Passion on Park Avenue (The Central Park Pact)

by Lauren Layne

  If Naomi Powell had seemed surprised and irritated by his very existence when he’d met her last week, she looked as though she’d had some time to think on it and had come up disliking him even more.

  The thought was intriguing. And a little puzzling. Truth be told, Oliver wasn’t really accustomed to people not liking him. He’d heard his mother telling Ruth once that she was almost grateful he’d been such a menace as a kid, because he’d worked out all the bad parts of his personality early on. He supposed it was probably true. He had been a bit of a jerk as a boy, but by high school he’d sort of figured out who he was, or who he wanted to be, and had quit being the nightmare on the playground, so to speak. Now he thought of himself as perfectly affable, if perhaps a bit reserved and sarcastic.

  Naomi Powell didn’t seem to agree. Her blue eyes were narrowed, arms crossed, as though he’d brought her a rat from the subway instead of some rather expensive champagne.

  “Oliver?”

  He dragged his gaze away from the irrationally irate redhead as he finally registered the third woman in the room. He blinked in recognition, quickly filed through his mental Rolodex, and came up with a name. “Claire. How are you?”

  Then he winced, as his brain caught up to what he knew about Claire Hayes. What a crap question to ask to a recent widow.

  “I was sorry to hear about Brayden,” he said, going to her, and, setting the champagne on the table, took both her hands in his.

  She squeezed and gave a brief, forced smile. “Thank you.”

  “You two know each other?” Naomi asked, sounding severely displeased about the fact.

  “Loosely,” Claire explained. “Oliver and I . . .” She looked at him. “Well, how do we know each other?”

  Oliver scratched his cheek and thought it over. Claire and her husband, Brayden, weren’t friends of his, per se, but they’d been friendly enough when they saw each other at the same fund-raisers and holiday gatherings. The New York elite set could be a little incestuous in its connections—everyone knew everyone, but you rarely knew how you knew someone.

  “Rob Eagel?” Oliver said, taking his best guess.

  Claire snapped her fingers in confirmation. “Yes. He used to work with Brayden.”

  Oliver pointed at himself. “Rob’s my poker buddy.”

  He didn’t add the fact that Brayden had joined them a few times for poker night as well. He doubted a recent widow wanted to hear that her late husband had generally lost large sums of money before drunkenly announcing he was headed over to his mistress’s.

  “How do you all know each other?” he asked politely but also curiously. He and Claire had never gotten much beyond small talk in their various run-ins, but he had a hard time imagining the calm, mild-mannered Claire being close with Naomi. One was friendly and socially appropriate, the other snarly and volatile, from what he’d seen so far.

  There was a long moment of silence, and Oliver was astute enough to notice that the look the three women exchanged was loaded. He couldn’t quite decipher their silent communication, but apparently Claire did, because she nodded slightly at Naomi, who gave him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

  Oliver immediately was on edge. A sweet smile from this woman somehow felt like a weapon.

  “Audrey and I were sleeping with Claire’s husband.”

  As Oliver blinked, trying to absorb that, Naomi’s smile grew even more sugary. And more dangerous. She nodded at the champagne, fluttering her eyelashes. “Is that for me?”

  He looked down at the Dom Pérignon, still too stunned by her bombshell to do anything other than wordlessly hold out the bottle.

  “How does the high society set play this?” Naomi said with an affected air in her tone, taking the bottle and holding it up slightly. “Am I supposed to open it now so we can all enjoy, or is it a faux pas not to save it for a special occasion?”

  “Open it,” Oliver commanded a little gruffly. Rudely, actually. But, hell, he needed a drink.

  Brayden Hayes and Naomi had been having an affair? And the woman who’d answered the door?

  And all three women were . . . friends?

  Surely Naomi had been messing with him. But a quick glance at Claire and the brunette showed that she hadn’t. The brunette took pity on him and stepped forward, hand extended. “Hi, I’m Audrey Tate. Brayden and I had been dating nearly a year before he died. I thought he was the love of my life—turns out he was the scourge of the earth.”

  Oliver let out an involuntary laugh as Naomi popped the cork on the champagne. “I only have coffee mugs to serve it in. That a problem?”

  It was more of a challenge than a question, and Oliver was irritated that she obviously expected snobbery from him. So he gave it to her.

  “Dom Pérignon in a mug? I think not. I’m happy to run next door to get the proper stemware.”

  Wordlessly she held his gaze as she slowly, deliberately upturned the bottle and unceremoniously glugged a liberal amount of champagne into the porcelain mug. Her auburn brows lifted in challenge, daring him to comment.

  Instead, he ignored her completely and turned back to Audrey. “I’m Oliver Cunningham. I live next door and was not having sex with Brayden Hayes.”

  She laughed. “Well, that makes you the only one in the room.”

  Unintentionally, Oliver looked at Naomi, who was rummaging through a box, coming up with more mugs, but no wine-glasses. He suspected even if there were wine flutes around, she’d have ignored them to spite him.

  “Yup,” she said without looking up. “I was Brayden’s whore.”

  Claire exhaled. “Naomi.”

  “Well, wasn’t I?” Naomi asked, looking up. “I mean, you were married to him. He at least took Audrey on dates. But me?” She shrugged, and though Oliver knew it wasn’t his business, he was more intrigued than he should have been by how she would finish that sentence.

  The thought of Naomi Powell and Brayden Hayes hooking up was—Nope. He didn’t want to go there.

  And the thought of Naomi Powell naked . . .

  No, he didn’t want to go there, either. She was the exact opposite of his type. And while he’d voted her into the building with the hopes of her being a distraction, he hadn’t intended it to be of the naked, hookup variety.

  Though if she kept wearing those tight-fitting jeans, he may have to reconsider.

  “Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Audrey said, clapping her hands and coming to retrieve the mugs of champagne Naomi had just finished pouring. “Shall we toast? To Naomi’s new home and her handsome new neighbor? How long have you lived here, Mr. Cunningham?”

  “Oliver,” he said with a smile, accepting the bulky white mug and realizing it was the first time he’d ever drunk champagne out of anything other than crystal. Suddenly he felt very much like the uppity snob Naomi seemed to think he was. And his next words all but confirmed it. “And I’ve actually lived here most of my life.”

  The realization was a little jarring. Oliver had never really thought of himself as a snob, but seeing himself through Naomi Powell’s hate-filled eyes, he had to admit that he was a little . . . fuddy-duddy.

  “Really!” Audrey said. “Naomi was just telling us that she—”

  Audrey broke off midsentence, and it didn’t take a psychic to see why. And refreshing as it was to see Naomi’s death glare directed at someone other than himself, he was curious to know what Audrey had been going to say.

  Claire stepped in and covered the awkward moment. “Thank you so much for the flowers you sent after Brayden’s passing.”

  Oliver tugged lightly at his tie. “Honestly, had I known how he treated you, I might have sent something a little less lavish. And I—Well hell, this is awkward, isn’t it?”

  Claire laughed. “It is, although selfishly it’s also refreshing. Other than Naomi and Audrey, I haven’t been able to discuss Brayden’s true nature with anyone. I’m sure plenty of people have their suspicions, but nobody will speak of anything other than tragedy to me.
Not that I’d speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

  “Oh, go for it,” Naomi said. “I do.”

  “Well now, there’s a surprise,” Oliver muttered.

  She ignored him. “Seriously though, Claire, you don’t have to let people speak to you like you’re a victim. You have your life back.”

  “Yes, but at the cost of his,” Claire said softly.

  Naomi sighed and then walked to Claire, putting her arm around her shoulders. “You’re right. I’m being a bitch.”

  “No,” Claire said, just as Oliver thought yup. “You’re just, well, let’s say I’m jealous. You’ve got your business to keep you busy, a new apartment to distract you . . .”

  Claire glanced at Oliver. “I’m so sorry. This probably isn’t what you were expecting when you came over to welcome your new neighbor.”

  “Definitely not,” he admitted. “But I’m grateful you’re here. I’m afraid without witnesses, Ms. Powell would be putting that box cutter in her pocket to lethal use.”

  Audrey laughed. “Naomi wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “A fly, no,” Naomi said, flicking a gaze his way to let him know that he wasn’t nearly as safe as said fly.

  “All right, I give up,” he said, spreading his hands to the side. “What did I do, Ms. Powell? What about me put me on your list before I even knew your name?”

  He saw Audrey and Claire exchange a look, and then Claire tapped her watch. “Oh my goodness. Is that the time? Audrey, we’ve got to go if we’re going to make that movie.”

  “Really?” Naomi said, her tone making it clear what she thought of her friends’ flimsy excuse to get out of the apartment. “What movie?”

  Claire and Audrey named two different movies at the exact same time, and Naomi rolled her eyes. “I thought you guys were going to help me unpack.”

  Audrey slid her purse over her shoulder and held up her fingers. “I tried, I did, but I’ve reached the max on what I can do without chipping a nail.”

  Claire now looked slightly less sure about leaving Oliver and Naomi alone, but Audrey was dragging her toward the door.

  “What about your champagne!” Naomi said. “I’m pretty sure it’s an actual crime to leave Dom behind in this neighborhood. You could be arrested. Oliver here probably has the etiquette police on speed dial.”

  “You two can finish it. Maybe the fancy bubbles will remind you of your manners,” Audrey said with a pointed look at Naomi.

  “Oh, do you have those?” he asked, turning to Naomi.

  “Well, it’s not like you were an invited guest,” she snapped, turning toward him. “You just came in here with your fancy booze and your stick-up-the-butt—”

  The door clicked closed as Audrey and Claire left.

  Naomi pointed at the door accusingly. “Look what you did.”

  “Me?” He set his mug on top of a stack of boxes and, hands on his hips, turned to face her fully. “You’ve acted like an irrational child since the moment I met you. Tell me exactly what it is I’ve done that so offended you.”

  She opened her mouth, but he wasn’t done and charged ahead.

  “Was it the champagne gift? The fact that I tried to welcome a new neighbor? That without my vote, you wouldn’t be living here? Which of these many crimes am I being punished for?”

  She chugged a large swallow of Dom Pérignon as though it were a Bud Light at the local pub and, setting her mug aside, reached behind her and pulled out the orange box cutter.

  Her thumb flicked the blade open, and he gave her a look. “Really? Is that supposed to be threatening?”

  Instead of responding, she turned toward the nearest box and dragged the blade across the tape with more force than necessary. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get settled in.”

  Retracting the box cutter’s sharp edge, she shoved it back into her jeans pocket and turned her back to him. His dismissal was clear. And it pissed him off. Acting on instinct, Oliver stomped toward her and pulled the box cutter out of her pocket, sorry-not-sorry that the backs of his fingers brushed her denim-clad rear as he did so.

  Naomi whirled back toward him, eyes disbelieving and angry, but this time it was he who flicked open the blade. It represented a shift in power, and they both knew it.

  He took a sip of his champagne, set it on the small kitchen table beside Audrey’s and Claire’s discarded mugs, and then slowly, taking his sweet time, opened one of the boxes labeled KITCHEN.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You said you needed to get settled in. What are neighbors for?”

  “Collecting your newspapers when you’re out of town and not playing loud music after ten p.m.,” she said, snatching the box cutter back.

  “I can do those things, too,” he said, lifting out a heavy bundle of tissue paper and unwrapping it to find a bunch of forks. “Where are you putting your silverware?”

  “Leave,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Not until you tell me why you hate me,” he said, stepping around her into the kitchen, opening drawers until he found one that held what appeared to be a brand-new silverware organizer. He put the forks into one of the slots and returned to the box, pulling out a similarly shaped bundle.

  “This is the most juvenile conversation I’ve had in decades,” Naomi said, running a hand over her hair and glaring at him as he placed her tablespoons next to her forks.

  Oliver shrugged. No argument there. Though, ridiculous as the whole situation was, he was a little surprised to realize he was enjoying himself. He’d voted Naomi Powell into the building in hopes of a distraction, and so far the woman was delivering marvelously.

  “You know, I’ve never been in this unit?” he said, looking around.

  “I’m not surprised. It’s the smallest floor plan in the building, right?”

  “Yes, and the walls aren’t made of gold in this one,” he said, wandering in the direction of the other rooms. “And no money tree, either. Shame.”

  Unabashedly he stepped into one of the rooms, the connected bathroom telling him it was intended to be the master bedroom. She followed him, standing in the doorway, and he lifted his eyebrows. “King mattress. Lot of bed for a single woman,” he said, just to provoke her.

  She gave a smile that reminded him of a satisfied cat. “Who said I’m single?”

  The mention of her love life reminded him of the bombshell Claire had dropped earlier. “So. Brayden Hayes, huh?”

  Her smile dropped. “Not open for discussion.”

  “You’re the one who brought it up,” he pointed out.

  She gave him an icy glare and turned away, but he grabbed her arm, a little surprised by his own action. Still, he didn’t let her go. “I’m not a bad guy, Naomi.”

  Naomi remained stubbornly silent before letting her gaze drop deliberately to where he held her arm.

  Oliver sighed and gave up, releasing her. “Fine. It’s been a few years since I’ve had an immature nemesis, but I can get on board. Just so I know the rules, is this a cold war, prank war, noise war . . . do I just launch spitballs at you in the mail room?”

  Something flickered in her gaze, but before he could identify it, she turned away.

  Oliver followed her back into the living room, but instead of resuming his unpacking of her silverware, he headed toward the door.

  “Enjoy your solitude, Ms. Powell.”

  He stepped into the hallway and shut the door before she could reply—though he was fairly certain she had zero intention of replying.

  Oliver stormed back to his own apartment, feeling more irritated and also more alive than he had in months. What the hell was the woman’s problem, he wondered, yanking open his fridge only to slam it shut again when he realized it was empty.

  He’d encountered his fair share of man haters, but this seemed personal somehow.

  Oliver pulled out his phone and was debating ordering something for delivery when there was a sharp, businesslike knock at his door. He checked the peephole and, seeing n
obody, opened the door.

  Just in time to hear his neighbor’s door close.

  Oliver glanced down. At his feet was a white coffee mug of champagne—she must have topped it off because it was fuller than when he’d left it—as well as a plate piled high with an assortment of fancy cheeses.

  He glanced to his right down the deserted hall, then smiled a little as he bent and picked up the items. He set the mug and plate on his kitchen island and flipped up the folded index card she’d used as a note.

  I didn’t spit in the champagne. Probably.—N.

  Oliver grinned at the begrudging peace offering, and took both the cheese plate and champagne to his coffee table, where he turned on the TV. For a split second, he considered putting the Dom Pérignon into one of the Waterford champagne glasses his mother had given him as a housewarming gift when he’d moved into his apartment.

  He decided against it. Turned out, it tasted better from the mug.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 8

  If there was an award for settling into a new apartment in record time, Naomi would like to think she’d be a contender. She’d worked her butt off for three straight days to unpack and break down every box, hang up every item of clothing, and find a new home for every last knickknack and handbag.

  She’d even hung curtains.

  Not that anyone had come around to see her handiwork, and . . . well, that was all on her, now wasn’t it?

  Somehow, Naomi had managed to cause two friends and a new neighbor to go running out of her apartment in the span of thirty minutes.

  None of them had been back since.

  Not one of Naomi’s finer moments to be sure. And though she’d apologized profusely to Claire and Audrey for her churlish mode, she hadn’t quite gotten around to facing Oliver Cunningham again. On one hand, she probably owed him an apology. His gesture had been neighborly—friendly, even. And she’d been nothing but rude. On the other hand, she was having a hell of a time separating out her memories of young Oliver Cunningham. The version whose manners hadn’t been nearly as pretty.

  Was it fair to punish a man for a boy’s mistakes? Perhaps not.