it happens too fast. The voice bursts into the bathroom with a swagger. 

I whirl around in shock, holding the stick with both hands in front of me.

Oh! I exclaim.

Damn! Didn’t know you were in here, sweetheart.

I was just leaving. I try to edge around him, but he takes up the entire doorframe. He glances at the stick in my hand.

Good news? A wicked smile spreads across Jake’s face, and in that moment, I know I’m dead. 

Copyright

East of Manhattan

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Copyright © 2021 Amanda Johnson

Cover Design by Romance Novel Covers Now

http://www.romancenovelcoversnow.com/ 

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Books to Go Now

For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [e-mail]

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First eBook Edition June 2021

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Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

DEDICATION

To Jackson – keep reaching for that bright, shining star

WINTER

CHAPTER 1

I GET TO SPEND TONIGHT with my husband. This is the first time I’ve seen him in maybe, what, five days? I lose track. Separated by only three miles as the pigeon flies over the East River, he might as well be millions of miles away. See, he is a butler of sorts. 

I was astounded to learn this job exists in the twenty-first century. I mean, who has a butler? Rich people in New York, that’s who. I’ve always been fascinated by the wealthy, probably because I’ve never been wealthy myself. I secretly fantasize about being rich, though. Wouldn’t life be so much easier with a washer and dryer down the hall? 

I’ve often wondered what makes rich people tick. What do they eat for breakfast? Is there really a waiting list for that twenty-thousand-dollar rose pourpre Birkin bag? What would it feel like to walk into Saks Fifth Avenue and buy a pair of Louboutins and not go shooting into debt? Before I buy a new pair of shoes, I write an extensive pro/con list and then shop at Macy’s sales rack. 

How about having a housekeeper change the pristine white sheets every day? Luxury. Pure luxury.

But working for the rich? Completely different story. There’s a real upstairs/downstairs feel that gives Downton Abbey a run for its money. I doubt Scott’s boss has taken the subway in his entire life—ever. He’s a born-and-bred New Yorker, although he’s probably never seen the 6-train at rush hour. Which is where I am currently. Hello, hell. Sardined between a large woman with her unkempt brown hair dangerously close to my shoulder and a mustached man catching up on the New York Post’s gossipy Page Six. Today’s story focuses on the alimony settlement between reality television host Jake Collins and his ex-wife Piper’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, MiMi. Jake ended up with MiMi in the divorce and Piper is pissed. After all, she’s the one who interviewed twelve breeders and selected the perfect purebred as her poopsie. I roll my eyes and heft my ginormous backpack off my shoulder to create a little more room for myself, but am unsuccessful, as the heavyset woman has taken this as a cue to move in closer. Her hair is now taking up residence on my shoulder. I internally shudder. 

Two stops away from my escape, a man in flannel carries on a Christmas tree. Hate me for my backpack? What about the guy with a tree on the train? Okay, maybe it’s the season of giving so I should be more generous, but all it does is cement my hate for this line. I used to have a comfortable commute to the end of the N-train in Astoria, where I would escape the insanity of Manhattan after work. My new normal consists of traveling uptown in the horde of rush hour to spend a few hours with my husband before he gets called off for duty.

Now, I shouldn’t be so dramatic here. He’s not in Afghanistan or anything. He hasn’t been arrested and isn’t spending twenty-five-to-life in prison on a wrongful murder conviction. He’s at work. It’s a good job. I really am very lucky. Scott is alive and well and making a living. He’s a hard-working American trying to make his way in the world. Unfortunately for me, that way is basically on another planet, and since I never see him, I have to be creative when it comes to keeping our relationship thriving. 

Not a problem I thought I’d have.

When he first took the job, we made an agreement: two years. Scott will stay at this job for two years so we can save money for our future family. Once those two years are up, we’ll start trying immediately. I’ve got it timed down to the minute. I’ve practically got Scott’s resignation letter written for him. 

I have always wanted to be a mom. When I was a kid, I planned out every detail of my future children. I’d have a set of twins, a boy named Carter and a girl named Annabelle. They’d have green eyes, freckles, and outgoing personalities (something I was not blessed with). In my seven-year-old mind, I figured having two babies at once would be easier and I wouldn’t have to go through that icky giving birth part multiple times. 

Okay, so I was a little naïve. I hadn’t thought out double diaper changes or how to put two babies down for a nap simultaneously or breastfeeding two newborns at the same time. How do women do that? Moms of multiples are superheroes. When I was seven, I’m pretty sure I never once thought about breastfeeding. I just thought it was fun to make up names and draw pictures of what my kids might look like. 

I still like the idea of one son and one daughter—a perfectly balanced family. Just not at the same time. In my more mature view of Momdom, perhaps two or three years apart would be a more sensible timeline between children.

But, man, do I want them—these future children of mine. I can almost smell their post-bath creamsicle scent and feel them squeeze me tight for nighttime hugs. I see them look into my eyes and deliberately say, Mama. I imagine them learning to crawl and walk and say, I love you. Oh man, thinking about it sends an arrow of longing straight to my heart. 

I’ve waited my whole life for these babies, so what’s two more years? If waiting means that Scott and I can provide a better life for our children—absolutely, I will wait. But not a moment longer. Besides, I’m not getting any younger.

The train jolts to a stop and shakes me out of my reverie. 

Commuters squish together to create room for the oncoming passengers. The lumberjack jostles his way through the crowd and winds up closer to me. Great. (Dude, it’s rush hour. Can’t he see there isn’t even enough room for the humans on board? Let alone trees.) I bump into a young techie beside me, and his coffee sloshes onto my sleeve. 

One more stop, I chant in my head. One more stop and I’m free. Free! At Eighty-sixth Street, I burst through the doors, instantly forgetting the uncomfortable ride. My dreams of escaping quickly are dashed by the giant crowd of commuters rushing out of the station. Tree Man hoists his noble fir horizontally on his shoulder (really?), which knocks the techie off balance, his coffee spewing all over the large woman’s hair. She cries out in surprise as her e-reader tumbles into the abyss. Without thinking, I stop, spread my legs as far apart as possible, swing my backpack around territorially, and reach down for the Kindle. Keeping the delicate rhythm of a rush-hour subway exit as best I can, I hand it to her.

Thank you, she replies, gratitude in her eyes, stunned I would perform such a perverse act of kindness during rush hour. No one wants to mess with bending over in a stampede.

Happy holidays! I shout, already being whisked away by the crowd out into the brisk December air. 

I breathe in the anticipation of wrapping my arms around Scott.

WRONG ANSWER, PIPER! Jake Collins shouts as Scott opens the door for me. Jake is upstairs in the kitchen, but due to the open floor plan, you can hear everything reverberate throughout the house. And Jake is not shy about his feelings. Scott puts his finger to his lips to shush me and leads me past the million-dollar paintings in the foyer to his basement bedroom. 

What was that about? I ask in the sanctuary of his room.

Piper’s lawyer is challenging the settlement. She wants the dog.

The Escalade and fifty million dollars weren’t enough? Thanks to the hounding media, all of New York is up to date on the gritty details of their divorce. And because of Scott’s position, I know more than most. 

Apparently not. Her publicist supposedly leaked the story today and he’s going postal.

Yikes, is all I can say. I mean, how can I feel sorry for the guy? He has everything. By the sounds of it, he’s better off without Piper. 

Yeah, that’s right. Scott’s new job is for Jake Collins. Millionaire television host extraordinaire of The Hen’s Nest, a UK import reality show where female contestants compete for a Man and his Mansion. The show is now in its sixth season, and it’s become a real shitshow. Apparently, it was classier in the UK version. But isn’t everything? I’m convinced it’s the accents. In Britain, the show was more about old family estates and men with titles looking for wives who could populate their lineage. Sort of like a modern-day American Princess that was popular after the Civil War. It’s hard to believe that kind of stuff is still happening. The American version, however, has really sunk low. The female contestants get increasingly more desperate each year as they compete for the love—and the giant ring—of older, fatter, more deformed-looking rich men. Personally, I can’t watch past the intro without gagging. The Hen’s Nest’s popularity has been waning the last couple of seasons. Gossip rags report the show may not be renewed. 

I always wonder who is watching those shows anyway. It’s definitely not me. I’m not a reality TV person. There’s just something about them that irks me. It all seems so, well, staged. Nothing like actual reality. I can visualize the director behind the camera instructing, Go pick a fight with Jillian. It will make good ratings. And the women are so incredibly perfect. Where do they find these ladies? I’m a Pilates instructor and even I don’t feel confident enough in my body to flaunt it during primetime. 

It’s confirmed, Scott says excitedly. Jake and his new lady friend are going to St. Bart’s over Christmas. He starts a very uncharacteristic happy dance, and I can’t help but feel his joy. 

Ohmigod. Let’s hit the slopes! I’ve already booked reservations for a super-cute cabin. The pictures showed a welcoming wreath on the front door and a real wood fire crackling in the hearth, but I haven’t told Scott yet. I know he’ll have at least some time off despite what he keeps saying. Jake can’t be that heartless. I’ve planned the whole weekend. We’ll ski during the day, and at dinner, we’ll order a wine pairing to perfectly complement our entrées. Afterward, we’ll soak in the outdoor hot tub on the deck of our cabin. Doesn’t that just scream romance? It feels so satisfying to be able to afford something as trivial as a long weekend away after struggling to make ends meet for so many years. Prior to Scott’s job, I would painstakingly count pennies for every overnight we spent out of the city. I would comb budget travel websites for the cheapest locations to travel to. I’d choose destinations within a four- to five-hour drive so it felt like we were escaping but still within a reasonable budget. I dream of spending a weekend in the perfectly manicured Hamptons, but it’s more likely we’d end up in rural Connecticut. My Internet search history is littered with budget getaways from NYC in every variation. Luckily, New England has tons of picturesque locations to spend a weekend.

This is perfect! I hug him to me and breathe in his scent. Time away, just the two of us. Over Christmas, too!

Well, I might have the dogs. Right. The damn dogs. They’ve thwarted more of our time together than Jake himself.

CHAPTER 2

THE NEXT MORNING, ALTHOUGH I rushed to the studio in Astoria where I teach, I’m late due to a signal malfunction that caused a train delay. I’m just in time to take off my down jacket and smooth my static electricity-prone hair before my first Pilates class. The bell above the door tinkles and I feel the dirty looks from the yoga students in the class before mine. I’ve ruined their Shavasana with my blundering entrance. 

Sorry, I mouth to Jenny, the instructor and owner of the studio. Jenny waves it off, but I know she’ll talk to me about it later. I was late twice last week and she’s losing her patience.

Some of my regulars have started to gather on the benches outside the studio, waiting for the yogis to filter out.

Hey, Gail, I greet them. Ruth—how’s your knee? Have you tried those strength exercises I showed you?

Yeah. I can feel it getting better. Thank you so much, Ruth responds, and I feel a surge of pride. 

You’re welcome. My smile fades. Next to Ruth is my morning nemesis. Hi, Christy, I greet her, sotto voce.

Hi, Julie. I love your hat! Christy. Oh, Christy. How can she be so damn perky in the morning? Always impeccably dressed in the latest line from Lululemon and done up like she has a personal hair and makeup artist flitting around her side. She makes me feel frumpy when I roll in late without makeup. My pride dissolves into inadequacy.

Thanks, I say, automatically reaching my hand to my head. I don’t remember which hat I threw on this morning. It might even be Scott’s. I’ve gotta change. See you in there. I head to the tiny staff locker room at the back of the studio to shake off the interaction with Christy.

I started working at CORE soon after I got certified and quit my marketing job at a bigwig agency in Midtown. As a Pilates instructor, I get fulfillment in a way I never found sitting behind a desk, sometimes working as late as 10:00 p.m., eating peanut butter crackers out of the vending machine for dinner. It’s satisfying seeing the same women (and some men) week after week, pushing their bodies to get stronger. I love knowing I helped them achieve that. I’ve built up a strong relationship with many of them, coaching them on their way to healthier lifestyles and all around badassery. That rapport is something I couldn’t get when I was working at a franchise gym my first few months as an instructor. Those gyms are mainly concerned about attendance and new membership. At CORE, we nurture relationships and, through Jenny’s leadership, I’ve really come into my own as an instructor.  

Back in the locker room, I hear the classes switch out. I bend over to hurriedly pull off my boots.

Aiyee! I exclaim as I crash into the lockers.

Julie, we need to talk about your tardiness, Jenny says breezily. Where did she come from?

Uh, yeah. I’m sorry. Really. The train was delayed. I swear I left with enough time to get here.

The train. You overslept. You had to walk a dog. You don’t even have a dog.

My husband’s job—

Whatever the excuse, it’s got to stop. She’s got me. I know I’m in the wrong.

Yeah, okay. I know. Again, I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?

Well, I do have an idea.

Great. Can it wait? I’ve got to teach.

I need a leader for the Twenty-One-Day Cleanse Challenge.

Oh-k-aaaaay, I stretch it out into three syllables, kind of knowing where she’s going but hoping she doesn’t go there. I do not want to give up coffee. Even if it’s temporary. 

I’d like to see you step up your responsibility a notch. If you have more responsibility, I think you’d take greater initiative to arrive on time. Yeah, right. You’ve been doing great with your classes and we don’t have any more openings at the moment. Leading this program is a natural fit.

I don’t know about that...

It’s true. I’ve been watching you. And I’ve seen you eat. You practically eat within the confines of The Cleanse already. Plus, you’re great with our clients. Already have a loyal following. That usually takes years.

I narrow my eyes at her. She’s being too nice so soon after reprimanding me.

I’d do it myself, but with running the studio and teaching, I don’t have time. Besides, I really think you can do it. Stop by my desk after class and I’ll give you the binder and fill you in. It’s simple, really. You just follow the guidelines and check in with the participants every few days.

Simple, my ass, I think to myself as she walks away. Not eating carbs for three weeks will not be easy.

After class, I stop by her desk as instructed. Jenny hands me a binder full of paleo diet-inspired recipes and guidelines for running a successful program. It does look pretty put together. But when I get done reading the Foods to Stay Away From list, I’m convinced there’s nothing left on Earth to eat.

Don’t be so dramatic, Jenny tells me. You can eat all fruits and vegetables plus meats for protein. Look at the What You Can Eat list. It’s all about planning. You’ll need to stress that to participants. Planning out meals is key. And you already do that.

Bacon is an approved meat? I ask with my head buried in the book.

Yes.

I fall silent. I do want to take on more responsibility. Though the way I pictured it was through more high-end private clients, which takes time. This cleanse thing can’t be too terrible. I know Jenny is right; I eat pretty clean already. There are definite items I’ll have to stay away from, but if a lot of students do this with me, it might not be so bad. We’ll support each other. Plus, it will give me something to focus on while Scott is at work.

Okay. I’ll do it.

Excellent. We’ll start right after the New Year when everyone is motivated and has set new resolutions.

Yeah. Bacon for breakfast every day doesn’t sound so bad.

AFTER MY SESSIONS, I hop on the N-line back into the city for my annual ob-gyn appointment. At this hour of the day, the subway is empty. I find a seat and bury my head in my phone, wondering if I have enough time to listen to the latest episode of Death, Sex and Money. I’m only going a few stops, so I opt not to dig out my headphones and go for a game of Candy Crush instead.

An hour later, I’m uncomfortably perched on the exam table, completely naked except for the paper hospital gown. It’s cold in the room, and I have goosebumps on my arms to prove it. It’s no fun getting this exam, but I manage to get through it every year out of necessity.

There’s a brisk knock on the door, and Dr. Frost breezes in. As her name implies, Dr. Frost is cool as a cucumber. All business. I do not mess with her woman on duty look.  

Hi—she pauses and glances down at my chart—Julie. How are you today?

Fine. I guess. I’ve seen the same doctor for the last three years, but she never remembers me. I’ve contemplated finding a more personable doctor for my own morale, but this is New York City. Millions of women live here, and she must see a ton of faces on a weekly basis. I’m a pretty low-maintenance patient, only coming in once a year. I’m sure the pregnant ladies get a lot more attention. I hear they have to visit the doctor every few weeks. But I won’t know that for a couple more years.

Let’s have you lay back on the table and skootch your bottom all the way to the edge, she instructs.

I do as I’m told and put my feet in the stirrups. I turn my head to the right and stare at a yellowing poster of a uterus. 

Spread your legs a little further. I close my eyes and oblige. So, let’s see, you’re thirty-five, is that right?

Yes, I reply.

Hmm.

"Why’d you say it like that? Hmm?" I imitate her intonation. When a doctor sounds apprehensive while looking at my vagina, it puts me instantly on guard.

What?

"Hmm. Like it was bad or something."

No reason. However, thirty-five is getting up there. Have you thought about having kids? She adjusts the light to shine directly