Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  He thought about standing, but he wasn’t quite done with his work under the sink, so instead he hauled his knees up and rested his elbows on them as he looked up at her. “So. Did we end our dry streak with a little afternoon delight?”

  “None of your business.” She dragged a fingertip along the counter, then wrinkled her nose when it came away covered in drywall dust.

  He tossed the towel up to her, and she gingerly wiped her finger.

  “Thought you were going to tell me all about it,” he said, not entirely sure why he was pressing on something he didn’t really want to know.

  She sighed. “Okay. Fine. It was weird.”

  Scott looked up at her, sensing she needed to talk and finding it both strange and pleasant that he seemed to have found himself in the role of confidant for the first time in his life.

  “He was perfect,” she said, and Scott’s fist clenched. He changed his mind. Nothing pleasant about being the confidant.

  Claire continued. “We went to coffee and just . . . talked. There was plenty of chemistry, or at least enough. Then he asked if I wanted to go for a walk in the park, and who doesn’t, right?”

  Scott mimed sleeping, and Claire gently kicked his shin. “Anyway, we got to this secluded part of the park, no one was around, and he kissed me—”

  I definitely do not want to hear this.

  “And I was so sure it was going to be perfect. I mean, the guy looks a little like Jon Hamm. But . . .”

  “Another slobberer?” he asked, sympathetic, and not in the least displeased.

  “Worse,” she grumbled. “He moaned.”

  Scott winced. “From kissing?”

  “Yes, and it’s not like we’d gotten really into it. It was like, first contact—” She made a comically disturbing groaning noise.

  “This is what you get for going solo,” he said, starting to go back under the sink. “I’d have told you not to take the date.”

  “Hindsight. How helpful.” She crouched down so that they were at eye level. “How can you tell? How do you know when you meet a girl that she’s not going to lick your face or moan?”

  “Well.” Scott carefully unscrewed the base of the garbage disposal. “In all honesty, a woman moaning can be kind of hot.”

  She pinched his calf with irritation. “You know what I mean. How do you find someone to hook up with that doesn’t turn you off? Am I being too picky?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “I mean, if your goal is to get laid, you can’t nitpick.”

  “My goal is to get laid and like it.”

  Scott nearly bit the inside of his cheek to keep from volunteering. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he found her patiently watching him. Trusting.

  He sighed. “Give it a little time. It’s been two days.”

  She huffed and stood, clearly not liking his response.

  “Where are you going?” He called after her.

  “You’re useless. It’s time to bring in my wingwomen.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 24

  There’s a reason I RSVPed no to this,” Claire said, taking a sip of her champagne and trying to ignore the feeling that everyone was looking at her.

  “Fate was the reason you RSVPed no,” Audrey agreed happily, linking arms with her. “You RSVPed no so that you could end up being my plus-one.”

  “I thought Clarke was supposed to be your plus-one,” Claire said, referring to Audrey’s longtime best friend.

  “Yeah, but he had his own invite to this shindig, and his flavor of the week wanted to be his plus-one.”

  Claire smiled at the idea that one of the city’s most exclusive black-tie events was being described as a shindig, though it didn’t surprise her in the least that Audrey and Clarke West had warranted their own respective invites. They were both Manhattan elite in the truest sense of the word, more so even than Oliver’s family. The Cunninghams were old money, but in a stately Park Avenue–address sort of way.

  The Tates and Wests were on a whole other level entirely. Audrey’s father was one of those people who seemed to be a majority stakeholder in every business Claire had ever heard of, and Clarke’s family legacy had started with early funding of railroads and was now in honest-to-goodness space exploration.

  It was no wonder Clarke and Audrey were as close as they were. Claire knew it was no hardship to have that sort of family money, but she also knew that it came with a massive set of pressures and stereotypes. She saw it on her friend’s pretty face sometimes, the sheer exhaustion of being Audrey Tate. She suspected Clarke understood Audrey in a way that she and Naomi never could.

  Claire also figured it was why Audrey had never let herself fall for her handsome friend—she was too afraid of losing her rock if things went south.

  “Plus, I figured this was as good a time as any for you to take a step forward with the plan,” Audrey said, lowering her voice.

  Claire groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you guys about that.”

  After her disastrous kiss with the moaner in the park, and Scott’s relative lack of helpfulness, she’d confessed everything to her girlfriends. About her embarrassment over her inability to flirt, Oliver’s suggestion that she practice, and that she wanted to bend the rules of the pact just a little. That she actually maybe wanted to find a guy who didn’t plan to call the next morning.

  “What are we talking about?” Naomi demanded, appearing by their side, an absolute knockout in a royal blue dress, cut into a deep V in the front and the back.

  “Hold on,” Audrey said, circling Naomi. “It must be asked: How the heck hasn’t Oliver dragged you back to his lair and had his dirty way with you? That dress is sexy.”

  “I know,” Naomi said a little smugly. “It’s killing him to have to keep his hands to himself.”

  She gestured with her wineglass, and all three women turned to see Oliver across the room talking to an elderly couple, and sure enough, the look on his face when he looked over at Naomi could have set her on fire.

  “The suspense is delicious though,” Naomi said, turning back to Claire and Audrey. “So, what are we talking about? Claire’s Under the Tuscan Sun ambitions?”

  “Oooh, yes,” Audrey said with a dreamy sigh. “A hot Italian stud like in the movie would be just the thing.”

  “No argument here,” Claire admitted. “My problem is finding him. I’m reminded a little more every day why we made that pact in the park. The men in this city are about ninety percent swine. They either cheat, fart, drool, moan . . .”

  “Wait, where was the farter?” Naomi asked. “Did I miss a new development?”

  “Hypothetical,” Claire said. “But I took myself out to dinner the other night, sat at the bar, and the only guy who approached had garlic breath and nose hair.”

  “Everyone has nose hair.”

  “No, nose hair. Whole other level. Like it curled,” Claire specified, making an upward curving motion along the side of her nostril.

  Naomi mimed a heaving motion.

  “Well, don’t worry,” Audrey said, patting Claire’s hand. “There’s this guy I want you to meet—”

  “No. No,” Claire repeated emphatically when Audrey started to protest. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you guys in the first place. No setups. It’s part of the rules.”

  “Whose rules?”

  “Mine and Scott’s. Or at least, those were the rules when he was my wingman. I think I’m going to fire him.”

  “I still don’t get what this Scott guy has to do with any of this,” Audrey said. “I also don’t know why I haven’t met him yet.”

  “You haven’t?” Naomi asked in surprise. “We have to fix that. I’ll introduce you tonight.”

  “Wait, tonight?” Claire interjected in surprise. “Scott’s not here.”

  “Yes, he is,” Naomi said distractedly, already scanning the crowd of sequined gowns and tuxes. “He sort of has to be. He’s one of the top donors every year.”


  Claire stared at her friend, trying to figure out what was more jolting: the thought of Scott at a black-tie event at a stuffy museum or the realization that Scott was a top contributor for a charity for the homeless.

  The first. Definitely the first. She had no trouble wrapping her head around the fact that he was generous—the more she’d gotten to know him these past weeks, the more she suspected a good guy was lurking beneath the crusty exterior. But, on the note of his exterior, the thought of Scott Turner wearing a tux simply did not compute.

  No doubt he used his top-donor label as a chance to buck the status quo; he probably showed up in jeans and—

  “There he is!” Naomi announced triumphantly, grabbing Audrey’s hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you while we have a chance. Knowing that guy, he’ll be in Barcelona next week, Fiji after that, and we won’t see him for another year.”

  Claire had turned in the direction Naomi indicated but didn’t see any sign of Scott. She trailed after her friends, pausing as they stopped at a guy in a tux, her gaze scanning the crowd for an out-of-place beard and too-long hair . . .

  She heard Audrey chattering to someone beside her. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’m dying to see what you’ve done to Claire’s place . . .”

  Claire’s eyes stopped scanning the room and swung back to the man Naomi and Audrey were speaking with. Her mouth dropped open. The man in the tux was Scott.

  Or at least a version of him. His brown eyes met hers, and the sardonic gaze was familiar, but that’s where the familiarity ended.

  “You shaved,” she blurted out.

  He gave a slight smile, revealing deep creases in his cheeks she hadn’t noticed before, since they were always covered in stubble. “I’ve learned about these contraptions called razors—”

  “You’re wearing a tux,” she interrupted.

  Audrey gave a light laugh. “Claire. You sound angry about it.”

  “No,” Claire said quickly, even as she registered that she did sound irrationally mad. “I’m surprised, is all.”

  “You expected me to be here in overalls?”

  “I didn’t expect you to be here at all,” she said, no longer caring that her tone was a little testy. They spent five days a week together, and he hadn’t bothered to mention that he was attending this? As a guest of honor, no less?

  Granted, she hadn’t mentioned that she was attending, either, but hers was a last-minute decision when Audrey had called her yesterday afternoon and begged.

  Instead of explaining himself, he deliberately turned away from Claire and faced Audrey and Naomi. “You ladies look lovely.”

  Claire scowled and took a sip of her champagne. Sure. Now he has pretty manners.

  She was now foolishly wishing she’d spent a little more time on her appearance. Claire used to love events like this, had loved the pampering process, selecting a new gown, getting her hair done. Brayden had often surprised her beforehand with flowers, and she’d felt like a princess. They’d been the magical types of nights where she’d wanted to pinch herself, thinking, Is this my real life?

  But tonight’s prep hadn’t been like that. Audrey had insisted Claire come over to get ready, so they “could pretend it was like prom.” Claire had readily agreed. She adored Audrey, and they’d had fun sipping martinis and debating Audrey’s shoe options.

  But Claire herself had phoned it in. She’d gone with the first gown she’d pulled out of the closet, a dark navy dress that didn’t have much going for it other than it was reasonably comfortable as far as formal wear went. Same went for the shoes. Since nobody could see them beneath the gown anyway, she’d opted for silver heels that were completely forgettable compared to Audrey’s sexy T-strap sandals and Naomi’s new SJPs.

  She regretted now not wearing the daring pink dress that she’d bought on a whim a couple of months before Brayden’s death but hadn’t gotten around to wearing because it hadn’t seemed widow appropriate. Not that she’d had many opportunities. She’d turned down nearly every invitation in the past year, and there hadn’t been many.

  Even now, she couldn’t escape the sense that hardly anyone noticed her, and those who did were vaguely pitying. At least one person noticed her though. A tall man appeared at her side, his hand touching lightly on her back as he kissed her cheek. “Claire, love, you look ravishing.”

  She rolled her eyes at Clarke West’s over-the-top compliment, even though it did lift her spirts slightly. It didn’t hurt that the man was the best-looking guy Claire had ever seen, and that included the entire cast of Ocean’s Eleven.

  Over six feet tall, with dark hair and friendly gold eyes that always promised an inside joke in the making, Clarke West would be downright intimidating if he wasn’t so nice. His charm was so convincing, his kindness so genuine, it was easy to forget that he was the biggest player in the city.

  “Where’s your date?” Claire asked him.

  Clarke blinked, looking confused. “My date? What— Ahhh,” he said after a quick glance toward Audrey. “Um, ladies’ room.”

  Claire narrowed her eyes. “What’s her name?”

  “Ruth,” he said at the same time Audrey blurted out, “Arabella.”

  “Ruth?” Audrey said, turning on him outraged. “I knew you weren’t listening when we went over the plan.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to remember your suggested name of Aquafina?” Clarke protested.

  “Arabella!” Audrey looked ready to strangle him.

  Claire made a scolding noise as she realized her friend had lied about needing a plus-one. “Audrey, Audrey, Audrey.”

  “Okay, in my defense, we have a pact,” Audrey said. “You said . . .” She looked at the group and caught herself. “I was trying to help. With your mission.”

  “Ah, yes,” Scott said. “That mission.”

  “You. Shut up,” Claire grumbled, earning her a surprised grin from Clarke.

  “We’ve already got some very promising prospects,” Naomi said.

  “You were in on this, too?”

  Naomi didn’t look fazed by Claire’s outrage. “It’s like Audrey said. We have a pact. We take care of each other. And each other’s needs.”

  “This is fascinating,” Clarke said. “Please continue.”

  Claire covered her face with her hand. “I said I wanted your guys’ help, not this.”

  “Well, without our help, you found yourself with guys who ended up licking your face!” Audrey said.

  “Never mind,” Clarke muttered. “Please stop.”

  Audrey whirled toward Scott with an accusing finger. “I blame you.”

  “I do, too, a little bit.”

  Claire looked at him in surprise. “You do?”

  Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “I did forget how shitty we guys can be when we’re horny.”

  “Well, whatever,” Claire said. “I do not need a whole fleet of wingpeople to get laid. You’re all terrible at it.”

  Audrey pouted. “But we haven’t even introduced you to the prospects.”

  Claire looked at Clarke, the only one she didn’t currently want to strangle. “Help.”

  He winked, taking pity on her, and took over changing the subject. He extended a hand to Scott. “Turner. It’s good to see you again. Been a while.”

  “Wait, you know him?” Audrey asked Clarke. “How am I the last to meet Scott?”

  “Best for last, definitely,” Scott said, clinking his glass to Audrey’s with a charming smile.

  Claire stared at him in disbelief. Where had this charm been for the past two weeks when he’d been stomping around her home, complaining about “shoddy insulation”?

  She turned to Clarke. “How do you know Scott?”

  “We met a couple of years ago. Charity baseball game?” he asked Scott, trying to place their first meeting.

  “I believe it was far worse than that. The rent-a-bachelor business downtown.”

  “Right.” Clarke snapped his fingers in recognition. “Ian Bradley’s cre
w set it up for the fund-raiser for foster kids. You got yourself the highest bidder, if I remember. A super-rich widow not a day under eighty-five who was obsessed with your ass.”

  “It was neither the first nor the last time I’ve been groped by someone using a walker,” Scott said.

  Everyone but Claire laughed. She was still too busy trying to reconcile this laughing, clean-cut, do-gooding man with her contractor. He caught her eye, and she shook her head slightly in bemusement, putting her fingers to her temple and making an exploding gesture, as all this was blowing her mind.

  He smirked, then turned his attention to Oliver, who’d joined them, fresh glasses of champagne for all the women in hand, which Claire eagerly accepted.

  She’d just taken a sip when the live band, who’d been playing upbeat crooner classics all night, shifted into a slow, moody version of “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head.”

  “Ooh!” Audrey said, “I love this song!”

  “Aren’t you about a hundred years too young to love this song?” Clarke asked.

  Audrey pointed at him. “Says the guy who knows every Bublé song by heart.”

  “Which is why I know that Bublé hasn’t done a cover of this song yet, so don’t look at me like that. You know I only dance to Bublé songs.”

  Audrey ignored his protest, handed her champagne to Claire, and dragged her friend out to the dance floor. Claire smiled as Clarke immediately spun Audrey dramatically. They really would be such a cute couple if they ever got their heads out of their asses and saw what was right in front of them.

  Claire glanced over at Naomi and, slipping the stem of Audrey’s champagne flute between her pinky and ring finger, extended her left hand to Naomi. “Hand your drink over and take your handsome man out there. I can hold two glasses in one hand and still have another one free for sipping.”

  Naomi hesitated. “You sure?”

  Claire wiggled her fingers in silent command.

  Naomi shrugged and handed her glass over, then smiled as Oliver whisked her onto the dance floor.

  Claire smiled in contentment at seeing her two friends dancing with handsome men when she felt Scott studying her. “What?” she asked, sipping her champagne without looking at him.