But that wasn’t his life. Next month he’d be God knew where, and then what? She’d have found some other guy to talk to about her new business. Some other man would be the one to take her to bed at night.
Some other man already had.
That, he realized, was what was bothering him more than anything. The fear that this—all of it, the companionship, even the sex—wasn’t about Scott. That he was a stand-in for a husband she hadn’t expected to lose.
“I didn’t make it to the grocery store,” she was saying as she stacked up the assorted cards and papers on the table. “I’m sorry. I can run out real quick or—”
Scott’s temper snapped. “Don’t.”
She flinched at the sound of his bottle clinking firmly as he set it on the counter, and that made him even more pissed. “Don’t apologize. I don’t expect some cozy little domestic scene when I get home; I don’t expect dinner on the table.”
“I didn’t—”
“I’m not him, Claire!”
He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even realized it had been on his mind. And he regretted it the second the words echoed in the kitchen like a bullet. Her face went pale as she straightened, before she slowly—too slowly, as though she were fighting for control.
He expected anger, dreaded seeing hurt, but he saw something far worse. Flatness. As though all that life that she’d been radiating just minutes before had been sucked from her. By him.
“You’re not who, Scott?” she asked coldly.
He didn’t answer. They both knew who he’d meant.
It was a dick move, throwing her dead husband in her face, but damned if it hadn’t clawed at him to think that he’d stepped into the man’s shadow, even for a moment. First with the couple routine, a glimpse into a lifestyle he didn’t want, then with her apology, which had rolled off her tongue far easier than he would have liked.
Claire might like to think her marriage had been fine—even happy—aside from Brayden’s infidelity, but Scott was putting together a different picture of a man who’d taken advantage of her kindness and strength. He’d bet anything Brayden had used Claire to lever himself up, not caring that he’d pushed her down in the process.
Even the dog sensed the tension in the room, and Bob slunk away as though she’d been scolded, even though it was Scott who deserved the reprimand.
“I’m sorry,” he said roughly.
She didn’t respond. Didn’t move. She just stared at him with cool hazel eyes.
“I just . . .” Scott scratched his cheek, feeling atypically uncomfortable. He didn’t do this; he didn’t get flustered. And yet now that Brayden’s presence was in the room, Scott realized there was something he needed to say. Realized why the thought of her upstairs bedrooms made him tense up every time.
“I’m nearly done with the downstairs,” he said. “I mean, there’s still all the finishing. But the old floors, the old shelves, all the ugly is gone. I’ll be starting on the upstairs soon. You’re still good to move back in tomorrow night, but assuming you still want that overhaul of the master bed and bath, you’ll have to sleep in whichever room we’re not working on, and I’ll need a temporary place to put your master bedroom furniture . . .”
“Get to the point.”
Scott took a deep breath and laid it all on the table. “You’ve got an entire room full of his stuff.”
He thought she’d been frozen before, but now she seemed to go entirely brittle.
“That is none of your business.” Her voice was like ice.
“Well now, it sort of is,” he said, trying to keep his voice easy. “I don’t have enough room to work.”
“Work around it,” she said, taking her wineglass to the sink, where she dumped the entire thing.
“I can’t, Claire. Where am I supposed to put your bed when I pull up the carpet in your bedroom? The other room’s too small.”
“Figure it out. Isn’t that why they pay you the big bucks?”
He didn’t reply to her snide tone, waiting until she finished washing the glass and looked back at him. “Even if I could work around it, don’t you think it’s . . . time?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “Time to what? Move on? To put him behind me? You tell me, Scott. How’s moving on going for you?”
“How the hell are you possibly turning this around on me?” he asked. “I’m not the one—”
“Whose best friend is a dog? You can’t even commit to a house, Scott—you have two. And that’s when you’re in your home state, which is never, because you can’t stay in the same place for two months, much less sleep with the same woman twice in a row, am I right? Is that what this is about? Last night when I said we’d figure it out later, did you think I meant we’d figure out how to blow it up? Because you’re doing a damn good job.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Like hell it isn’t. It’s about both of us. I’m not going to pretend I’m not dealing with a ghost, but I’m not the only one. I don’t know if it was your fiancée cheating, your mom leaving—”
Scott’s blood turned to ice, then turned hot just as quick. “Overstepping, Claire.”
“Right.” She put up her hands. “My life, my demons are an open book, but yours are off-limits, right?”
“I don’t have demons.”
“Sure you don’t.” Claire’s voice was tired as she dried her hands and headed in the direction of the guest room.
“Where are you going?”
His only answer was the door slam. He winced, even as he felt a little relief that she was pissed rather than wooden.
Scott snatched his beer off the counter, took two swallows as he tried to sort his thoughts, and tried to figure out how to fix this without having to lay himself bare. He didn’t even have anything to lay bare, for God’s sake. She was wrong. She thought he was some broken soul with mommy issues? That he was pining over a faithless woman from a decade ago.
Screw that. His life was exactly as he wanted. He didn’t have a whole room full of a dead person’s crap . . .
His thoughts scattered as Claire opened the guest room door again, his relief fleeing when he saw her wheeling her suitcase.
She marched to the front door, head held high, and he frowned. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Audrey’s. Naomi’s. A hotel. Even bunking with the termite carcasses at my house would be better than staying here with you.”
His fingers clenched around the beer bottle, but he remained silent. What could he possibly say? Stay for another night, but please be gone by tomorrow? Sleep with me once more, but just the one time because more than that is a complication I don’t want?
“Not begging me to stay?” she said sweetly, her gaze derisive as her eyes flicked over him like he was pathetic. “Now, there’s a surprise.”
“Bob,” she called to the dog as she opened the door. “Enjoy your last few nights with Scott. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he bails on you again.”
The door slammed shut behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
Welp, this is a real mess,” Naomi said, kicking at an over-stuffed cardboard box just inside Claire’s guest room.
“I know,” she said a little dejectedly. “Somehow I walk by this room every single day, but in my head I didn’t think it was this bad.”
Naomi wrinkled her nose as she peered into the far corner of the room. “Are those skis? I didn’t know Brayden skied.”
“He loved it,” Audrey said, coming up between them with a tray of carefully balanced cocktails. She flinched and glanced at Claire. “Sorry. I guess she was talking to you.”
“No, by all means,” Claire murmured. “I think you two knew him as well as I did. Better, probably.”
“Not me,” Naomi said, lifting two glasses off the tray and handing one to Claire. “He and I mostly just boned.”
“Naomi!” Audrey sounded appalled.
“No, it’s all
right,” Claire said. “Keep all this stuff coming. I think it’ll make the whole process easier. I can’t tell you how grateful I am not to have to go through this alone.”
“Anytime,” Naomi said. “Though can I ask what prompted it?”
Claire’s stomach dropped as she remembered yesterday’s epic showdown with Scott. She’d said plenty she regretted, suspected that he had, too, but he’d been right about one thing. It was long past time she got rid of Brayden’s stuff. The moral support from her girlfriends helped. As did the cocktail at . . . she checked her watch . . . 3:30 p.m.
“Scott’s starting on the upstairs in a few days. All this needs to be gone before then.”
Naomi gave her a sharp look at the mention of Scott’s name, but Claire avoided her friend’s prying eyes. She still hadn’t told Naomi that she’d slept with him, and she wasn’t about to now knowing how right her friend had been. Naomi had been worried Scott would hurt Claire. She’d been right.
“Where is Scott?” Audrey asked Claire carefully.
“Took a day off. Had something to take care of.”
It was a twist on the truth. Claire was the one who had something to take care of—this. She’d texted him earlier in the morning saying she needed a day’s break from the renovation chaos.
They hadn’t had any more contact following his terse OK response.
“Hey,” Audrey said. “Someone grab my drink so I can ditch the tray.”
“Where’d you even get the tray?” Naomi asked, picking up the third cocktail glass so Audrey could put the tray on Claire’s hallway table.
“I found it in the kitchen.”
“You went in,” Claire said, whirling around. “How does it look?”
“Still messy, but oh my gosh, I can tell it’s going to be fabulous. You haven’t seen it?”
“Scott’s being rigid and weird about it. It was the biggest overhaul, and he doesn’t want me to see it before it’s done. Apparently clients freak out.”
“And you listened?” Naomi was incredulous. “I would have been creeping under that big sheet thing so quickly . . .”
“Don’t,” Audrey instructed. “I think Scott’s right about this. You’re better off seeing it when it’s done. It’s sort of war zone–ish right now.”
“I won’t hate it though, will I?” Claire took a sip of her drink.
“Nope. The guy is good. You were smart to hire him.”
“Hey, where’s my credit?” Naomi said. “I suggested him.”
Audrey gave her a look. “You or your lover?”
“Well, okay. It was Oliver’s idea initially. But I pushed for it. Although, had I known she was going to be kissing the guy . . .”
Audrey opened her mouth, then shut it, giving Claire a curious look, clearly wondering why Claire hadn’t yet told Naomi things had gone much further than a kiss.
Claire sighed, realizing it wasn’t fair to leave Naomi in the dark, or to ask Audrey to keep it a secret. “I slept with Scott.”
“What?” Naomi scowled dramatically at Claire. “What’s the point of having a pact to protect each other if we don’t listen to each other! I thought we agreed it was a bad idea!”
“Naomi,” Audrey scolded.
“What! I’m right on this. We agreed to be each other’s lookout, to pinpoint the guys who have bad news written all over them. And Scott, as far as relationships go, is one of those guys. Claire agreed!”
“I did agree. And turns out we were right,” Claire said. “It was an awful idea. And by the way, Naomi, I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours berating myself, so your lecture would be superfluous.”
“What happened?” Audrey asked gently, as Naomi’s expression transitioned from scolding to concern.
Claire looked down at the olives in her cocktail and swallowed. “I’m not ready to talk about it. I don’t know that I can deal with that and this,” she said, nodding toward the mess of her guest bedroom.
“Okay, we’ll handle one guy problem at a time,” Naomi said. “Brayden first.”
Audrey squeezed Claire’s arm, but then followed Naomi’s lead and changed the subject. “Okay, so I actually think this will be sort of easy. When my grandma passed a couple of years ago, we hired this service that came and cleaned out her place. All we have to do . . .” She reached behind her and pulled a stack of stickers out of her back pocket. “. . . is put blue stickers on the things to be donated, orange on the stuff that goes to the dump. I’ve already called the guy, and he’ll be here tomorrow to haul it all away to the appropriate place.”
“How much will that cost?” Claire asked skeptically, knowing that hauling away a room full of crap in crowded Manhattan was no small feat.
“My treat. I’d pay a zillion dollars to get Brayden out of your life completely,” Audrey said. “All you have to do is decide what of the bastard’s stuff goes to Goodwill and what is trash.”
Claire took a deep breath and a fortifying sip of her cocktail before setting it on a shelf near the door. “Okay. I can do that. You guys take some stickers, too. Use your best judgment.”
“All right, but how do we know what stuff you want to keep?” Naomi asked cautiously.
It was an innocent question, but it rocked Claire to the core, as she realized that right there was the reason she’d been putting this task off for so long. This room, this stuff, was the last of Brayden. All that she had. Letting go of his stuff meant letting go of him, once and for all.
And she hadn’t been ready, she’d realized. She’d been mad. She’d been determined. But anger and determination alone were not a reason to move on.
She’d needed a reason.
She’d found that reason but was pretty sure that reason wasn’t ready to move on with her. Or just was not interested.
Claire looked around, suddenly so sick of men. “All of it goes,” she said firmly.
“All of it?”
“Everything in this room,” Claire said, knowing there was one thing she’d keep that was hidden safely in her underwear drawer. “Do you think they’ll take the ugly bed?”
“There’s a bed in here?”
Claire pointed to a mound in the center of the room. “Under the clothes. The mattress is awful, older than I am. I want to get rid of it and put the master bed in here so I can get a new bed in my room.”
“A bed you didn’t share with him,” Naomi said astutely.
“Bingo.”
“They’ll take it away,” Audrey said, gingerly wading into the room. “And can I just point out that Brayden apparently had more clothes than me? And that is really saying something.”
“His stuff took up about eighty percent of the closet,” Claire agreed, annoyed that even the mention of male clothes made her think of Scott.
She’d snooped in his closet, finding the expected small assortment of T-shirts and flannel, but also a handful of suits, dress shirts, and slacks. Not to mention the tux. And that was just in one of his houses. It made her realize there were facets of Scott she hadn’t met. Probably never would.
The three of them got to work, chatting as they went, thankfully not about men.
“What do you guys think, donate or dump?” Claire held up Brayden’s briefcase.
“Donate,” they both said.
“It’s Hermès,” Naomi said. “Someone needs to get in on that action. I’d take it to Oliver if it weren’t the creepiest thing in the world to give my dead lover’s briefcase to the man I’m living with.”
Claire flipped it around to look at it more closely. She’d thought she knew her way around luxury goods, but it looked like a boring black men’s briefcase to her. “How the heck can you name the designer in four seconds?” she asked, setting the bag down and placing a blue sticker on its side.
“Practice. You don’t become an accessory billionaire without knowing your designers,” Naomi said, standing and stretching as she perused the room. “Is it just me or is this very unsatisfying?”
“Very,” Claire enthused,
glad she wasn’t the only one. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s getting done, but I was thinking it was going to be a little more therapeutic. You know, like a big moment.”
“Yeah, the stickers are convenient, but they do lack a certain panache, especially for some of the more personal items,” Audrey agreed. “I don’t have anything like this at my place, but I confess I’ve got a tie and shirt of Brayden’s that I’ve just been holding on to. I always mean to put them in the trash, but it feels so insignificant. I keep envisioning burning them.”
“Yes!” Naomi agreed, pointing her cocktail at Audrey. “A burn pile. Now that is a gesture and a fitting fuck you, buddy.”
“You mean a fitting goodbye,” Audrey amended.
“Nope, I do not mean that.” Naomi took a sip of her cocktail. “I want his stuff to burn the way he is burning.” She pointed dramatically at the floor.
Claire pressed her lips together to keep from chuckling and looked around the room. “This is one of the very few times I’ve regretted we all live in Manhattan. It’s not exactly firepit friendly.”
“No,” Audrey said slowly. “It’s not.” She gave a small, slow smile. “I think I have the beginnings of an epic idea.”
“Ooh. Does it involve fire?” Naomi asked hopefully.
“Actually, it does,” Audrey said, pulling out her iPhone. “I just need to make one quick phone call . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Three
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 6
I know you ate my cheese, Clarke. So put your dimples away,” Audrey said accusingly as the group filed into the enormous Southampton kitchen.
“What exactly do you think happened, Dree?” Clarke asked, setting a box of wine and other booze bottles on the counter. “That in the five-minute drive between the store and here, I unwrapped a wedge of Saint-André and took a big bite, without anyone noticing I was eating stinky cheese straight from the plastic wrap?”
Love on Lexington Avenue Page 18
