Passion on Park Avenue (The Central Park Pact)

by Lauren Layne

  “Hovered?”

  Scott grunted in confirmation, and Oliver gave a single nod of understanding.

  He and Scott Turner had met at Columbia, both setting out to get their masters in architecture. Scott had dropped out after the first year, realizing his passion was building, not design. He’d started his own construction firm, and though he kept it small, he was known as a perfectionist and had his choice of projects.

  Oliver always recommended Turner Construction for his projects, knowing that Scott got Oliver’s designs in a way the bigger companies didn’t always see. But Scott was picky. If one of Oliver’s projects didn’t suit his mood, he went for something else.

  Seattle, in this case.

  “How was it, besides the douche client?” Oliver asked.

  “Good. As rainy as they say, but my wardrobe certainly fit in better there.”

  Oliver believed it. Though Scott had a loft apartment on the west side, he was no Manhattan yuppie. Come to think of it, Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend wear anything besides jeans and a T-shirt. Even now, in late October, Scott had layered a short-sleeve navy tee over a long-sleeve white T-shirt. There were no signs of the usual aviator glasses, but Oliver was betting they were tucked into the bomber jacket Scott had set over the back of the chair.

  “So what’s next?” Oliver asked.

  “TBD,” Scott said, taking a sip of the coffee and studying him. “I need a palate cleanser. Something . . . simple. Basic. You ever miss your earliest projects? Back before we knew how to do fancy and just sort of threw our backs into regular stuff?”

  “No,” Oliver admitted. “But considering the first thing I ever saw you sketch was a log cabin, I think I know what you mean.”

  “Yeah, well.” Scott rolled his shoulders in impatient irritation. “I want something like that. I want to gut something small, then take my time getting the details right.”

  He nodded in the direction of Oliver’s desk. “What’re you workin’ on?”

  Oliver tipped his chair back, leaning over nearly to the point of tipping over, to grab his sketch pad before dropping it on the table in front of Scott.

  Scott picked it up, rubbed a palm absently over his chronic five o’clock shadow, which was really a twenty-four-hour shadow in Scott’s case. “Good old cock and balls. Nice.”

  His friend tossed the pad aside—it really was a cock and balls Oliver had doodled on the pad in utter, uninspired boredom—and studied him. “Blocked?”

  “No. I’m thinking a building of exactly that design would be perfect next to the High Line. Thoughts?”

  “Plenty of people would get a kick out of it,” Scott said, propping a booted foot on his opposite knee. “I also think you’re avoiding my question. How’s Walter?”

  “Good,” Oliver said. “I mean he’s not, but . . . no change.”

  “Did the Tribeca fancies pick your design for that mixed-use monstrosity downtown?”

  “Yeah,” Oliver said distractedly, pulling his pencil from behind his ear and fiddling with it.

  “All right, so it’s not family. Not work. Woman.”

  Oliver’s gaze flicked up and met Scott’s before moving away again.

  “Nailed it,” Scott said, not bothering to hide the gloat. “Who is she? You haven’t taken up with that bitch Bridget again, have you?”

  “Tell me how you really feel,” Oliver grumbled.

  “I have. Many times. Any woman who’d walk away within a month of your dad’s diagnosis isn’t worth a second more of your thoughts.”

  Oliver nearly reminded Scott that he, too, had been engaged. At the same time as Oliver. The two couples had been nearly inseparable at the time, though neither had made it to the altar. As much as Bridget bailing on Oliver had hurt, it had nothing on what Scott had gone through when Meredith cheated on him.

  “To her credit, Bridget did stick around through my mom’s illness,” Oliver said. “It wouldn’t have been fair to ask her to deal with another round.”

  “Why not? You have to deal with it.”

  “Can we not?” Oliver said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “This isn’t about Bridget. I haven’t even talked to her.”

  “Ah. Someone new. Good. It’s been too long.”

  “Yeah, since you’re a real relationships guy,” Oliver said sarcastically. “You know, other than Bridget, I’ve never even met a woman you were seeing? Random chicks you take home from bars don’t count.”

  “Good thing we’re not talkin’ about my love life, then,” Scott said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Talk to old Scotty. Who’s the girl who’s got you drawing this?” He flicked the notepad.

  “New neighbor.”

  Scott’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Tell me she’s under sixty.”

  Oliver laughed. “She’s around our age. No idea why she moved into a building where the mean age is about seventy-four though.”

  “You ever ask her?”

  “I—” Oliver’s mouth dropped open. Had he? Maybe during the interview process. But as a person? Friend to friend? Interested man to woman?

  “Truth be told, I don’t know much about her beyond what I’ve found on Wikipedia.”

  “Hell, that sounds like trouble.”

  “Not what you think. She’s a businesswoman, started some jewelry empire. Maxcessory?”

  Scott shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  Shocker.

  “Anyway, Naomi’s my neighbor, and she’s . . .”

  “Hot?”

  “Hot. Frustrating. A complete pain in my ass.”

  “Sounds like a real dream come true. Any good qualities beyond the hot?”

  “She’s good with Dad.”

  Scott nodded in understanding. A woman being good with his father may not be the sexiest foundation for any relationship, but ever since Bridget had coldly left him when he’d needed her most, Oliver had promised himself he’d never get involved with a woman who couldn’t handle Walter—who didn’t understand that he and his father were a package deal.

  “Okay, so she’s hot,” Scott said, holding out a thumb. “She likes Walter, and that’s no easy task . . .” He held out his pointer finger. “She’s built her own empire, so she’s not in it for the money,” he said, ticking off another point.

  “So true,” Oliver muttered.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Scott shrugged. “Seems to me like a pretty clear-cut situation. You’re attracted to your new neighbor, and she hasn’t gone running off because of your family situation. Neither of those reasons explains why I’m getting major depressed vibes coming off you right now.”

  “All right,” Oliver said, deciding to lay it all out there. “How about the fact that from the very second she saw me—literally, the very first second—she decided not to like me.”

  Scott made a considering face, waggling his hand. “To be honest, dude, I didn’t like you much the first time I saw you, either.”

  Oliver glared at his friend. “What?”

  “You’re sort of . . .” Scott narrowed his brown eyes and studied Oliver. “Starchy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know. Like your mom used to make you dress for the dinner table, and like you don’t own shirts without collars, and you have a cuff link collection that dates back four generations.”

  “I do not have a cuff link collection.”

  Though his mom had made him change for dinner growing up. And his amount of non-collared shirts wasn’t exactly numerous.

  “Question,” Scott said, setting his mug aside and steepling his fingers. “You work for yourself, right?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said impatiently. “You know that.”

  “So you’re the boss.”

  “Point?”

  “You don’t have to wear a suit.” Scott looked pointedly at Oliver’s pinstripe suit. “Nobody’s making you.”

  “Correct,” Oliver said, s
moothing a hand over this gray tie, “I’d just prefer not to look like a . . .”

  Scott made a continue gesture with his hand. “Lumberjack? Bohemian? Vagabond? Construction worker?”

  “I’m not walking into that trap,” Oliver muttered.

  “Look, man, I got over it. Saw that you weren’t actually a prig, you just dressed like one. But it took me a while. People like you don’t generally associate with people like me, and I wasn’t exactly prepared for you to be decent.”

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘people like you’?” Oliver asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Where am I from?” Scott asked.

  “Ah . . .” Oliver racked his brain, was a little embarrassed to realize he had no idea.

  “Exactly. Never told you. Why? Because you were born and raised and still live on Park Avenue. Me? A shitty little town in New Hampshire you’ve never heard of, in a two-bedroom house I shared with my dad and three brothers. Two of my brothers still live there. Hell, I probably would, too, had I not decided to elbow my way the hell out, but it doesn’t mean I’m not braced every damn day for someone to see right through me.”

  Oliver stared at his friend. It was a monotone, dispassionate delivery, but his words were . . . telling. It was more than Scott had ever told him. But before he could think of what to say, Scott was pulling his phone out of his pocket.

  “Let’s test this out. What’s this girl’s name?”

  Oliver told him, and Scott typed it into his phone. “Here we go. ‘Naomi Powell, best known’ blah, blah, blah. Ah. ‘Born and raised in the Bronx, Powell has cited her poor upbringing as a major motivator . . .’ ”

  Scott looked at Oliver over the phone. “You haven’t read this?”

  “No, I have,” Oliver said, shifting in his chair. “So it’s a rags-to-riches story.”

  Scott shook his head and put his phone away, his point made. “Sure, but I bet you anything there’s a part of her that still sees herself in the rags, and meanwhile you’re . . .”

  “Starchy,” Oliver said, realizing what his friend was getting at.

  Scott spread his hands to the side. “My work here is done.”

  Oliver laughed. “Like hell it is. You’ve merely insulted me and given me literally zero advice.”

  “You know when I first realized you weren’t a complete asswag?” Scott asked, leaning forward slightly.

  “Can’t wait to hear.”

  “Study group, just shortly before I quit. Remember, it was at your place, and there was supposed to be that cute blond girl with the great rack, but she got sick last minute and never showed, so it was just the two of us?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Vaguely?”

  “Well, I was dreading the hell out of it, fully expecting you to serve cucumber sandwiches off china plates.”

  “And?”

  “And you answered the door holding an egg roll, wearing Nike joggers and an undershirt with soy sauce down the front.”

  “Jesus,” Oliver said with a laugh.

  “That was when I knew we could be friends. When I knew you were real. When I knew there was a man beneath the priss,” Scott said, standing and picking up his mug.

  “I think it’s going to take a little more than spilled soy sauce to win over Naomi.”

  “All right, so evolve your methods,” Scott said matter-of-factly. “But you want a chance, Cunningham, you’ve got to show this woman that there’s a man beneath those pinstripes.”

  “I feel like this conversation just turned weird.”

  “Says the man doodling penises.”

  Oliver picked up the sketch pad, then flipped it around. “Maybe I can just show her this?”

  Scott gave him a boyish grin. “If you take my advice, I’d say you’ve got a pretty decent chance of showing her the real thing.”

  Aaaand sold.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 29

  Walter, I swear to God, I’m not going to handle it well if you throw that egg at me,” Naomi said, lifting a finger in warning.

  The older man gave her a dirty look but to her surprise—and relief—opted to take a bite out of the egg rather than hurl it at her, as he had the past two. She’d dodged them just in time, but he’d thrown them with enough force to send the makings of egg salad crumbling all over the carpet.

  “Okay, I’m going to clean this up,” she said, pointing at the eggs. “And you are going to say sorry.”

  He chewed, glaring at her mutinously. “Who are you? Where’s Margaret? Get the hell out of my house.”

  Naomi inhaled and made a mental note to ask if Janice was Catholic, because if so, Naomi was seriously going to nominate her for sainthood for dealing with this every damn day.

  “My name is Naomi. I’m taking care of you while Janice is taking care of her father.”

  “Janice,” he said slowly, squinting as he did when he was trying to put pieces together.

  “Yep. You remember her?” Naomi asked, taking the trash can from under the sink and carrying it around with her as she began picking up bits of egg.

  “Sure, I remember Janice. Mannish.”

  “Walter!” Naomi said, giving him a glare. “Be nice.”

  She’d never met Janice, so she had no idea if Walter was remembering her or someone else, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to one of his jackass rampages.

  “I like ’em curvy,” he muttered.

  “Yeah? Margaret was a real hourglass, huh?” she asked, gingerly picking up a piece of egg white.

  He snorted. “Margaret? She was a beanpole.”

  Naomi slowly stood up. “So, when you said you like ’em curvy, you meant women other than your wife?”

  Women like my mother?

  He took another sip of water and said nothing.

  “Walter?”

  “Hmm?”

  Naomi opened her mouth to push him, then closed her eyes in self-loathing. Was she seriously doing this? Using a man’s confusion to get answers for her own sake.

  No. She was better than that. Better than him.

  She noticed his eyes had a vacant, sleepy look, and she sighed, setting the trash aside.

  “Come on, let’s get you ready for bed.”

  He nodded, and she was grateful it wouldn’t be one of those battles to get him to change into pajamas.

  She walked with him to his bedroom, and as usual, refused to look at the bed, knowing full well what had happened there between him and her mother decades earlier.

  Naomi pulled out flannel pants and a T-shirt, handing them both to him. “Here you go. Let me know if you need help with the buttons.”

  “Where’s Oliver?” His blue eyes were cloudy and a little scared.

  “He’ll be home soon, okay?” she said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, relieved when his fear seemed to recede slightly. “You can wait up for him if you want.”

  He nodded, but when Naomi knocked and came in a few minutes later to check on him, he was already in bed, covers tucked up to his chin, his gray hair spread out in tufts against the white pillowcase.

  Naomi smiled a little as she turned off the nightstand lamp, acknowledging that her feelings about this man were complicated.

  To say nothing of her feelings for his son.

  She was just squirting some carpet cleaner on a stubborn yolk stain when Oliver came in the front door. He immediately winced when he saw her on her hands and knees. “One of those?”

  “One of those,” she said, using her forearm to brush an errant hair out of her face.

  “Sexy gloves though,” he said.

  She held up her hands, covered in yellow rubber. “You like these, baby?”

  “Stop. Don’t tease,” he said, dropping his briefcase by the front door.

  For a moment they just looked at each other, a silent standoff to see if either would mention the kiss from a couple of nights before.

  Instead he looked away, back down at her hands. “But seriously though, take those off. I’ll finish cleaning.”

 
“All good,” she said, standing and peeling off the gloves. She tilted her head, taking in the white plastic bag in his hand. “Take-out?”

  “Chinese. Too much of it, probably, given that Dad’s already asleep.” He looked at the closed bedroom door. “How bad was he?”

  “Lashed out more than usual,” she said, putting the carpet cleaner and gloves under the sink with the cleaning supplies. “Threw eggs, yelled at the TV, barked at some strangers in the park, made some saucy comments about liking his women curvy.”

  Oliver gave her a sharp look. “He didn’t . . . he’s never . . . made a move?”

  “Hmm?” Naomi was in the process of trying to untie the knot on the Chinese food bag, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. Her head snapped up when it did. “Oh. No. No.” She swallowed. “Why, has he . . . with Janice?”

  “Not with Janice,” Oliver said quietly. “But he wasn’t . . . he wasn’t loyal to my mom. Sometimes he would have affairs right under her nose.”

  Naomi had gone very still. It was the perfect opening. Tell him. Tell him who you are. Who your mother was.

  And she was going to, she really meant to, but his eyes were so shadowed, he looked so utterly exhausted. And for the first time, Naomi realized that she wasn’t the only one impacted by Walter Cunningham’s actions. His son had paid the price as well.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

  He stared for a long moment at the bag before giving a quick shake of his head. “No. Not right now. I want a beer and I want an egg roll and . . .”

  He broke off, then smiled, then outright laughed.

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Got an inside joke with yourself there, Cunningham?”

  “An inside joke, though not with myself.” Then he looked up, his eyes a little lighter than before. “Actually, you cool if I leave you for just five minutes? I’ll be right back. I just need to grab something from my place.”

  “Sure, no problem,” she said, tearing open the knot when she grew impatient with trying to untie it. “Just don’t expect me to wait before diving in. I’m starving.”

  “Help yourself. Be right back.”