Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  “How’s that going?” Oliver asked.

  It took Scott a second to register his friend was asking about the renovation, not Claire’s no-strings-attached-sex mission.

  “Good. The place is outdated as hell, but it’s mostly surface fixes. The bones of the house are strong. She’s pretty agreeable about everything, which is a nice change from my recent projects.”

  “Yeah, I like that about her,” Oliver said. “She’s no pushover, but she also picks her battles. Doesn’t waste a lot of energy getting worked up about shit she doesn’t know anything about, or doesn’t care about.”

  “Except she’s on a pink thing.”

  “A what?”

  “Don’t ask me. Best I can tell, I think it has something to do with reinventing herself? But she keeps talking about pink paint and pink wallpaper. She even texted me a picture of a pink chandelier for her bedroom.”

  Oliver winced. “Well, I guess it’s her house. She doesn’t have to worry about creating a dude-friendly zone.”

  “Yeah, but she will eventually.”

  “I don’t think so.” Oliver shook his head. “I ran into her the other day, and she seemed pretty dead set against any serious relationships in her future.”

  She’d said as much to Scott, but it still didn’t seem right somehow. The more he got to know her, the more she struck him as the type of woman who belonged with someone else. Not that she needed a man, quite the opposite. But rather, the sense that some relationship-inclined man was missing out on the opportunity to have a partner in life. It pissed him off all the more that Brayden Hayes had abused that gift.

  “The dead husband really did a number on her, huh?”

  Oliver’s mouth twisted in distaste at the mention of his fiancée’s ex. “On all of them.”

  “Is it true none of them knew about the others until he died?” Scott asked, aware that he was prying—it was unlike him to get up in anyone else’s business, or to even care, but he was damn curious about what had gone down with that.

  He’d planned to fix up the pampered widow’s home and move on. But then he’d met Claire, and he was intrigued. Intrigued about what sort of man could fool a woman who seemed as smart and savvy as they came. Same went for Naomi—she was nobody’s fool.

  “I don’t know,” Oliver said with a sigh. “Naomi gets sort of death to men whenever his name comes up, so I don’t go there. Best I can tell, he was one hell of a con artist, only his aim was sex with as many women as possible, not money.”

  Scott looked down at his thumbnail, thinking about Meredith for the second time in an hour, which was more than he thought about her most months these days. Finding out about her and Jonathan had made him feel the fool, too, but at least he’d been prepared on some level. The two had always been flirtatious, and he’d asked her point-blank if something was going on. She’d sworn up and down that it was just work camaraderie. He’d been dumb enough to believe her, but at least he’d suspected. He couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be truly blindsided.

  No wonder Claire didn’t want to get remarried.

  “Another drink?” Oliver asked, standing.

  Scott held his empty glass over his head as Oliver walked around the back of the couch and took it on his way to the kitchen.

  “More bacon, too,” Scott said.

  The game came back on, and Scott had just started to let himself get distracted when Oliver spoke up again. “You and Claire getting along?”

  There was concern in Oliver’s voice, and Scott looked over at his friend, trying to read him. “Sure. Yeah. She’s great.”

  Oliver studied him for a moment, then went back to measuring the vodka. “’Kay.”

  Scott’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that about?”

  Oliver put two slices of bacon into each glass. Then added one more as he looked back at Scott. “I meant it when I said she didn’t want a relationship.”

  “I know.”

  “I think she could get hurt easily.”

  Scott felt something unpleasant curl in his stomach, because he knew what his friend was implying. Claire seemed somehow unfailingly strong and yet alarmingly fragile beneath it all.

  “Ollie,” Scott said, deliberately using his friend’s hated nickname in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Are you warning me to stay away from her?”

  Oliver brought both glasses into the living room, handed one to Scott. “I’m just saying, you seem intrigued, and I get it. There’s something inherently compelling about Claire. But I care about her. Naomi really cares about her. And you know you can be . . .”

  Scott lifted his eyebrows in question. “Dying to hear this.”

  “You’re transient,” Oliver said. “You’re one of my closest friends, but I never know when I’m going to see you next or what city you’ll be in two months from now. I don’t know that you know.”

  “I don’t,” Scott snapped. “I like it that way.”

  “I get that and it’s fine,” Oliver said. “But as much as I hope Claire enjoys life as a single woman, I’d hate for her to get used to you being around.”

  “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I’m just her contractor for a few more weeks,” Scott said.

  “Yeah,” Oliver said, watching him closely. “Good thing.”

  Chapter Ten

  MONDAY, AUGUST 12

  Claire was adding her creamer to a fresh cup of coffee when there was an insistent pounding on her door, more of a thunk than an actual knock. Carrying her mug to the front of the house, she opened the door to a hyper Bob and Scott carrying an enormous box.

  “Sorry.” He stepped into the foyer. “Hands were full.”

  “What the heck is that?” She followed him down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “AC unit.”

  “I’ve already got an AC unit. I’ve got two AC units.”

  “You want me to renovate your kitchen in the middle of August, we’re putting another one in here as well,” he said, setting it on the floor in the corner and then helping himself to a cup of coffee. She’d taken to making an extra-large pot since he’d been around.

  “Don’t worry,” he snapped, even though she hadn’t said a word. “Cost is on me.”

  She looked at the dog. “Bobsie, you’re supposed to warn me when your dad wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  “She’s my dog. And her name is Bob.”

  “So, this is fun,” she said, waving a hand in his general direction. “Are you pissed at me specifically, or just life in general?”

  He gave her an irritated look, lifting his backward cap off his head and running a hand through his hair before tugging the cap back on again. “I may have had one too many Bloody Marys yesterday. I usually stick to beer.”

  “And pink wine,” she said, hoping for a smile, or at least a good-natured eye-roll. She didn’t get either. But since nobody was at their best after too much vodka, she decided to give him a break.

  “You’re starting the kitchen today?” she asked.

  He bobbed his head. “Yeah. I wanted to hold off, since it’ll be the biggest inconvenience to your routine. But it’s also the biggest undertaking, so I really can’t afford to wait any longer, or I won’t be able to finish it before my next project.”

  “Oh, you’ve booked something else?”

  “No. But I will, and it won’t be local, so I won’t be around to tinker with any of your last-minute whims on this house.”

  Okay. Enough was enough.

  Claire picked her phone off the counter. “I’m ordering you a bagel sandwich and a Gatorade. Carbs and electrolytes can only help that rotten mood of yours.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” His hand dropped. “You know most of my jobs are abroad, right? That I have a place here, but I’m not local.”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Nothing. Oliver just . . . nothing.”

  Huh. There was something there, but she
sensed pushing would get her nowhere. Instead, she held up her phone, danced it at him. “You’re sure on the bagel?”

  “Sure. Just keep the coffeepot full, and I’ll be good.”

  Claire nodded agreeably. “So, are you going to bite my head off if I ask how long I’ll be without a kitchen?”

  “Couple of weeks.”

  She couldn’t help the sigh. “I’m not much of a cook, but I’m also not looking forward to eating nothing but takeout for the next month.”

  “Don’t worry. You get used to it.”

  “You don’t cook?”

  “Toast. Cereal. Frozen dinners.”

  “So, that’s a no.” Claire went to refill her coffee, but he beat her to it, topping off her cup and his own.

  “Okay, what do you need from me to get started?” she asked. “Clearing out the cabinets?”

  “No, I can do that. You’re on your own with cleaning out the fridge though. I don’t want to be responsible for throwing away some million-dollar truffles or something.”

  “Yeah, because that’s what I keep in there. Million-dollar truffles right next to my caviar. What about essentials? I can’t be totally without a fridge for two weeks. I have to eat.”

  “You mean you need a place to store the sugar-cream goop you put in your coffee.”

  She batted her eyelashes. “You know me.”

  He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. “I’ve got a couple of guys coming over to take out the wall today. I’ll have one of them pick up a mini fridge; you can keep it in another room.”

  “Dean?” she asked, fanning herself.

  Scott gave her a dark look over the top of his phone, never pausing in his typing.

  “Kidding, jeez.”

  Scott put his phone back in his pocket and took another swallow of coffee. “So. How’d it go?”

  “How’d what go?”

  He gave his first smile of the day. “Things with Brah.”

  “Oh.” She laughed, remembering Saturday night’s out-of-character adventure. “Not much to tell, I’m afraid.”

  “You left together.”

  “Yeah.” She fiddled with her earring. “I was feeling reckless and a little . . .”

  She opted not to finish the sentence since the only thing that came to mind was hot and bothered, and Scott wasn’t one of her girlfriends. More than ever, Claire was realizing she missed the physical closeness with someone. It was intriguing to think she could have that with someone without risking her heart in the process.

  Alas, Jesse had not been that guy.

  “Your place or his?” Scott asked.

  “His. At least that was the plan. It was around the corner, and I don’t know that I’m ready to have someone in my space yet.”

  He nodded. “Smart.”

  “In theory. In reality, we didn’t make it there.”

  Scott’s eyebrows rose.

  Claire laughed. “Not like that. We were headed back to his building, and I had second thoughts. Decided to test the waters with a kiss—wait, why am I telling you this?”

  He leaned back against the counter, crossing his boots at the ankle. “As your wingman, I must know all.”

  She shrugged, realizing that she didn’t feel as embarrassed as she’d expected. “Okay, so I stopped him and kissed him.”

  He was watching her carefully. “No good?”

  “It was very . . . wet.”

  Scott winced.

  “I made a polite excuse, and he let me go without much more than a vacant, drunk grin. I’m not sure he’ll remember the details of the evening all that clearly.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Eh,” she said with a wave of her hand, “we’ve all been there. And I’m glad my first attempt was with someone who was too far gone for me to embarrass myself.”

  Still, she’d be lying if she wasn’t a little disappointed that her first kiss after being widowed was so . . . blah. She hadn’t wanted it to be epic—she didn’t want that kind of entanglement. But she’d at least wanted it to be hot, and Jesse’s slobber all over her face definitely hadn’t qualified.

  Claire took another gulp of coffee, glanced at the clock, then blinked. “Crap, is that the time?”

  “Yeah. Hot date?”

  “Actually, sort of,” she replied, putting the mug on the counter. “I mean not hot, but I have a coffee . . . thing.”

  Crap, now she felt awkward around Scott, especially when he was watching her with a slightly knowing grin. “You’re giving Brah another shot even after the waterworks kiss?”

  “No. Not him.” She pointed at the fridge. “Can I clean that out when I get back?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Perfect.” Claire went to the sink to rinse her mug, started to put it in the dishwasher, then paused. “You’re getting rid of this, huh?”

  “I’m getting rid of that piece-of-shit that insults dishwashers everywhere, yes, and that’s the last question I’ll answer about the kitchen renovation. Remember, you signed over complete control to me.”

  “Seriously?” she asked, adding soap to her mug and washing it by hand. “It’s my kitchen. I at least need to be prepared. And for the record, I signed it over to you for wingman assistance, and I ended up with a slobbering dude who kissed like a dog.”

  He pointed at Bob. “Apologize.”

  “Sorry, sweetie,” she said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “No offense.”

  “Not my fault you picked the wrong guy,” Scott said. “I just told you how to reel ’em in; I didn’t tell you to reel that one in.”

  “Fair enough. Better luck this time, right?”

  She started for the stairs, intending to finish getting ready for the day when Scott’s fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist, halting her movement.

  “Who’s the guy? For your coffee thing?”

  Her mouth went a little dry, and it took her a full ten seconds to remember what he was talking about—where she was heading.

  “I was at Citarella yesterday, waiting in line for their roast chicken, which by the way is amazing—”

  He rolled his finger for her to get to the good stuff.

  “Right. Anyway, there was this guy behind me in line. It was crazy crowded so we were waiting forever and got to talking. He’s a widower, and we kind of hit it off. He asked me to coffee.”

  “You’re into this guy? Coffee in the middle of the day is first-date stuff, not booty-call stuff.”

  “Wait, what? You mean he didn’t invite me to coffee to hump in the Starbucks bathroom?!”

  He laughed. “Jesus.”

  Claire patted his arm. “Don’t worry, wingman. This guy lost his wife fairly recently. I’m pretty sure he just wants someone to talk to, not the future Mrs. McDonald.”

  Claire had known the second the silver fox behind her in line had started chatting her up that he was flirting, but there’d been a sweet awkwardness to it that belied his forty-something age. She’d have bet that maybe he was doing just as Oliver had encouraged her to do. Practice.

  And since she was still in need of a little practice with flirting herself, she’d agreed to meet him. Plus, who knew, maybe Carter McDonald was looking for the same thing as her—no strings. It didn’t hurt that he’d been exactly her type. Clean-cut and polished. His polo shirt had been Burberry, his watch Rolex. Not that it was about labels. She wasn’t that much of a snob. But she was allowed to have her fantasies, and she was fully okay admitting that hers was a Christian Grey–millionaire vibe, minus the whole spanking thing.

  Scott shrugged and dropped her wrist. Claire’s arm fell back to her side, and she was acutely aware of the coolness on her skin where his fingers had been. “But if I do hump him in the Starbucks bathroom,” she said, “I’ll be sure and tell you all about it.”

  “Please don’t.” There was a smile in his voice.

  She headed toward the door, pausing in the entryway, resting her hand on the doorjamb as she turned back. “Oh, I didn’t ask. Which one
did you go home with?”

  “What?” He was helping himself to more coffee.

  “The girls at the bar on Saturday. Did you go home with the blonde or brunette? Both were super pretty.”

  Scott took his time putting the coffee carafe back in its place before picking up his mug once more.

  His eyes flicked up to hers. “Neither. Went home alone.”

  “Oh. Well. I guess we both struck out then. Better luck next time.”

  He gave a noncommittal nod, and Claire headed upstairs. She frowned halfway up, her hand on the railing, as she tried to figure out why she felt so relieved that Scott’s Saturday night had worked out as it had.

  And why, suddenly, she didn’t feel as excited about her upcoming “date.”

  Scott’s head was under her kitchen sink when Claire got home a few hours later. Her ancient garbage disposal had been a real pain in the ass, but with a final twist of the wrench, he finally got the damn thing free, grunting in satisfaction just as he felt a slight tap at the bottom of his foot.

  Placing both hands on the edge of the cupboard, he levered himself out, found Claire staring at her kitchen in bemused dismay. “How long was I gone?”

  “Told you I was fast,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “My guys do good work.”

  “But where’d the wall go?”

  “It was shitty drywall. Came off in big flimsy pieces, the guys took it with ’em when they left.”

  “It looks so different,” she said, walking gingerly around the dusty, newly opened-up floor plan.

  “Well, take it all in now. It’s the last view you’ll get until it’s done.”

  “How do you figure? I live here.”

  “Starting tomorrow, the kitchen’s off-limits until I’m finished. I don’t want you getting all freaked out, trying to race in here with your raspberry ice paint samples.”

  “Aha! So you’ve looked at my paint samples.”

  “Absolutely. I gave a real long look as I was tossing them in the trash. And I’m not lying. The kitchen’s off-limits while I work.”

  “All right,” she said, surprising him with her easy agreement. Then again, he didn’t know why he was surprised. That seemed to be her MO. She was both unbearably complicated and bafflingly easygoing.