Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  “So, what’s that mean?”

  “You’ll need to clear out for a couple of days. My bug guy’s already been here. He can work around you if he has to, but it’d mean he’d likely have to come back a couple of times for multiple treatments. Since I’m going to have to kick you out anyway when we sand the floors and get new hardwood downstairs, I suggest we get you out of the house so he can thoroughly blast the place.”

  “How long?”

  “Two days. The floors upstairs have been protected by this ugly carpet for so long, the original wood beneath is in pretty good shape. Assuming you’re okay with buffing the original instead of some fancy new bamboo shit, it’s just the downstairs we’ll have to overhaul.”

  Claire nodded and rubbed Bob’s ears. “I guess I can eat takeout just as easily out of a hotel room as I can here. You know, I didn’t anticipate missing my kitchen so much. I don’t even love to cook, but I’m getting super sick of that little card table in the front room having to be desk, coffeepot stand, and dining table. And I could go the rest of my life without eating another bite of fried rice.”

  “You realize there are delivery options other than Chinese in this city?”

  “Nothing that tastes as good. Though, I think I’m turning into a dumpling. How many more sleeps until I get my stove back?” she said, with the hopeful anticipation of a little kid waiting for Christmas Eve.

  “A few,” he admitted, making a mental note to haul ass on the final stages of the kitchen.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Nope.”

  “But I’ve seen the rest of the place as you work!”

  “Because those are face-lifts. The kitchen is more like open-heart surgery, and I guarantee you don’t want to see what goes on on the operating table. It’s not just you; it’s my rule for all projects, all clients.”

  “Fine,” she said glumly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll look into a hotel. When’s this all going down?”

  “Up to you. We can do it as soon as today if you want to speed things along.”

  “I do,” she said immediately. “I’ll pack. I guess the bonus of a hotel is that at least I can get one of those little room service carts. No more card table for forty-eight hours.” She glanced at him. “Can Bob come with?”

  “You do realize she’s my dog.”

  “I know,” Claire said, kissing Bob’s head. “But in a couple of weeks you’ll take her away from me. These last few days are all I have.”

  She said it lightly in between playful cooing kisses to the top of Bob’s head, but his chest ached anyway at the thought of her being all alone once again.

  She’ll get her own dog, he reminded himself. Another man around the house . . .

  Nope. He halted his thoughts right there.

  Scott sighed. “If you find a hotel that takes big, smelly dogs, sure. You can have her for a couple of nights.”

  Claire lifted Bob’s paw and slapped it against her own palm in a high five. “You hear that? Girls’ night! Slumber party! You bring the popcorn.”

  Scott smiled and shook his head, hoping the playful mood wasn’t the result of her ending her yearlong celibacy. Though, even if it were, he supposed he was happy for her. It was good to see her without any shadows, even if it was some other dude who had helped banish them.

  Actually no, screw that. He hated that it was some other guy.

  Scott had already left the bedroom, but he turned back. “My place has a kitchen.”

  She looked up from where she was already hauling a suitcase out of the closet. “What?”

  “My apartment on the West Side. It’s got a kitchen. The guest room bed has sheets. I think.”

  She set her bag on the floor. “I don’t—”

  “I won’t be there,” he was quick to interject. “I’ve got the place in Brooklyn, remember? I can stay there. That’ll give you the Manhattan apartment to yourself.”

  “I can’t kick you out of your apartment.”

  “I’m offering. C’mon,” he added when she hesitated. “A couple of days without takeout? My coffeepot’s top-notch, too. We can bring your nasty creamer.”

  “Hey. That coffee creamer is delicious.”

  He smiled, knowing he had her, even if he didn’t quite know why it seemed so important that she say yes.

  “I can still have Bob?” she asked.

  “Yes. You can still have Bob.”

  You can have me, too, if you want.

  He rejected the thought as quickly as it had popped into his head. He wasn’t available, not in the way she needed. Hadn’t been in a long time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  Claire was expecting Scott’s place to be a stereotypical bachelor pad. She didn’t anticipate a guy who mostly lived in denim and flannel would have much beyond a lumpy sofa and huge flat-screen TV.

  But she’d forgotten that she was dealing with one of the world’s most in-demand contractors, not to mention a guy who wore a tux very nicely when he put his mind to it.

  “It’s stunning,” Claire said, as Scott wheeled her suitcase through the front door. Bob was already running circles around the place, seeming adorably excited to have Claire in her space for once.

  “Thanks,” he said, not bothering to deny that his apartment was a work of art.

  “No, I mean . . .” She spun around, taking in the high ceilings, the entire wall of windows. “Wow. I guess I should have known what to expect when you punched the button for the penthouse.”

  Scott shrugged. “I don’t like having neighbors. The penthouse means I don’t have to share walls, just a floor with someone else’s ceiling.”

  “Your apartment takes up the whole floor?” she asked, going to the windows and taking in the unobstructed view of the Hudson.

  “Yeah. The building’s one of Oliver’s.”

  She spun around. “Really?”

  “Yup. He designed it a couple of years ago. The management company mostly does high-rises, but they’d bought this building before the neighborhood was cool. It’s only eighteen floors, which, anywhere else on the island would have you staring in your neighbor’s windows, but this is far enough west that it works.”

  “I’d say it more than works.” Claire turned away from the windows and headed to the enormous open kitchen. “If my kitchen turns out even half as fabulous as this, I’ll be one indebted lady.”

  “It will be. Smaller. But it’s coming along.”

  “It’s so bright in here,” she said, turning in a full circle. “You must think I’m nuts to be living in that little house with almost zero natural light and nosy neighbors on all sides.”

  Scott shook his head. “Not really. I get the appeal of those old brownstones. You’ve just got to get ’em right, and we will.”

  She nodded, as she ran a finger over the granite countertop, which was completely clear of any clutter, dirty dishes, or a stack of mail. “You’re tidy.”

  “I am. Though I had my cleaning lady come by to make sure about those guest sheets I promised.”

  “Right. Point me toward the right room. Where should I put my bag?”

  Scott gestured down the hall. “Either door. Both have beds, though I recommend the one on the right. Better view, and the bathroom’s connected.”

  She frowned. “Is that the master bedroom?”

  “Nope, that’s that way.” He pointed to the left. “Though you’re welcome to it—”

  “No,” she said quickly. She absolutely did not want to sleep in Scott’s bed without him in it. Not that she wanted to sleep in his bed with him in it. She just . . .

  “Your place has three bedrooms?” she blurted out, trying to steer her thoughts elsewhere.

  “Four. One’s an office,” he said, going to the fridge and pulling out a glass carafe of water that was surprisingly fancy for a guy living alone. Or maybe not. Maybe she should learn to stop being surprised where Scott was concerned.

  Per his sugges
tion, Claire took the guest room to the right. It was decorated simply, but definitely decorated. At first glance, the white bedspread and basic platform bed looked sparse, the no-nonsense nightstands like they’d been ordered online, sight unseen. But having spent a lot of time looking at home details these past few months, Claire saw beyond that to the industrial-chic lamps on the nightstand, the plush gray area rug beneath the bed, the sketches of bridges on the wall hung just so to look unintentional and yet as though they belonged there.

  She stuck her head out into the main room. “You hire a decorator?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s really good,” Claire said, joining him in the kitchen.

  “He. Sean went to school with Oliver and me. Unlike me, he graduated. Unlike Oliver, he didn’t actually go into architecture. He and his partner, also Shawn but spelled differently, started their own interior design company last year.”

  “I imagine they’re doing well. Your apartment could be in a catalog.”

  “It was.”

  “Really?” She perked up. “Which catalog? I subscribe to all of them.”

  “No idea. They asked if they could do my place for free as a showpiece, and since I’m hardly ever here, I told them to go for it.”

  “How much are they?” she asked, taking in every single detail, and finding fault with nothing. “Probably more than I could afford.”

  “Thought you were more of a do-it-yourselfer on the decorating front?”

  “Well, I thought so, too, until I saw your place. My style is amateur hour compared to this. Don’t worry, I promise to clean up all my drool before I leave on Thursday. The kitchen, specifically. I cannot wait to eat real food again. I’m going to work that stove over so hard . . .”

  Scott had started to refill his water glass, paused a moment, then put the glass back down without drinking it. “You need anything else? I’ll get out of your hair if not.”

  “Oh.” She was a little surprised at the abrupt announcement, and maybe a little disappointed. Things had just been finally getting back to normal between them, as though the kiss had never happened, as though she hadn’t come very close to breaking down on him last Thursday night before her date with Brett.

  She didn’t regret any of the things she’d said though. She’d needed to voice it, needed to admit that she hadn’t yet healed from Brayden. And going out with Brett had been the right decision. He’d been a perfect gentleman. They’d talked about movies over dinner, debated whose pasta dish was the more decadent, even shared a dessert at the end. It had been all perfectly lovely first-date stuff, and when he’d casually asked her back to his place at the end of the night, she’d said . . .

  No.

  She hadn’t been ready for that, but one day she would be.

  Brett had smiled, thanked her for a lovely evening, and kissed her cheek before hailing her a cab. He said he’d call her again, and maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Claire wasn’t entirely sure she cared either way, but she did know that it had been an important first step toward moving on with her life.

  “Grocery store,” she said, realizing she hadn’t responded to his question if she needed anything. “You have one nearby you’d recommend? If not, I can check Maps on my phone.”

  “What are you shopping for? Basics? Meat?”

  “Well, coffee creamer, for starters,” she said with a smile. “I forgot to grab mine from the mini fridge at home.”

  Scott opened his full-size fridge. It was mostly empty, but there was the unmistakable label of her favorite coffee flavoring on the shelf.

  She looked at him in surprise, and he just shrugged. “The housekeeper also keeps me stocked with a few basics, so I at least have eggs and stuff when I’m here. I asked her to pick some up.”

  He said it as though it were no big deal, and maybe it wasn’t. The bottle only cost a few bucks. But that he’d thought of it said . . . plenty.

  He’s just a nice guy, she reminded herself. Naomi had told her as much. Thoughtful gestures did not a grand statement make, at least as far as Scott was concerned.

  “Okay, so then I guess it’s just dinner stuff I need,” she said. “I was thinking of maybe doing a steak on the stove. With a potato. Or pasta. Just basic stuff.”

  “Get the steak at Esposito’s. It’s a longer walk, but you won’t regret it.” He named another store for the rest of the shopping list, then pointed at a built-in wine rack. “Help yourself to that. I’m more of a beer/whisky guy, but I’ve collected some decent bottles of red over the years if you’re interested.”

  She was, although she realized for a painful moment she longed to share it with someone. For all her determination not to get her heart broken again, she was starting to realize that her decision meant a lot of nights alone in the future.

  “You think of anything else, I’m a text away.”

  “Thanks,” she said, walking with him to the front door, feeling awkward that she was the one staying behind in his house, with his dog, drinking his wine. But grateful all the same.

  “Anytime.” He opened the door, then shut it again when Bob made a huffing noise. “Sorry, girl.” He bent down to scratch the dog’s neck. Claire smiled, noting the way he pet Bob was entirely different than the way she did. She gently rubbed Bob’s ears and softly scratched her belly. And though Bob seemed to like it well enough, it was obvious the dog relished Scott’s firmer no-nonsense rubs.

  “Take her with you,” Claire said, noting the distraught look on Bob’s face when she sensed she wouldn’t be going with Scott. “I refuse to be responsible for those sad eyes.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Scott said with one last scratch of his dog’s neck, standing once more. “She’s overdue for a little . . . what did you call it, ‘girls’ night’?”

  “Right, our slumber party,” Claire said, smiling. “We’ll probably play Truth or Dare. And you might get a prank call.”

  “Can’t wait.” He opened the door once more, looking at her as though he wanted to say something, then shook his head and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  The silence in the apartment suddenly seemed deafening. She looked down to see Bob watching her with a baleful expression. Claire told herself she did it for the dog. Knew that was a lie.

  Claire jerked the door open again. “Scott!”

  She caught him just as he stepped onto the elevator. He stuck out an arm to stop the closing doors, and looked at her expectantly.

  She swallowed and took the leap. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  Okay, if you could go back to only one of the cities you’ve lived in, which one would it be?” Claire asked, dragging a red potato through a little pool of butter with no regrets.

  “To visit? Or live?”

  “Either. Both.”

  He took a sip of his wine. “Tokyo to visit, Paris to live.”

  “Paris. Really!” she said in surprise. “Is that because it’s where you met Ivet?” she said coyly, waggling her eyebrows.

  He smirked. “I refuse to feel guilty that one of the hottest supermodels on the planet came on to me in a hotel bar in the city of love.”

  He said the last word with a touch of exaggeration, and she laughed. “Okay, but really. Why Paris?”

  “The Eiffel Tower.”

  She started to roll her eyes, then blinked when she realized he wasn’t being ironic. “Seriously?”

  “It’s impressive. The design, the structure, the longevity, the location. I never get sick of it.”

  “I’ve only seen it once,” she admitted. “I traveled through western Europe after my junior year of college, but I was more or less checking everything off my list. Venice canals, the Vatican, the Colosseum, the Mona Lisa, and so on. The Eiffel Tower was, of course, on the list, but I sort of just did the cursory picture and called it a day.”

  “Well, to be fair, not everyone gets off on it like architects and builder
s. But if you ever go back, do yourself a favor and get a bottle of that pink wine you like, a baguette, and some stinky cheese, and camp out at the base of the tower and just look at it.”

  “That sounds like a dream,” she said. “With an old-fashioned picnic basket. Ooh, and a blanket. Some fresh flowers . . .”

  “Flowers? You’re ruining my vision.” He tossed a piece of steak to the patiently waiting Bob.

  “I’m enhancing the vision. You can’t just sit on the wet grass, and fresh flowers add ambiance.”

  “Fine. Yes to the blanket, okay on the picnic basket, lose the flowers. You’ll look like a dork.”

  “Deal.” She lifted her glass, and they smiled at each other.

  Claire looked away after a moment, her smile falling a little as she reminded herself that she wasn’t actually going to Paris. And that if she did, it would be alone. There’d be no sipping French rosé on a picnic blanket with Scott Turner.

  “Thanks for helping with dinner,” she said to defuse the moment. “I’ve never cooked with someone before.”

  “I don’t know that my putting the steaks in a pan on the stove counts as cooking, but you’re welcome.”

  “It counts. As much as me tossing red potatoes in butter and garlic and sticking them in the oven does.”

  When he spoke next, he kept his gaze on Bob, but the words were clearly for her. “Was he a good husband?”

  Claire froze, instinctively wanting to ask Who?, but of course there was only one who. Brayden.

  “Why do you ask?” Still a stall, but she was also curious.

  He looked up at her, his brown eyes a little irritated, though she didn’t think at her. “He wouldn’t let you get fucking pink pillows. Didn’t like your Christmas gifts. Didn’t cook with you.”

  “Well, hold on now,” she said softly. “He didn’t outright criticize anything I bought him. And as for the pillows . . . how would you take to a wife or girlfriend decorating all this with pink?” she said, waving at his blatantly masculine living space. The most color was a painting of the High Line on the wall near the front door that had a few shades of green.