Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  “I guess.” He sipped the wine tentatively.

  “Well?”

  He looked at the glass. “I don’t know that I’d buy it for myself, but it’s not as bad as I was expecting.”

  “Most people expect rosé to be sickly sweet, but it doesn’t have to be. This one reminds me of strawberries and lemon.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Strawberry lemonade.”

  “Right! I didn’t think of that.” Her spontaneous laugh thawed something deep inside him, but he immediately put that shit on lockdown and scowled.

  It was a wasted frown. She was looking at the stove. “Hmm, now that I think about it, the wine doesn’t at all go with the chili. But I suppose after the day I’ve had, I’ll take any alcohol in lieu of a proper pairing.”

  “What was wrong with your day?” He winced as soon as he asked it, belatedly remembering the reason he was here in the first place, with his pink wine peace offering.

  She scoffed and picked up the wooden spoon, giving the sauce a stir. “Did you not see me awkwardly try to seduce a married man half my age?”

  “Not half your age,” he amended. “And that was seduction?”

  “Hey,” she snapped, though there was a good-natured joking to it. “I was married for years and have been widowed for one. Give me a break.”

  “It’ll come back to you,” he said. “Plus, bonus, it’s easier for women.”

  “How’s that?”

  He took a sip of wine. “Breasts.”

  Claire snorted. “That may be true of twenty-year-old boobs. Thirty-five-year-old boobs, not so much.”

  I can assure you, your thirty-five-year-old boobs are fine.

  More than fine. Claire’s body was neither skinny nor particularly generous, just appealingly feminine.

  “Trust me, it’s just a matter of putting yourself out there,” Scott said, clearing his throat. “You know, just maybe not with one of my guys. Especially not the married ones.”

  She flinched. “I’m horrified. Knowing how much it hurt to find out my husband had been with other women, I can’t believe I even tried to make a move on a married guy.”

  Shit. He felt even worse now for not telling her. It hadn’t just been embarrassment for Claire, it had been a reminder of what she’d been through.

  He should have brought two bottles of wine.

  “So how do you do it?” she asked, washing her hands. Scott noted the way the flimsy faucet sprayed every which way. He made a mental note that the whole sink had to go; the thing was ancient and awful.

  “Do what?”

  “You’re all about the casual sex, right? How do you find your partners?”

  “Well, for starters, I don’t call them partners,” he said with a slight smile.

  “Okay, this is good. Tell me more.”

  “Isn’t this a conversation to have with your friends?” he asked skeptically, taking another sip of wine. “Not a contractor you’ve known for three days?”

  “Maybe. But it’s like I said earlier, your stance is . . . refreshing. I can’t imagine having this conversation with some of my girlfriends.”

  “What about Naomi, and who was your husband’s other side piece? Aubrey?”

  “Audrey. And I love those women to death, but I’m not entirely sure how supportive they’d be of my most recent . . . endeavor.”

  “What endeavor is that, exactly? I confess I don’t speak fluent woman and only have half a clue what you were yelling at me about earlier.”

  “I wasn’t yelling. But to answer your question, I guess I’m after . . . casual sex. Or at least the possibility of casual sex?”

  “With a married wannabe model?”

  “I didn’t know he was married, because someone forgot to mention it.”

  He grinned. “I didn’t forget.”

  “I knew it,” she grumbled. “You did do it on purpose.”

  “I did,” he admitted. “And I’m not proud of it.” He took a deep breath and released it. “And I’m sorry. For the thing with Dean, and for the things I said about Brayden earlier. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with your husband’s stuff. Or when.”

  She was silent for a long moment before looking up and meeting his eyes. “Thank you. And, forgiven.”

  He tilted his head, surprised. “Just like that?” In his experience, women liked to hold on to their mad for at least an hour.

  She sipped her wine. “Well, I mean, don’t do it again. But if I survived my husband cheating on me many times, I can certainly ignore your acting like a boar.”

  “Well, thanks,” he said, still feeling ill at ease. “Believe it or not, I don’t get off on watching women feel embarrassed.”

  “What do you get off on?”

  Scott choked on his wine. “Jesus.”

  “Oh, calm down,” she said practically. “I’m not acting as an interested party. But Oliver said something today—”

  “You saw Oliver?”

  Jesus. Surely he wasn’t jealous. Of his best friend. He knew Oliver was with Naomi, that he and Claire were just friends, and yet . . . he also knew that Oliver and Claire were the same. They both had the same polished manners, the same genteel way of speaking. They were alike in a way he would never be like Claire.

  “Yeah, I ran into him at Starbucks. I always forget what a small town Manhattan can be. Anyway, he got me thinking that just because I never want to get married again doesn’t mean I have to be a nun.”

  “And you’re telling me, because—”

  “Well. Rumor has it you’re sort of a no-strings-attached guy. I’m wondering how that works.”

  She took a sip of her wine, and then pulled a spoon out of the drawer and took a taste of the chili. Her head waggled from side to side as though she were contemplating something, and then she pulled out another spoon, held it out. “Here. Taste. Does this need more salt?”

  He didn’t want to talk about salt. He wanted to know more about this no-strings-attached sex thing, and how he fit into it. But he also sensed it wasn’t something he could rush her on, so Scott went to her side, taking the spoon and tasting the chili. “A bit, yeah.”

  He watched as she sprinkled some salt into the pot, a little surprised by how non-weird it was to be standing in the kitchen of a woman he’d just met, talking about sex and seasoning and the philosophy of the color white.

  “Did Oliver tell you we had a pact?” she asked, glancing his way. “Me, Audrey, and Naomi?”

  He searched his memory. “Sounds vaguely familiar. Remind me.”

  She placed her wooden spoon on the spoon rest and leaned against the counter. “The day of Brayden’s funeral, the day we all first met, we were all . . . hurting. Not only because he’d died, but because we’d been so blind. And we—well, Naomi—had the idea to make sure we never fall for the same bullshit again. Never let ourselves be so charmed by a guy that we can’t see him for what he really is.”

  “I can’t decide if that’s smart or cynical.”

  Claire shrugged. “Both, I think.”

  “Why tell me?”

  She studied him over her wineglass. “Just trying to figure out where you fall on the bachelor scale. Snake or one of the good ones.”

  “Verdict?”

  “Both, I think,” she repeated with a smile.

  “I’m not sure I’ve shown you much of the good side,” he said, not at all sure why he felt the need to defend himself.

  “You haven’t,” she confirmed, making him wince in regret. “But Oliver’s a good judge of character. And he likes you. And Bob likes you, and in my experience, dogs are good judges of character, too.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t had much experience with dogs.”

  “Really? You want to argue with me on this?”

  No. No he did not. They were making progress, and he was strangely pleased she didn’t completely hate his guts.

  Scott had no intention of making any kind of move on Claire Hayes. All her talk of no-strings sex aside, sh
e was not a woman to be bedded and left, and Scott always left. But maybe they could be friends. Of sorts.

  “So you’re trying to figure out what, exactly?” he asked, taking another sip of wine, finding it was growing on him. “How to have sex?”

  She leveled a peeved glare at him. “I know how to have sex. I was married.”

  To an ass.

  “Sure,” he granted. “But relationship sex is different from sex for sex’s sake.”

  “It is?” Then she winced. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation in my kitchen, over chili, with my contractor.”

  “Don’t think of me as your contractor until tomorrow morning. For now, think of me as a friend of a friend.”

  “All right.” She took a deep breath, as though gathering her courage. “Friend of friend, will you set me up on a blind sex date?”

  He mentally applauded himself for not laughing. “A blind sex date?”

  “You know. A booty call. A one-night stand.”

  Scott shook his head. “You can’t be set up by a third party for a one-night stand.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it gets weird for everyone. It’s the same reason you and I will never sleep together. We care about Oliver and Naomi too much to put them in an awkward place, having to know that we’ve seen each other naked but aren’t a couple.”

  She pursed her lips. “I would never sleep with you for many reasons, but . . . that’s surprisingly wise. Okay then, expert. How’d you find your one-night stands? Dating app?”

  “Nope. The old-fashioned way.”

  “Mail order?”

  He laughed, enjoying her off-beat sense of humor. “Bars. Good, old-fashioned, belly up to the bar, have a drink, buy a drink for the girl, have a few more, take her home . . .”

  “That actually works?” she asked skeptically.

  “Does for me.”

  “All right then,” she said, turning to face him full on. “Be my wingman.”

  “No.”

  “Just one time,” she said, stepping toward him, hazel eyes pleading. “I just need to see how this all works in action.”

  “So you want me to help you have sex?”

  He said it to irritate her and was surprised when she nodded. “Yes.”

  “You do realize that goes against every male instinct, right? Setting a beautiful woman up with another man?”

  “Flattery looks terrible on you,” she murmured as she pulled down two bowls. “And you don’t have to set me up. Just show me this bar scene you’re talking about, keep me away from the married men.”

  He studied her, looking for traces of vulnerability, but saw only a woman who knew what she wanted.

  He also knew what he wanted. He hadn’t a moment ago, but that’s the way it went with him. He acted on instinct, figured the messy stuff out later.

  “I’ll do it on one condition,” Scott said.

  “Name it,” she said.

  “Let me design your kitchen my way. No peeking until it’s done. And no pink.”

  He didn’t know why this was important, but instinct told him it was vital, even if he didn’t know why yet.

  Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. “And you’ll take me out, show me how to get a guy I won’t ever have to see again after one night. Someone who, if I forget to shave my legs, I never have to come face-to-face with?”

  He extended a hand. “Tomorrow night. Leg shaving optional. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock.”

  “Nine?”

  “This isn’t dinner and a show, Claire. It’s a different scene entirely. So, what do you say? Trust me with your kitchen?”

  She sighed and put her hand in his. “All right, wingman. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Eight

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 10

  Claire was just finishing putting on her mascara the next evening when she jumped in surprise at the sound of Scott’s voice calling up the stairs.

  “Claire? I let myself in. Down here whenever you’re ready.”

  She shook her head in bemusement as she wiped the accidental swipe of mascara off her brow bone. It was hard to remember that a week ago she hadn’t even known Scott Turner. Now he had a key to her house, creative control over her kitchen renovation, and she was about to spend Saturday night with the guy.

  It should feel like the twilight zone, and instead it felt . . . She gazed distractedly down at the mascara wand for a moment in puzzlement. Instead, it felt exactly right.

  Why was that?

  The man was basically a stranger, and yet he didn’t feel like a stranger. Perhaps because Scott Turner had zero artifice about him. He was blunt, a little callous, and could be downright rude. It was refreshing as heck. After being married to a two-timing, no three-timing—probably more—snake, Scott’s candor was refreshing and . . . safe, somehow.

  Scott was exactly as he seemed to be. No false advertising. No ghosts. No hidden facets. She liked that. She was even starting to like him, when he wasn’t ticking her off.

  Done with her makeup, she slipped on her favorite black stilettos, the ones that managed to be comfortable and make her legs look amazing, if she did say so herself, and walked down the stairs. Following the sound of her TV, she walked into the kitchen and found Scott watching a baseball game.

  “Well?” she said, just a tiny bit smugly when he didn’t turn. She was oddly eager to see his face when he realized she knew her way around a contour kit and had a rather impressive push-up bra in her arsenal.

  He glanced over, then did a double take. And not the good kind. “What is that?”

  Claire felt her face fall. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to a funeral?”

  She immediately retracted all her thoughts about his candor being refreshing and gave him a withering look. “Is that really the thing you want to say to a widow?”

  Though now that she thought about it, was this the dress she’d worn to Brayden’s funeral? Still, she stood by her choice. “It’s a little black dress,” she argued. “It’s classic and works for every occasion. Everyone knows that.”

  “Not this occasion. What else you got?”

  “You mean, do I have a gold lamé hooker dress in my closet?”

  “Do I look like the type of man who would know what gold lamé is?”

  No. No, he did not. He looked exactly the same as he did every day. There was no sign of flannel, but he wasn’t exactly dressed up for a night on the town, either. He wore dark jeans, a gray T-shirt, scuffed boots, and a leather jacket. There weren’t a whole lot of leather jackets spotted in this neighborhood, and she was surprised to realize she didn’t hate it.

  He apparently had decided the occasion hadn’t merited a shave, as his usual scruff was approaching full-on beard status.

  Scott gave her an amused look. “Are you done staring? Do I pass muster?”

  “If you think I have a matching leather jacket upstairs, you’re going to be disappointed. This is my best option. Trust me.”

  He sighed and turned off the TV as he stood. “Come on.”

  Claire curiously followed him back up the stairs. Since he knew her house as well as she did these days, he went straight to her bedroom, directly to the closet.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out a way to make the closet bigger?” she asked hopefully, as he opened the doors.

  “Not unless you want to get rid of the tub and shrink your bathroom,” he said, crossing his arms and surveying her wardrobe. “I’m good, but even I can’t pull space out of my ass. Is this everything you own?”

  “I keep my formal dresses in the guest bedroom, but otherwise, this is it.”

  He glanced over at her, a very unflattering frown plastered on his face as he gave her a once-over. “The shoes are fine. I guess.”

  “The shoes are Manolo Blahniks,” she protested. “They’re more than fine.”

  “You got anything . . . you know . . . strappier?” He looked over the shoe rack as he said it, t
hen pulled a high-heeled nude sandal with an ankle strap from the shelf and shoved the pair at her. “Here. These are better.”

  “These don’t go with the dress.”

  “That’s good, because you’re not wearing the dress.” He riffled through the hangers until he found two pairs of jeans. He held both out to her. “Which of these is tighter?”

  She pointed to the darker pair, a cropped pair of PAIGEs she wasn’t sure she’d ever worn. She didn’t even know if they still fit. “Probably those, but—”

  He draped the denim over her shoulder, then moved on to her shirts, pushing through them with rough impatience. “Do you have any tops that don’t belong at a PTA meeting?”

  “Sorry, we can’t all look like we’re grunge-cool, straight out of the nineties, with a dash of farmer.”

  He rewarded her with a grin, but then gave up on the closet and went to her dresser, pulling open the top two drawers, going still for a moment when he realized he was looking at her bras and panties. Claire crossed her arms, shoes dangling from one finger, refusing to be embarrassed that her contractor was looking at her unmentionables.

  With a single finger he lifted a thong. “Please tell me you’re wearing one of these right now.”

  “Well, if you do your job right, it’ll be some other man’s job to find out,” she said, rather pleased with her quick retort.

  Scott looked unimpressed. He turned back to the dresser, dropping the thong and closing the top two drawers, then opening the two below. He reached into the drawer where she kept her pajamas and general lounge-around-the-house clothes.

  “What about this?”

  She looked at the clothing in question. “That would be one of Brayden’s undershirts that shrunk in the wash. I wear it to watch TV and do laundry.”

  It was also just about the only thing of Brayden’s that hadn’t been closed up in the room.

  Scott gave the folded tank a quick shake to see it more fully, and Claire waited expectantly for him to realize what she already knew. The tank was thin and shrunken enough to be formfitting. He glanced back at her—chest region, specifically.

  “What bra are you wearing?”

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “Black or white?”