“You ever think of getting rid of it?”
“What?” she snapped, her gaze coming around to his.
He nodded in the general direction of the stairs. “It’s not like he’s coming back for it.”
Her hazel gaze flickered with an emotion, but it was gone before he could identify it. Pain? Anger? Denial? Still, he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty for his remark. The woman was too darn interesting to be hung up on a ghost. Especially one who, from what he’d heard, had been the world’s worst husband.
“I know he’s not coming back,” she said testily. “I’ve been through all my stages of grief.”
“Then why the hell do you have a veritable museum devoted to the guy up there?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize when I hired you that you were also available for unsolicited advice on my life.”
Scott held up his hands. “Fair enough. I’ll add the painting to the shrine.”
Her expression twisted angrily, but instead of replying, she lifted her chin and walked past him, the click of her heels muted by the ugly carpet that covered most of the damn house. The muffled click of her heels grew louder again as she walked past once more, this time toward the front door, purse over her shoulder.
“Where you going?” He shouldn’t be curious. But he was.
She halted and turned, giving him an icy look. “None of your business. And neither,” she said, pointing emphatically up the stairs in the direction of the Brayden Hayes memorial, “is that.”
Scott winced as she punctuated her point with a slam of the front door, and looked down at the dog who gave him a baleful look. “She’s right. It’s definitely not our business. She’s not our business.”
But damn. He was intrigued all the same.
Chapter Six
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
When Claire’s anger hadn’t abated after several blocks of an attempted “cooldown” walk, she blamed it on the sweltering ninety-degree weather and ducked into a Starbucks near Park Avenue, as much for the AC as for the beverage.
She was still seething as she waited in line. What the hell did a man who, best she could tell, had the emotional sensitivity of a piece of cardboard think he was doing giving her advice on how to adjust to life as a widow? On an intellectual level, she’d known that Scott would see the room where she’d stuffed all of Brayden’s belongings in the days following the funeral. She’d even acknowledged that he’d be able to figure out to whom the stuff belonged.
She hadn’t, however, thought it through emotionally. She hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel to know that someone else knew what she could barely admit to herself.
That some stupid part of her, probably the young, naive girl that had fallen in love with Brayden all those years ago, wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
It’s not like he’s coming back.
“Oh really?” she muttered snidely under her breath. “He’s not?”
She knew Brayden was gone. She knew he wasn’t the man she’d thought she’d married. In all honesty, Claire wasn’t even sure she was sad anymore. And she was not mad, either.
So why couldn’t she get rid of his stuff?
“Ma’am?”
Claire realized she’d zoned out, and the barista was ready to take her order. She stepped forward and ordered her favorite guilty pleasure on hot days. “Grande vanilla Frappuccino, please.”
“Wait,” she blurted out, realizing what she’d just done. Again with the vanilla. “Not that, I don’t want that.” I am not vanilla.
The barista gave her an impatient look.
“I’ll have . . .” She scanned the menu above his head. “A strawberry Frappuccino. Is that good?”
“Yeah.” He scribbled the revised order on the cup with a Sharpie.
“What about strawberry lemonade? Is that a Frappuccino flavor?” she asked hopefully.
“Nope,” the barista said, clearly having no time for Claire’s existential crisis. “You want any food?”
“No. Thanks.” Claire paid for the drink and made her way toward the mob of people waiting for their orders. Her anger had eased slightly, if nothing else because it pleased her to picture Scott’s face when she walked in the door with a frothy pink beverage.
“Claire?”
She turned toward the familiar masculine voice, a smile already breaking over her face. “Oliver!”
She hugged Naomi’s boyfriend. Oliver Cunningham had been a casual social acquaintance when she and Brayden were married, but since he’d started dating Naomi, she’d come to count the handsome Oliver as a good friend. As usual, he wore a suit, paired with a light blue tie that matched his eyes. It was hard to believe that perfectly groomed, impeccably mannered Oliver could possibly be friends with the rough and surly Scott.
“What brings you to this part of town?” she asked, since Oliver and Naomi lived downtown, and his office was on the West Side.
“Visiting my parents’ friends at the old stomping ground. My former neighbor just a had a hip replacement, so I took over some flowers and a basket of pears that my assistant informed me people like.”
“Nice touch. You really are one of the good guys. And I always forget you used to live just around the corner from me.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” he said with a grin. “Sometimes I worry everything about me still screams Upper East Side as clearly as if I had my zip code tattooed on my forehead.”
“Oh, everything about you does still scream that,” she said, patting his arm. “Once a Park Avenue prince, always a Park Avenue prince, though you wear it well.”
“You want to grab a table?” he asked. “It’s been too long since we’ve caught up. You kick off the renovation?”
“Yup, as of this week it’s officially begun. So far so good, though your contractor buddy and I aren’t getting along nearly so well.”
He grinned. “That’s what I want to hear about.”
“Ah, so you did know what you were getting me into,” she teased with a smile, stepping forward to retrieve her drink as the barista called her name.
“That is one pink beverage,” Oliver marveled as she returned to his side. “Is it good?”
“I’ve never had it before,” she said, as she pushed the green straw into the frothy Frappuccino and took a sip. “Oh! It is good!”
Better, perhaps, than her trusty vanilla. Or maybe it was merely the change that tasted good.
“Table opening up by the window,” she said, gesturing with her drink.
“Go. I’ll be along with my boring brown beverage as soon as it’s up.”
Claire swooped in on the table and was just using a couple of napkins to clear off cranberry scone crumbs when Oliver joined her. He swiped her drink from the table and took a sip.
“It’s good, right?” she asked, sitting across from him.
“It’s something. I’d offer you my double espresso, but I’m afraid you’d find it a bit dull.”
“I never did understand people who don’t put sweetener, or at least cream, in their coffee. Isn’t that the whole point?”
“You and Naomi. I swear her coffee to creamer ratio is nearly one-to-one these days. And I think us black coffee drinkers would argue that it is you who misses the point of, um, coffee?”
She sighed and shook her head. “You and Scott.”
“Ah yes,” he said, leaning back, and his presence was as commanding in a small wooden chair at a bustling Starbucks as it was in a boardroom. Oliver was an architect who’d started his own firm, but she could have just as easily seen him at the head of a conference room table if he’d followed in the footsteps of his well-known businessman father.
“Is he really that bad?” he asked.
“No,” she said on a sigh. “I can handle him. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t going to be practically living at my house for the next month or so. If we kill each other, it’s on your head.”
Oliver laughed. “Scott does know how to alienate people when h
e’s on a project. Though I thought you were made of stronger stuff, Hayes.” His smile slipped slightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve never really asked. Did you . . . Are you . . . Did you change back to your maiden name?”
“I thought about it,” she admitted. “I asked myself if I really wanted to continue sharing the name of a man who apparently forgot to mention we were in an open marriage. But I don’t feel like Claire Burchett anymore. For better or worse, and there was admittedly a lot of worse, I’m Claire Hayes now.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll be Claire something else,” Oliver said softly. “Or is that too old-fashioned of me?”
She gave a rueful smile. “You mean if I got married again? It’s not the name-changing part I’d be averse to so much as the marriage itself.”
“Ah.” He took a sip of his drink.
Claire leaned forward. “I’m an Upper East Sider, too. I know a noncommittal disagreement when I hear one.”
“I don’t disagree,” he said carefully. “But Naomi felt that way, too. You saw how hard I had to work to win over that woman.”
“I did,” Claire said with a smile. “It was better than any movie. But I don’t have an Oliver desperately in love with me.”
“And if you did?”
She shook her head. “Still not on the marriage track.”
“Fair enough,” he said easily. “What about the dating track?”
“I’m thirty-five. The men who want to date me are either looking for marriage or a fling.”
“And?”
“And, I don’t want to get married,” she said, puzzled that the usually sharp Oliver wasn’t following.
“And?” he pressed again, eyebrows lifting.
“Oooh.” Claire laughed as she realized it was she who hadn’t been following. “Oliver Cunningham, are you suggesting I date men with the intention of using them for a booty call?”
“As a gentleman, I couldn’t possibly,” he said with a boyish grin. “As a friend, I will point out that just because you’re not looking for anything long-term doesn’t mean you have to cut yourself off from male companionship.”
“Does Naomi know you offer this sort of advice?”
“Absolutely not,” Oliver said, looking slightly panicked. “And I doubt she’d be thrilled. I know you three women have that pact.”
“You say it like it’s a dirty word.”
He hesitated for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. “I think it’s good that you three made that pact. I’m glad it brought you together, and I’m certainly glad that you’re looking out for each other. I wouldn’t want to see any of you be hurt by someone like Brayden again.”
“But?”
“But, I worry that the pact could potentially backfire—end up being too restrictive. There’s being careful with your heart, and then there’s becoming jaded.”
“You don’t want me to become a cynical old crone.”
She smiled, but he didn’t smile back. “No, Claire. I don’t want you to become lonely.”
Her smile disappeared as the word seemed to hit her squarely in the throat. It was a word—an emotion—she hadn’t really let herself consider since Brayden’s death, and yet she knew, she sensed that it was lurking around every corner. On an emotional level, and yes, to the point Oliver was dancing around, on a physical level. Brayden was dead. She wasn’t. And her body knew it.
“Also, sex is fun,” he said, as though reading her mind, and lightened the mood with a grin.
“Yeah, well.” She took a sip of the Frappuccino. “Trust me, I have zero game.”
“I’m an adult male who loves jigsaw puzzles, and I got a hot billionaire girlfriend.”
“Nerds are in right now,” Claire argued. “And even if they weren’t, you’re ridiculously charming. I don’t even know how to flirt.”
Oliver downed the rest of his coffee and checked his watch before standing. “Well then. Might I suggest a tried-and-true approach for learning a new skill?”
Claire groaned, knowing what he was going to say even before he said the word.
“Practice.”
Having parted ways with Oliver, Claire took a leisurely walk home, less fired up than she was when she’d left the house. Granted, she still felt the urge to scream when she thought of Scott, but the joy of talking with a good friend had taken the edge off her anger. And if she were honest, the male company in particular had been pleasant. Not in a romantic or sexual way—she thought of Oliver like a brother. But there was no denying that spending time with the opposite sex felt . . . different.
Nice.
Which, annoyingly, sort of proved Oliver’s point. If Claire wasn’t careful, she was going to end up lonely. And as for the rather cheeky suggestion of a booty call, Claire was rather intrigued by the idea, even as she felt completely out of her element just considering it.
Walking up the steps to her brownstone, Claire heard the boisterous sound of male voices, even before she opened the door.
“Oh!” she said, taking a startled step back, as a gray-haired man with a ponytail crossed her foyer, single-handedly maneuvering one of her sitting room chairs up the staircase.
A happy bark had her bracing for Bob’s greeting, and she was relieved when the dog went easy on her, sitting patiently by her feet for a pet rather than jumping up on her as she feared.
“Hi, girl,” she said, rubbing the dog’s ear tentatively, enjoying how soft it was. “How’s it going in here?”
She stepped forward as she asked, poking her head into the sitting room. Her first thought was how much bigger it looked when it wasn’t dwarfed by too-large furniture.
Her second thought?
Oh, mama.
Claire had never been the type to ogle a man, but then she’d never seen a man who looked like this one. She had the epitome of man candy in her home.
He wasn’t particularly tall—an inch or two shorter than Scott, who was on the other side of the room doing something with a tool and an end table, and who Claire purposely ignored.
But what the fantasy man lacked in height he made up for in sheer brawn. His biceps were tanned and filled out his Yankees shirt to perfection. His dark hair was cut short, his teeth white and even against his tanned skin. He was also clean-shaven, not a hint of five-o’clock shadow in sight.
Simply put, he was the personification of a boy-toy fantasy. The type of man that would be cast as the “young hot stud” with whom the middle-aged divorcée has a steamy vacation fling.
He must have felt the weight of her stare—or sensed her drool—because he grinned her way with a polite nod. “Ma’am.”
“Hi,” she said, her voice a little breathy, like the shy freshman who’d just earned a wink from the senior homecoming king.
Scott glanced up, eyes narrowed as he studied Claire for a moment. She saw his gaze drop to the pink beverage still in her hand before rolling his eyes.
Turning back to the younger guy, Claire’s hand lifted almost against her will, as she gave a ridiculous little finger waggle of a wave.
Worse and worse.
She was grateful he’d already turned away from her and missed the awkward gesture. Scott, however, was still watching her, a puzzled What the hell am I looking at here? expression on his face.
Ignoring him, Claire ordered herself back to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She eyed a package of mixed greens, debated making a salad for lunch. She shut the refrigerator without taking anything out. She didn’t want salad. She wanted . . . damn it, Oliver. She wanted sex. Or at least the prospect of it.
Maybe she’d just check on the movers, see if they needed anything . . .
The gray-haired guy with the ponytail had returned, only to leave the room once more with the other chair in hand. Scott was nowhere to be seen, but dark and hunky was still in the sitting room, unscrewing a lightbulb.
You can screw my lightbulb.
No, too obvious.
Light my fire?
Too awful.
Still oblivio
us to her staring, or too kind to embarrass her by noticing, the man bent down and began adding some sort of protective tape to the underside of the glass of her coffee table.
The muscles of his forearms flexed slightly, and—
“Seriously?” said a male voice close to her ear. “He’s not a day over twenty-five.”
Claire jumped in surprise, though she refused to feel guilty as she pulled out of sight and glared at Scott.
“Really,” she said, pulling him farther down the hallway so as not to be overhead. “And I’m sure every woman you’ve hooked up with has been in your age range, right? Thirty-two and above?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, then he shrugged. “Point taken. Still, you’re practically drooling.”
“I was just looking,” she said, refusing to be embarrassed. “He’s very . . .”
“Young?”
“Hot,” she corrected. “He is hot.”
“Dean also has a job to do. Stay out of the way,” Scott said, before brushing past her and going to join the movers.
Dean. She could work with that.
She was tempted to return to the kitchen. Scott, while an ass, was right. Dean was too young for her; he was here working for Scott . . .
And yet Oliver’s reminder that there was only one way to learn a new skill wouldn’t stop running around on repeat in her brain.
“Oh hell, why not,” she muttered to herself.
New Claire gave in to whims, and right now, she wanted to dust off her stale flirting skills.
Ignoring Scott’s high-handed order to stay out of the way, she strode into the sitting room, adding a little waggle to her stride, hoping it was sultry and didn’t look like she was drunk. The disgust on Scott’s face told her she wasn’t terribly successful.
Practice.
She walked straight to where Dean was crouched by the table. “Hi, I’m Claire, owner of the ugly furniture you’re so kindly moving. Can I get you anything? Water?”
Love on Lexington Avenue Page 6
