Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  “Why are those the only two options?”

  He opened her bra drawer again and gave her a telling look.

  “Right,” she muttered. There really were just two options, with the majority being shades of white. Vanilla once again.

  She made a mental note to give her lingerie a strawberry lemonade overhaul. They made pink bras, right? She’d been ordering hers online from the same store for years; maybe it was time to see what else was out there.

  An impatient Scott marched toward her and unceremoniously slid a finger into the neck of her sleeveless dress. His gaze locked on hers for a split second as his fingertip dragged across her skin, then he looked away, pulling the bra strap all the way out from beneath her dress so he could see it.

  “Black,” he said, the strap snapping back into place against her shoulder. “Perfect. Wear this.” He shoved the tank top at her.

  Claire looked down at the jeans, undershirt, and nude sandals, three items of clothing that she’d never have put together in her life. Every instinct wanted to protest, but then she remembered that her instincts weren’t to be trusted. Her instincts were what had landed her in a sham of a marriage, followed by a pathetic year of wallowing.

  She headed to the bathroom to change, muttering, “You’d better be right about this, wingman.”

  An hour later, it became irritatingly clear that Scott had been right. She’d gotten more looks from guys while wearing an undershirt in a dive bar than she had in her Givenchy dress at the Met Gala a few years ago.

  Still, while she couldn’t deny that the lingering, appreciative once-overs were an enormous ego boost, so far there’d hadn’t been any action to back up the looks.

  “Why are none of them coming over?” she asked, leaning toward Scott so he could hear her over the weekend soundtrack of people with a few drinks in them and an undercurrent of Journey hits coming from tinny speakers.

  Scott tipped his beer back without glancing her way. “Me.”

  “What?”

  He glanced her way. “They think you’re with me.”

  “They . . . Oooh,” she said, feeling stupid for not realizing that sitting as they were side-by-side after spending a solid fifteen minutes bickering about whether or not she should ask the bartender if they served champagne, they probably looked like a couple.

  “I guess I didn’t think that through when I asked a guy to be my wingman. That’s why no women have approached you, right?” She wasn’t blind. Scott had gotten every bit as many lingering looks as Claire had. Probably more.

  And though she still stood by her affinity for clean-cut guys in tailor-made suits, she had to admit that, objectively, she could see the appeal. Scott was entirely in his element here, and it showed with the easy way he moved, the confidence with which he did everything from ordering his beer to pulling out the bar stool for her.

  And somehow the awful fluorescent light of this somewhat dingy but undeniably popular dive bar on Ninety-Eighth and Madison seemed to suit him.

  Scott nodded once in response to her question.

  “Sorry.” She winced. “Didn’t mean to crash your game.”

  He smiled a little. “I’ll manage. Besides, tonight’s about you.”

  “Right.” She rubbed her hands together. “Me getting some.”

  He laughed, a good-natured real laugh that had her smiling back. “Don’t call it that. Not if you actually want to get some.”

  She sighed, her hands falling to her lap. “This is hopeless.”

  “Don’t underestimate your wingman. Hey, Dave,” he called louder to get the backward-cap-wearing bartender’s attention. “My sister’s glass is empty.”

  It took Claire a moment to realize that Scott was talking about her. A moment later to realize that he’d deliberately said it louder than necessary so that the people nearest them heard it, too.

  The bartender nodded and, pulling one of those jumbo-size bottles of wine out of the ice rack under the bar, filled her glass to the brim. The wine was mediocre, but she’d take whatever liquid courage she could get.

  “All right, sis,” Scott said, lowering his voice. “Anyone here fit your hoity-toity criteria?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly my kind of place,” she admitted. “But there is a guy a few seats to your left— No, don’t look!” she said, panicked, putting her hand on his arm. “Give it a minute. But he’s at your ten o’clock, blue suit, no tie. A little wrinkled, but like maybe he just got off a flight.”

  Scott took his time glancing over, subtler than she’d have expected.

  “Business traveler,” he agreed when he turned back. “Probably lives in one of the new high-rises in the area. You sure? He’s kind of . . . bro.” He pronounced it brah with an effected “cool guy” voice. “Like the guy who organized all his frat’s parties and actually liked it.”

  “What’s wrong with that? I was in a sorority.”

  “Shocking,” Scott said. “All right, fine. Let’s roll with the brah. He give you any looks, or is he too busy replaying his lacrosse glory days in his head?”

  “We’ve made eye contact once,” she admitted, unable to keep the giddiness out of her voice. Who knew that being on the prowl was actually kind of . . . fun.

  “Whoa, eye contact? Slow down there, tiger, keep your clothes on.”

  “Don’t make fun. I’m new at this.”

  “I know.” He smiled, and Claire noticed for the first that his eyes crinkled when he smiled—a real smile—and it was surprisingly attractive.

  Just the light, Claire, she reminded herself. Fluorescent lighting just weirdly works for him.

  “All right,” Scott said, swallowing the rest of his beer and pushing back his stool. “Let’s hope he caught my this is my sister announcement.”

  “Wait!” She reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting it her fingers. “You can’t leave me here!”

  “Easy,” he murmured, gently untangling her fingers from his shirt. “Try to remember that I’m your brother. Clingy shirt grabbing is not going to sell the sibling vibe.”

  “Right, okay.” She pulled her hand back. “But you still can’t leave me here!” she repeated.

  “I’m just going to shoot some pool,” he said, nodding in thanks as Dave passed another beer across the bar without being asked.

  “But I don’t know how to play pool.”

  “We’ll tackle that another night—guys love to teach women how to play pool; you’ll have a dozen dying to bend you over the table. Just stay put.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I can’t just sit here doing nothing.”

  “You bring your phone?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Scroll through Pinterest or whatever. The more bored you look, the better. Look at pink kitchens, that should help.”

  “This plan sucks. It’s rude to be on your phone in a restaurant,” Claire protested.

  Scott leaned forward. “Look around.”

  She did and saw what he saw. Nearly everyone had their phone out, even the ones in groups.

  “I don’t particularly love the glued-to-the-screen vibe, either,” he muttered. “But it’ll be a good security blanket for you until you’re ready for the next level.”

  “What’s the next level?”

  “Sitting without your phone, perfectly content to be alone in a bar.”

  “Is there a level beyond that?” Claire asked curiously.

  Scott leaned in farther, speaking directly into her ear. “Sitting alone. No phone. And looking directly at a man as you let him know with your eyes what you want to do to him.”

  Claire’s heart caught in her throat. She was exceptionally aware of Scott’s closeness, the warmth of his breath against the side of her face. He lingered for a second too long, but when he stepped back, the moment—if it even was one—was broken.

  Claire felt a surge of relief. Being attracted to her contractor was not part of the plan.

  “I’ll go with the cell phone plan
,” she said on a rush.

  He nodded knowingly. “Thought you might.” His eyes found hers. “You good?”

  “Yeah!”

  Scott lifted his eyebrows at her too-chipper tone.

  “Okay, maybe a little nervous,” she admitted.

  “Relax.” He nodded toward the pool tables. “I’ll be right over there. Or give Dave a look if things get weird. We go way back; he’s a good guy.”

  “Got it. I’m good. I can do this,” she said, rubbing sweaty hands on her jeans and feeling like an inexperienced college girl, and not at all like an adult woman who’d been married.

  “Yeah. You can.” Scott ambled away. Claire tracked his movements, noticed she wasn’t the only one, as several other women seemed to take note of the fact that Scott was suddenly fair game.

  She forced her attention away from Scott and pulled out her iPhone to scroll through Pinterest. Even if he hadn’t suggested it, it’d been her time-killing go-to since she’d started the renovation planning on the house. She reluctantly archived her Kitchen board, realizing she no longer needed that since she’d traded her how-to-have-casual-sex training for creative control.

  Strangely, she didn’t mind. It was one less thing to worry about, and she trusted Scott’s judgment, even if it meant that her kitchen was one area that wouldn’t get the strawberry lemonade touch. She could accessorize with pink later, when he was out of the picture. Pink stand mixer. Pink Le Creuset. Pink napkins. Pink—

  “Anyone sitting here?”

  Claire jumped at the voice, then did a double take when she realized the speaker was none other than Brah.

  Holy crap, it worked.

  “Ah, no! No. Sit.” She patted the seat vacated by Scott, then winced, worried she’d seemed too eager.

  She glanced Scott’s way, but he was talking to a tall blond woman with a crop top that revealed a very toned, twenty-something belly. He wasn’t smiling, but if the girl’s obvious lean-in was any indication, she was very into the scowling, smoldering vibes Scott was putting out.

  “So, which one of you’s from out of town?”

  “Hmm?” Claire turned back to rumpled-suit guy. He was even more attractive up close, though his eyes looked just a little unfocused, making her think he was probably a couple of drinks ahead of her.

  He tilted his head back in the direction of Scott. “Your brother. I’ve got a sister myself. Love her. But wouldn’t be spending a Saturday night with her if we lived in the same city. I figured one of you must be visiting and this is your chance to catch up.”

  “Oh, right.” It was a pretty solid observation that most thirty-something siblings didn’t go out on the town on a weekend night, and she bumped the guy up a half notch, even though his smile was a little practiced and bland. And he wasn’t putting off creepy serial-killer vibes, which was a very big bonus.

  “I live a few blocks south of here,” she said vaguely, deliberately trying to steer the conversation away from her “brother.”

  “Yeah? I’m around the corner. Just moved from FiDi, still getting used to the neighborhood.”

  “You like it so far?” She took a sip of her wine.

  He smiled, his teeth straight and perfectly even. She tried to remind herself that it was simply a measure of good orthodontic work and not a sign of lack of character.

  “I like this bar,” he said in response. Leaned in slightly. “Like the people in it.”

  She met his eyes, a startling shade of blue, and realized that he was, without a doubt, flirting. Claire felt a surge of pleasure. Not at the guy so much, he was a dime a dozen in the finance game in this city. But at the sheer victory of doing something about her own life, instead of letting life merely happen to her.

  She shot another glance at Scott. A brunette had joined the mix, leaning slightly on her pool cue in a way that showed off her ample cleavage.

  “I’m Jesse,” her companion said, extending a hand with a smile.

  “Claire.” She smiled back.

  Jesse held her hand just a beat too long, and Claire realized comfortably that Scott had been right on target with this approach—and that if she wanted a one-night stand with this guy, it was hers for the taking.

  Chapter Nine

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 11

  Bloody Mary?”

  Scott glanced up from his friend’s couch where they’d been watching the Yankees day game. “You make brunch cocktails now?”

  Oliver Cunningham held up a glass bottle. “I buy premade Bloody Mary mix from the fancy grocery store across the street and add vodka.”

  “Sure, pour me one of those,” Scott said, leaning back on the couch. “Don’t put a garnish on it though. Keep it manly.”

  “Not even bacon? A brunch place up the street puts bacon in their Bloodies.”

  Scott glanced back toward the kitchen. “You got any bacon?”

  Oliver held up a plate piled high with an obscene amount of bacon for two people.

  Scott gave an affirmative nod. Yes, on the bacon.

  “For the record,” Oliver said, as he mixed the drinks, “it was between Bloody Marys and an elderflower Prosecco cocktail with an edible flower garnish that Naomi tried to tell me was ‘delish.’ ”

  “I’m suddenly not so disappointed that she bailed on us.”

  Earlier in the week, Naomi and Oliver had invited Scott over for brunch, but at the last minute, Naomi had flown to Chicago to fill in as a keynote speaker at some entrepreneur event. Had it been anyone else, Scott probably would have suggested they reschedule. A brunch date between two guys was a little out of his usual social routine. The idea of brunch in general annoyed him. What was wrong with a cup of coffee for breakfast and a ham sandwich for lunch?

  But he made an exception for Oliver. They went way back, and the guy felt more like a brother he could sit in silence with than someone he had to make small talk with over mimosas and baked eggs.

  He glanced at his friend, who’d plopped down on the couch and was munching a piece of bacon. “We’re not having baked eggs, are we?”

  Oliver held up his bacon platter. “I have a pile of this, and I was going to scramble some eggs. Maybe.”

  Scott nodded his agreement with this plan. They ate their bacon and drank their drinks in companionable silence as the Yankee pitcher loaded the bases, and then struck out three batters in a row.

  At the commercial break, Scott crunched an ice cube and sat up and looked at Oliver. His friend had annoying Hollywood good looks with thick brown hair—politician hair, Scott thought—and light blue eyes that had made the girls crazy when they’d been in architecture school together. Scott had ultimately dropped out, realizing he liked building buildings better than he did designing them. Truth be told, he’d assumed at the time that he and Oliver would drift apart. That Oliver would go back to his prep school friends, and Scott would go back to his semi-loner status.

  But by then, their fiancées at the time had become best friends. And since Bridget and Meredith had been big fans of double dates, Oliver and Scott had found themselves developing a friendship outside of architecture school, in spite of their different worlds.

  Oliver was a pampered rich kid, who’d grown up just a couple of blocks from where Claire lived now. In fact, Claire and Oliver had moved in the same circles not so long ago. Scott, on the other hand, was a scholarship kid from Nowhere, New Hampshire, who’d barely known a soup spoon from a ladle. A natural friend pairing they were not.

  Strangely enough, Scott and Oliver’s friendship had lasted while their respective engagements had not. Maybe it had lasted because of their failed engagements. Scott didn’t like to spend a lot of time thinking about that time in his life. He limited it to the facts: Bridget had bailed on Oliver when both of his parents had gotten sick and demanded all of his time and attention. And Scott had bailed on Meredith when she’d decided to sleep with her coworker. Many times. Over the course of an entire year before Scott found out.

  He rubbed absently, irritatedly at his che
st. “How’s your dad?”

  Oliver glanced over, his blue eyes dimming just slightly. “He’s all right. There are fewer and fewer good days, but I can’t say I didn’t know it was coming.”

  Scott nodded in commiseration. Walter Cunningham had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s a couple of years ago. Oliver had done everything he could to keep his dad at home for as long as possible, but he’d put him in a care facility last year.

  Having lost his own father a few years earlier, Scott didn’t envy what his friend was going through, but he was glad Oliver had met Naomi. The woman was a damn firecracker and perfectly balanced out the more staid and conservative Oliver, who looked like he probably slept in his suit. More importantly, Scott liked knowing that Oliver had someone to lean on.

  His thoughts shifted slightly, and he looked at his friend again. “Hey, did you and Claire ever date?”

  “Claire?” Oliver frowned, then shook his head. “No, never. I mean, I always thought she was . . . you know. Attractive. But, no, not even close. Why?”

  “No reason.” Scott took a swallow of the spicy drink. “You just seem her type, is all.”

  “What’s her type?”

  “Pretty boy? A little delicate?”

  Oliver lifted a single finger in response.

  Scott finished off the last of his bacon and tried not to think about the fact that Claire had left the bar with Brah last night. He didn’t care. Or at least, he didn’t want to care.

  It was what she’d wanted. Hell, he’d wanted that for her. Right up until the moment he’d seen that asshole sit next to her and make her laugh. Then the only thing Scott had wanted was to take the randy pup by the scruff of his chubby neck and put him on a stool far, far away from Claire. Better yet, outside.

  At his insistence, Claire had agreed to text him at the end of the night, letting him know that she was okay. He supported women having the same freedoms as men, absolutely respected that a woman should be able to sleep with a man she’d just met as easily as a man could. But he wasn’t immune to the fact that life was far from fair and that women were unfortunately vulnerable to the sadistic freaks of the world.

  He was glad that Brah wasn’t one of them. But it didn’t mean he had to like Brah.