Claire leaned forward. “What happened? The way he talked about Brayden, there was something in his tone that made me wonder if he’d been through what I’d been through.”
Naomi made a wincing face. “Well, Scott’s fiancée didn’t fall off a yacht and drown after cheating on him, but she did cheat. It was back when Oliver and Scott were in Columbia’s architecture program. From what I’ve gleaned from Oliver, Scott was all kinds of smitten with this woman, only to find out she’d been banging her coworker for like a solid year. All while Scott had been working two jobs in addition to school, in order to pay for the expensive wedding she insisted on.”
“I hate her,” Claire said automatically.
“Me, too. But the point is, you know how we all dealt with Brayden a little differently? I got mad, you got bitter and jaded— no offense—and Audrey’s more determined than ever to prove that love is real?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, of the three of us, Scott handled it a little like me, a lot like you, and Audrey’s style not-at-all. That crap with his fiancée went down like a decade ago, and according to Oliver, Scott hasn’t been in anything close to a serious relationship since. And yet, he hasn’t been a monk, if you get what I’m saying.”
“Hard to miss,” Claire grumbled.
“He’s not a playboy in the sense that Clarke is,” Naomi continued. “With Clarke, women think it’s all about the chase, believing they’ll be the one to tame him. With Scott, nobody even tries to tame him. Nobody bothers.”
Claire felt as though someone were pressing on her chest. “That makes me kind of sad.”
Naomi gave a small sigh. “See, I was a little worried you’d say that, but I’m almost glad because now I know how to advise you.” She hesitated. “That is why you’re here, right? Or did you just want to talk it out?”
“Advice,” Claire said immediately. “Please.”
“I think that kiss with Scott needs to remain a one-time thing. A blip.”
“But—”
“You’re starting to care for him, babe. I can tell from the way you responded to everything I just told you. It wasn’t an ‘Oh great, booty-call perfection!’ It was you hurting for him—wanting him to change, and he won’t. Not even for you.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship, either,” Claire reminded her, even though that somehow felt less true, and she was less sure than she had been a few weeks ago.
“I know you’re not looking for one. But I also know that your heart’s enormous, and a little fragile. Do you really want to risk giving it to someone who won’t want it?”
Claire sat back and thought about everything Naomi had just said, and realized her friend was right. Something about Scott had wiggled beneath her defenses, slipped beneath the jaded cynicism that had been so firmly in place since Brayden died. She desperately wanted to believe that she’d be able to separate sex and emotion, but she was no longer certain she could. Not with him.
She scrunched down farther in her chair, feeling decidedly dejected. “I don’t suppose you have any junk food in here?”
“Nothing good,” Naomi said, standing and grabbing her purse. “But there’s a place a couple of blocks away that has onion rings served with like five types of cheese sauce.”
“I can’t decide if that sounds amazing or disgusting.”
“Let’s just say it’s the second-best thing to sex. You in or out?”
“Oh, you mean since you just told me I can’t have sex?” Claire said, standing. “I’m in. I’m so in.”
Chapter Sixteen
THURSDAY, AUGUST 29
Claire was avoiding him. Scott wasn’t surprised. He’d been trying to give her the space she obviously wanted, even though he’d wanted to linger at her house last night, waiting until she returned home that evening. From wherever she’d run off to following their . . . interaction.
Today, too, he’d been patient about the fact that she pointedly walked out of any room that he entered. However, as he started packing up for the day and realized that she’d been upstairs for hours, he’d decided enough was enough. Scott had given her the better part of two days to think through whatever was going on between them, waiting for her to decide what would happen next. The ball was in her court, but damned if he wasn’t going to try to influence which way it went.
As always, he took the time to put everything in his workspace in its proper spot before finally washing his hands and calling it a night. He was pleased with the way the kitchen was coming along. It was down to the final touches now, and he planned to put those off awhile as he started on her living room. He had a few ideas but wanted to give himself the time and space to get it exactly right.
Scott headed to the base of the stairs, pausing and listening for any sign of her. “Claire?”
She didn’t respond, but he headed up the stairs anyway. His traitor of a dog gave him an excuse to seek her out. As promised, he’d been bringing Bob to the work site each day, and he was a little amused to see that woman and dog had taken to each other so thoroughly despite their rocky start. So much for canine loyalty. He didn’t mind. Scott had had years to figure out how to be alone. Claire was newer at it, and he was glad the dog gave her company.
“Claire? Bob?”
As he’d expected, his dog came bounding out of Claire’s bedroom, an unfamiliar stuffed animal in her snout. “Where’d you get that?” he muttered, wrestling the toy away from Bob and stepping into the open doorway of Claire’s bedroom without entering.
“Hey, Claire, I think Bob was well on her way to destroying . . .” He glanced down. “A pink baby dinosaur?”
Claire came out of the master bathroom, both hands to her earlobe as she put her earring in. “Oh, that’s Tooshie,” she said, nodding at the mangled ball of fluff. “I bought it for Bobsie at the pet store up the street.”
Tooshie? Bobsie?
But Scott had bigger things to worry about than his dog turning into a delicate princess, so he didn’t fight it when Bob jumped up and reclaimed the toy from Scott’s hand. Instead, he focused all of his attention on Claire, who looked . . .
Shit.
He tried to get a grip on the warning bells going off in his head at her appearance. He’d been half prepared for her to be a little frazzled and on edge at the unfinished business between them. He knew he was. He hadn’t counted on the simmer between them, couldn’t deny that it made him nervous.
But Claire didn’t look nervous. Or frazzled. She looked . . . hot. And very in control.
“That’s a hell of a dress,” he said. It was black, but nothing like the other black dress he’d seen her in. This one hit just south of mid-thigh, clung to all the right places, and was tied in bows at the shoulders in what managed to be both innocent and seductive.
“Oh. Thanks.” She glanced down and gave a little smile. “Naomi and I went shopping yesterday. I was trying for something in between my usual ‘funeral garb,’ as you called it, and the outfit you picked out for me. Not that I didn’t love the whole white shirt over the black bra look, but I think that was a onetime thing for me,” she said with a smile.
“For the record, I was a big fan of that look, but this works, too,” he said, his voice huskier than it had been a moment ago. What he wouldn’t give to step forward and tug at the bows on her shoulders. Would it allow the dress to pool at her feet the way he wanted it to? Would she be wearing the same black bra that had tortured the hell out of him that night at the bar?
Then reality stepped in and shoved his fantasy out of the way.
He met her eyes and forced himself to ask the question, “You going out?”
Claire’s expression flickered for the first time since he’d entered the room. She tried to cover it with a quick smile as she stepped back into the bathroom. “Yes, and I’m running a little late. How’s my makeup?”
Blood thrumming with suspicion alongside the arousal, Scott stepped into the bathroom doorway, watched as she applied something to her cheeks.
He didn’t give a shit about her makeup. “Is it a date?”
She snapped the compact shut and met his eyes in the mirror. “Sort of. I’m still not in the market for anything serious, but I’ve come to accept that I’m too old-fashioned to sleep with someone I just met. Guess I want to be wined and dined before I jump in the sack, even if it is just casual.”
He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “You want romance.”
Claire looked away. “No. I mean, I guess. Maybe.” She took a breath and turned toward him. “I know I don’t want to get married again. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t believe in the fairy-tale ending. But apparently I need to actually like the person I’m going to sleep with.”
And I don’t qualify?
Scott managed to keep from saying it out loud, but was less successful at warding off the stab of hurt from her words.
“Anyway, I’m trying again with Brett.” She began putting the makeup scattered across the counter back in the cosmetics bag.
Hurt shifted to anger. “The guy from Saturday night?”
“He seemed really nice. He called, suggested a do-over—”
Scott had heard enough.
“Damn it, Claire!”
She jumped at his shout, dropping the makeup bag to the counter. The contents spilled out, and she started to put everything away again, but Scott was faster. Reaching out, he snagged her elbow, pulled her gently around to face him. “What game are you playing?”
She frowned. “No game.”
“Really? Because it feels a lot like you wanted me to kiss you yesterday, and now you’re pretending it didn’t happen so you can go on a date with some pretty boy.”
She jerked her arm out of his grip and turned away. “What do you want from me, Scott? You want to take me to dinner? Make small talk? Discuss my childhood aspirations, learn my favorite color—”
“I already know your favorite color. Pink.”
“No!” She spun around, her eyes a little wild. “No, it’s not pink. You know why I want pink all over this house? Because he hated it. Brayden hated it. He was one of those typical guys who got nervous when I bought him a tie with coral stripes for Christmas, worried it was the slippery slope toward magenta. I once bought pink throw pillows and had to get rid of them because he complained nonstop about living in a bordello. My favorite color is actually green, not that anybody has ever remembered that. Not my parents, not Brayden. But anyway, that’s not the point. I want what he said I couldn’t have, because I need to know that this is my life and he’s not a part of it anymore. This date,” she said, waving her hand wildly, “it’s not about you. It’s not even about Brett. This is about Brayden, and how I need to get the hell over him even when I already hate him.”
She threw her hands in the air, seemingly exasperated, but she wasn’t done. “You’ve had time to deal with your fiancée’s betrayal. You’ve had years to become hardened and practiced at cynicism. I want to say that I’m there, too. But I’m still new to this whole jaded-widow thing. I need some space to figure out this part of my life because I’m not going to be good at it immediately. And I don’t want to stumble through it with someone who I have to sit across from at a dinner party a few months from now, or whenever you’ll be back in town from your next fabulous international adventure. Can you understand that?”
Her eyes were dry but pleading all the same. Pleading with him to understand.
The hell of it was, Scott did understand. He didn’t know how she knew about his past with Meredith—Naomi, probably—but he’d been messed up over that for years, and that’s without the added trauma of his ex passing away.
Belatedly, Scott was realizing that Claire had had two hats foisted upon her at the same time: betrayed wife and widow. She had to figure out how to be mad at Brayden, how to mourn for him, and how to live without him, all at the same time.
He couldn’t blame her for being a little inconsistent. A little confused. And though he wished like hell he could help, he heard loud and clear what she was telling him.
Right now, Claire needed someone completely temporary—someone she could flirt with, sleep with, and never see again if she didn’t want to. Or she needed someone who would be there for the long haul and work through this with her.
Scott didn’t fit into either category. He had to let her go.
“Say something,” she said softly.
Scott reached out slowly and, acting on an unfamiliar tender emotion he didn’t recognize, pulled her toward him gently to press a kiss to her forehead. It was a gesture he’d never made toward anyone, ever, but it was the best he could do to tell her that he was there if she needed him—in whatever way. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Then he turned, snapping once for his dog to follow, and thankfully Bob got the message, because the dog fell into step beside Scott as he headed down the stairs, but not toward the front door. To the in-progress kitchen.
He had some changes to make.
Chapter Seventeen
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
Shit,” Scott muttered, already knowing what the exterminator was going to say.
“Termites,” George Romero announced, sounding almost gleeful. George had been Scott’s go-to “bug guy” for years, and Scott had learned that George seemed to take on every pest infestation as a personal challenge he loved to accept.
Scott had known the second he’d ripped up the ugly carpet and baseboards in the living room off the kitchen what he was dealing with, but the confirmation still chafed. “How bad?”
“I’ve seen worse, but it’s not great,” George said, putting his meaty hands on his hips and looking around. “And it looks like you’re the first guy to do any work on this place in a while. Wouldn’t be surprised if these little shits are everywhere, but I’ll have to take a look.”
“What are my options?” Scott asked.
“You’ve got two. You said the owner’s been living here while you work?”
Scott nodded.
“I could use the gentle, save-the-environment stuff, and she wouldn’t have to leave. That’d probably take care of it.”
“Probably?”
George shrugged and pulled a pack of Nicorette gum out of his back pocket, popping a piece in his mouth. “If I’ve got choices, I’d rather do it right with the industrial-strength stuff, get them all the first time. But she’d have to get out of here for a day or two. Pets, too,” he said, bending to give Bob a scratch behind the ears. Scott’s dog had managed to leave his usual spot by Claire’s side to greet her old friend George.
“I’ll talk to her,” Scott said, walking George to the door, even as Bob bounded upstairs to find Claire. “But for now, let’s count on option two. I’ve got to get her out of here anyway while I redo the hardwood floors.”
“Two birds,” George agreed, stepping onto the porch. “Call me. I’ve got a cancellation for today and tomorrow. Next week’s pretty booked up though.”
Closing the door behind the exterminator, Scott glanced up the stairs, surprised he was a little hesitant to seek out Claire. He hadn’t seen much of her since their terse, strange conversation on Thursday evening. She’d spent most of Friday upstairs in her bedroom as he’d started tearing up the downstairs living room. Scott had hated that he’d carefully listened for the sound of the front door in those early morning hours, waiting for Brett to do his walk of shame.
But when Claire had finally come downstairs for coffee on Friday morning, she’d been alone and friendly, if a little unreadable. He had no idea how her night had ended up. He hadn’t gotten a good read on how her date had gone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and yet it continued to eat at him. So much so, that instead of spending his weekend off hanging around the city as he’d planned, he’d headed up to his mountain place for a long holiday weekend. He’d needed some fresh air and a chance to clear his head. He figured Claire could use some space as well. But as much as he’d enjoyed the spontaneous fi
shing trip and letting Bob chase Poconos squirrels, Scott was a little surprised how right it felt to be back in the city.
To be here, in this house, specifically. He couldn’t ever remember getting so attached to a project. Bob felt it, too. His dog had lost her poor head in excitement when Scott’s truck had pulled up outside Claire’s house this morning after three days away.
Scott jogged up the stairs, finding her bedroom door open just a crack. He knocked lightly with a knuckle. “Claire? You decent?”
His body half hoped she wasn’t. His brain reminded him that the line in the sand had been drawn, and he’d ended up on the hands-to-himself side.
“Come in.”
He pushed open the door. Claire was sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop open, though she seemed more absorbed with rubbing Bob’s belly than whatever she was working on.
She smiled when she saw Scott, a little tentative, but genuine, and he felt his tension ease away, grateful they could get back to the way they’d been pre-gala.
“So, you want the bad news or the good news?” Scott asked.
“Good.”
He winced. “You weren’t supposed to say that. I hadn’t come up with any good news yet.”
“So come up with some.” She made kissing noises at Bob.
He considered, came up with a positive. “I’ve outdone myself on this project; we’re coming along at record speeds.”
“Does that mean I get my kitchen back?”
“Not yet. But the rest of your downstairs will be easy going, just floors and paint and ripping out those ugly built-in bookshelves.”
“Well, that’s good. Okay, I’m ready for the bad news.”
“You’ve got termites.”
Like plenty of females he knew—and most males, for that matter—the mention of any kind of bugs had her face scrunching up in horror. “Eeew! Where?”
She immediately started rubbing her calves as though they were crawling on her.
“They’re in the living room.” They were probably everywhere, but he didn’t tell her that part.
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