by Lauren Layne
She nodded in thanks. “What do you do?”
“I’m an architect,” Oliver said, lifting the mug.
Naomi looked surprised. “Really?”
He laughed. “Yeah, really. Do I not look it?”
“Not at all,” she said honestly. “You’re more of a take-over-the-family-business type.”
Her words caused a pang, and Oliver looked quickly down at his drink to hide it, but either he wasn’t fast enough or she was more perceptive than he’d anticipated.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I guess with your father . . .”
“I’m almost glad he doesn’t remember,” Oliver said quietly, not meaning to say the words until they were out there. “It was our biggest fight, me telling him I wanted to go to architecture school rather than take the reins of his company. He told me it was a phase. Then we had an even bigger fight when I told him I wanted to start my own firm and he realized it wasn’t a phase, that I’d truly dared to defy him. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he muttered, a little embarrassed.
“I’m sure he was proud,” Naomi said, her tone gentler than usual.
“I’m sure he wasn’t.” His and his father’s relationship, always rocky, had never truly recovered after that. And then Walter had gotten sick, and everything had been redefined. Not that Oliver was glad that his father had lost a part of himself. Alzheimer’s was a true shit disease. But selfishly, Oliver had been relieved to lay some of their old fights to rest, to be able to watch a baseball game, father and son.
He took the first sip of his drink and looked down in surprise. “This is good. Very good.”
“I know,” she said, smiling immodestly. “I make an excellent old-fashioned. Cooking eludes me, but cocktailing? I’m not bad.”
He nodded in agreement, taking another sip. “Why here?”
“Why here what?” she asked, sipping her own cocktail and watching him.
“Why this building? You’re thirty years old and not to be crass, but your financial success is no secret. You could afford to live anywhere.”
“Ah yes, but this is the Park Avenue,” she said.
Oliver sighed. “And just like that, the pieces are all over the floor again.”
“What?” she asked with a laugh.
“The puzzle pieces. Your puzzle pieces. You might as well have scattered them all over the floor.”
“How’s that?”
“Because, Naomi,” he said, her eyes sharpening as he said her name. “You don’t care about the prestige of Park Avenue. You lied.”
“I’m allowed.”
“To lie?”
“To not share every detail of my life and motivations with a man I barely know.”
“And yet here we are, having a nightcap together instead of with our respective dates,” he pointed out.
She opened her mouth, then closed it, frowning in confusion. “You’re right.”
Her grumpy tone should have bothered him, but instead he found himself grinning, relieved that he wasn’t the only one trying to solve a puzzle and finding it difficult.
He lifted his drink. “Can I borrow this? The mug?”
“Why not, might as well add to your collection,” she said, referring to the coffee mug he still had from move-in day. “You’re leaving?”
He carefully hid his smile at the puzzled, almost petulant note in her voice.
“I want to check on Dad. Janice is there, but he was having a rough night before I left. I want to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Sure, of course,” she said.
Oliver nodded goodbye and stepped into the hallway, feeling only a little bad about his partial truth after accusing her of lying. He did want to check on his father, but Janice had already texted him to say that Walter had gone to bed without issue. But it wasn’t the real reason he’d left.
The woman had disliked him from their first meeting. He still didn’t know why, but he did know that in order to redefine her opinion of him, he had to throw her off balance. To surprise her.
And if her assessing look as he’d walked away had been any indication, she’d be thinking about him tonight.
Much in the same way he’d be thinking about her.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12
Despite her poorer-than-poor upbringing, in the wake of Maxcessory’s success, Naomi had seen her fair share of Manhattan wealth, from black-tie fund-raisers to fancy museum cocktail parties to overpriced dinners with potential investors. She’d thought she’d finally wrapped her head around what life was like for the 1 percent.
But walking into Audrey’s apartment? She realized there was a whole other level.
She’d been invited to Audrey’s once before for a Sex and the City night, but she’d had to bow out at the last minute to deal with an inventory crisis in the San Francisco office. So she was fully not prepared for the fact that she was about to attend a dinner party in what was surely the most expensive building in New York City.
The lobby, with its soaring ceilings, marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling fish tank that looked bigger than Naomi’s apartment, should have prepared her. The fact that the formal, suit-wearing concierge at the reception desk directed her to a private elevator to the penthouse really should have prepared her.
And yet somehow, she still let out a gasp of shock when she stepped off the elevator into the private entryway of Audrey’s apartment, complete with gold damask wallpaper and an enormous chandelier.
This is where her friend lived? To say it was a far cry from the string of one-room apartments and motel rooms Naomi had grown up in was an understatement. Naomi shook her head in disbelief that this was her life now. That she was friends with people who lived like this.
Dylan Day seemed equally impressed by his surroundings. He was openly gawking as Naomi rang the discreet doorbell beside the front door. Audrey greeted them in a black halter dress, strappy sandals, and a wide, welcoming smile.
“You came!”
“Of course we did,” Naomi said with a laugh. “Though you might have mentioned that you live in a high-rise palace.”
“I know, right? Family money, lots of it. My parents bought this apartment, then decided to move to Hollywood to be near my sister and her producer boyfriend a month later. They gave the place to me, and if I had any sort of pride, I’d have said no, but—”
“If you had any sort of brains, you’d say yes,” Naomi finished for her. “Audrey, you remember Dylan?”
“Sure, of course, we met that day in your office,” Audrey said. Her tone was welcoming, but Naomi caught the way her friend’s smile turned just a little bit fake when she turned it toward Dylan.
“Thanks for having me,” he said politely as Audrey motioned for them to hand over both their coats.
“Of course,” Audrey said brightly. “Manhattan social groups can get so small so fast, I’m always trying to bring new people into the fold.”
Dylan laughed. “Well then, I’m glad you thought of me.”
Naomi looked away, not wanting to tell him that he’d been the second man she’d thought of, and only because they’d already committed to plans on Friday. She didn’t want to admit even to herself that the first person she’d thought of had been her stuffy, unexpectedly charming neighbor.
“Dylan, the kitchen’s right through there. Help yourself to a drink. Can I steal Naomi here for a second? Girl talk.”
“Sure thing,” he said, heading in the direction she’d indicated.
Audrey waited until Dylan was out of earshot before turning an accusing look on Naomi.
“Him?”
“Don’t start,” Naomi said, lifting her finger. “You said bring a date. He’s a date.”
“He’s a guy trying to get in your pants so you’ll agree to do his TV show.”
“Which wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Naomi pointed out. “The TV show’s a great opportunity, and as far as him getting in my pants, let’s just say I have needs that haven’t been taken
care of in . . . a while.”
“No pickles in your sandwich since Brayden?” Audrey asked.
“Nope. You?”
“Not even close, but to be honest I haven’t really thought about it. Having my boyfriend of over a year die messed with my heart. Knowing he was married messed with my head. Sex has been the last thing on my mind lately.”
“Huh.” Naomi couldn’t say the same. In the past few days alone it had been on her mind more than she cared to admit. For reasons she was worried had nothing to do with Dylan Day.
“Okay, well, if you like him . . .”
“Like who?”
Audrey rolled her eyes. “Dylan? Your date?”
Right. Right.
“Okay, so can I have a glass of wine, or . . . ?”
Audrey gestured toward the sound of voices, and Naomi had taken only a few steps when she skidded to a halt at a familiar masculine chuckle. What the . . . ?
Wordlessly, Naomi grabbed Audrey’s hand and pulled her friend none too gently through a door to their right, which turned out to be a powder room.
“Seriously?” Naomi hissed, shutting the door. “You invited Oliver?”
“Not explicitly. Claire brought him as her date!”
Naomi’s head snapped back slightly at that. The thought of Claire and Oliver was . . . well, right, on an intellectual level. They both had that sort of old-world classiness to them. Claire had gone to Smith, so they both looked like the alumni section of a prep school brochure. And though she wanted desperately to think of Oliver as a real pain in the ass, she couldn’t deny that maybe, just maybe, a little sliver of him was a good guy who brought expensive champagne to new neighbors and took care of his sick father.
And as for Claire, nobody deserved a nice guy more than she did, and yet . . . and yet . . . Her brain sputtered, trying to wrangle the almost stifling jealousy. While some part of Naomi knew Oliver and Claire were perfect together, another part of her felt decidedly panicked at the thought that there could be romantic interest there.
“Is Claire interested in him?” Is he interested in her?
Audrey shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, she wasn’t like wearing his ring or anything, but if she brought him to a casual get-together, she must be carrying his baby—”
“Audrey!”
“What is the big deal? Why do you hate him so much?”
She took a deep breath. “Remember my story about my mom and the affair with her employer that ended up with her fired?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, remember the little boy who lied to protect his father?”
“Yeah . . .” Audrey’s eyes went wide in realization. “No.”
“Yup.”
“Oliver was that boy?” she hissed.
“Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Audrey, I’m pretty sure. Also, he has a girlfriend and yet he still came tonight with Claire,” Naomi said, still preoccupied with the thought of Claire and Oliver together.
Audrey’s nose wrinkled. “He doesn’t seem like the two-timing type.”
“Right, because we’re all so good at spotting those,” Naomi said.
“Shoot. You’re right. Still, he seems so nice . . .”
“He is not nice.”
“Well, maybe he wasn’t when he was ten,” Audrey said in exasperation. “But he’s a perfectly polite adult. And I’m glad she brought him. When we met him that first day, he seemed a little . . . lonely.”
Naomi tugged gently on her gold hoop earring, hating the little twist in her stomach at the thought of Oliver Cunningham being lonely. Hated, almost as much, that Audrey had taken enough interest to notice.
“I’m truly sorry, Naomi,” Audrey said, her tone contrite. “If I could get him out of here without being unbearably rude, I would.”
“No, don’t do that,” Naomi said, letting her hands drop and giving her arms a quick shake, trying to gather herself. “I’m a grown-up. I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Audrey said emphatically, reaching out and smoothing a flyaway on Naomi’s hair like a calming mother. At least Naomi assumed that’s what a soothing mother would do. She didn’t have much experience with that sort of maternal figure.
“Let’s do this,” Naomi said, opening the bathroom door.
Naomi followed Audrey into the kitchen area, her attention no longer on her friend’s stunning apartment but on the nemesis she knew awaited her.
“So sorry, everyone,” Audrey said as they joined the small group gathered around her kitchen counter. “This is Naomi Powell, the entrepreneur superstar I was telling you about. It was her first time over here. I just had to give her the grand tour.”
Naomi’s gaze sought and immediately found Oliver. She’d only ever seen him in suits, and tonight was no different, though he’d forgone the tie and left his light blue shirt open at the collar. She was annoyed to realize he pulled off the slightly more casual look every bit as well as he did the full formal attire.
Naomi waited for his shock of surprise at seeing her, but he merely raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment of her presence. Her gaze flicked to Dylan, standing next to Oliver, but her date seemed more interested in checking out Audrey’s apartment, a vaguely assessing look on his face. Irritably, she wondered if Dylan was ever present in the moment, or if he was always looking for this next win, whether it be a woman or a new production idea.
Naomi glanced distractedly at the other man in the room, then did an immediate double take. He was absurdly good-looking. Like George Clooney, Hugh Jackman level of wow. Dark hair, golden-brown eyes, and twin dimples on either side of a rather fantastic smile.
“Dree must not have given you the full tour,” said the World’s Hottest Man. “In this mausoleum, that’s a two-hour venture.”
“Dree?” Naomi repeated, her brain finally catching up to his words, even as she gaped at his perfect face.
“Audrey. She loves the nickname,” he explained with a grin. Naomi’s ovaries fainted dead away.
“Really?” Audrey said dryly as she poured a glass of champagne and handed it to Naomi. “Because I could have sworn I’ve spent the past twenty-something years begging you to quit using it.”
“Twenty-something years,” Naomi said in surprise. Audrey was only twenty-seven. “You’re a . . . brother?”
“Might as well be,” the man replied, extending his hand. “Clarke West. Dree’s oldest and favorite friend.”
“I’ll give you the first one,” Audrey said. “But the persistent use of the nickname puts you on thin ice on the latter.”
Naomi’s gaze flicked between them, searching for any sign that the just-friends routine was a euphemism for complicated, but to her surprise, they both seemed completely easy around each other and, well, friends.
Clarke gave her a quick wink as though reading her thoughts, and Naomi was appalled to feel herself blushing.
“Ugh, Clarke, put that away,” Audrey said with a dismissive wave.
“Put what away?”
“You know exactly what. My friends are off-limits for your dubious charms.”
“I’ll try to keep my appeal under lock and key.”
Good luck with that.
Naomi gave Audrey’s friend another smile before looking over at Claire and smiling in greeting.
Claire’s purple sweater should have perfectly complemented her hazel eyes, but Naomi was dismayed to realize that the shadows under the gorgeous eyes were even darker than the last time she’d seen her.
“I guess you know everyone else,” Audrey said to Naomi. “Not quite the meet-new-people dinner party I expected, but at least we can skip some of the small talk.”
Dylan’s attention finally snapped back to the conversation, and he looked at Naomi in surprise. “You’ve met Owen?”
“Oliver,” Audrey corrected quickly.
Oliver, for his part, ignored Dylan completely, still watching Naomi.
“Hello,” he said softly whe
n she met his eyes.
“Hi.” She tore her gaze away to look at Dylan. “Oliver and I are neighbors.”
Dylan snapped his fingers. “That’s why you look familiar. Didn’t we see you the other night? You were with another . . .”
He looked at Claire, then back at Oliver, and though he stopped short of pointing out that Oliver had been with a different woman that night, his silence was just as damning. At least, it would have been, had Claire seemed to care even a little bit that Oliver had been on a date with someone else. Instead, she seemed far more interested in the bubbles in her champagne flute.
Still, Naomi inwardly cringed that her date didn’t seem embarrassed, much less regretful about the awkward moment he’d caused. In fact, a little part of her wondered if he’d done it on purpose to make Oliver look bad.
“Oh dear,” Audrey muttered just quietly enough for Naomi’s ears but nobody else’s. Then she slipped right back into hostess mode, moving toward the refrigerator. “You guys must be starving. I’ve got a lovely bruschetta that I’ll just pop together real fast. Clarke, be useful for once and come give me a hand?”
Audrey handed a baguette to her friend, who took it and used it to point at the small TV mounted discreetly onto one of the kitchen cabinets. No, it had been built into the cabinet, Naomi realized. A whole other level of fancy.
“I’ll cut this if I can turn that on,” Clarke said, waving the baguette like a weapon.
“Nope. No TV. It’s a dinner party.”
“It’s the Yankees,” Clarke countered.
“Clarke.”
“Audrey.”
Audrey’s eyes narrowed in warning, and Clarke gave her a smile that Naomi suspected would have made most women weak in the knees. Audrey merely raised the large kitchen knife in her hand in warning.
Clarke turned back toward the group. “Let’s take a vote. Yankees game in the background? On mute,” he added, when Audrey made a low growling noise.
Dylan’s hand immediately went up. “Sorry, Audrey. Yanks playing Atlanta, and as a Braves fan I’ve got a good feeling about their win . . .”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Clarke said before pointing his baguette at Oliver. “Can I count on your vote?”
