“So, you taking the job?” Oliver asked, his tone a little less curt now.
“It’s in Shanghai,” Scott said.
Oliver shrugged. “I know. But isn’t that sort of your thing? The farther away the gig, the better, right?”
Usually, yes. That was absolutely “his thing.”
Now, though . . .
“Yeah,” he forced himself to say. “I’m taking it. Just haven’t gotten around to getting back to Burke. It’s been busy at Claire’s, and he’s been working out of London, so the time difference . . .”
“The time difference?” Oliver didn’t bother to hide his incredulity. “They’re offering you a chance to build the biggest hotel in the world, and a five-hour time difference is what’s getting in your way of accepting?”
Even Bob was looking at Scott with disdain.
“Scott,” Oliver said, sounding slightly awed.
Scott looked up. Oliver rarely called him by his first name. Usually it was Turner or dude, or any other variety of guy speak. As a rule, Oliver didn’t use his first name, and he definitely didn’t have that surprised, sympathetic note to his voice.
“Is this about Claire?” Oliver asked, when Scott said nothing.
Hearing her name alongside the Shanghai conversation hit Scott hard. He looked away, and his friend swore.
“Damn it, man. I don’t love admitting it, but I think Naomi was right. You two hooking up was a bad idea.”
“If it was a bad idea, it was the best mistake I’ve ever made,” Scott said sharply.
Oliver’s eyebrows went up. “So it’s not just sex. You’re dating.”
“No,” Scott said quickly. “We’re not . . . we haven’t. We’ve just been enjoying each other.”
“Not a horrible idea,” Oliver said. “Unless one of them is a commitment phobe, the other a fragile widow who’s overdue for a little stability. Oh, wait . . .”
“She’s not fragile,” Scott snapped.
“No. You’re right,” Oliver backtracked quickly. “And normally, I’d be all for two consenting adults having sex for as long as it worked out, and then moving on with their lives. But I’m getting the impression that’s not what this is.”
“I don’t know what the hell this is,” Scott said, deciding he needed a beer after all and going to the fridge. “I only know that every time I went to call Burke back, to tell him I’m in, I just . . . couldn’t.”
“Because you were contemplating turning it down? For her?”
“No. This is my life, you know that. I follow the job, not the woman.”
“Lives change. You and Claire know that better than anyone.”
“Because we picked the wrong people to marry when we were twenty-something idiots?”
“Because you know circumstances change,” Oliver reframed. “Maybe this is one of those times. One of those circumstances.”
Scott was already shaking his head. “I’m not some wild young buck biding my time until I’m tamed. This isn’t a phase; this is who I am. I don’t settle down; I don’t stay.”
“Why not?”
Scott glared at him. “I swear you weren’t this annoying before you and Naomi got together.”
Oliver shrugged, picked up his suit jacket, and set his beer on the counter. “That’s because I didn’t know how good it could be before I met Naomi.”
Scott wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and Oliver was all the way to the door before he could bring himself to ask: “Didn’t know how good what could be?”
Oliver opened the door and pinned Scott with a level look. “Loving someone.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Is this really necessary?” Claire asked, fumbling along the hall with her right hand as Scott held her left. “I could have looked at the kitchen a million times before now.”
“But you haven’t,” Scott replied.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
Had her eyes not been forced to stay closed with one of her winter scarves that Scott had commandeered as a blindfold, she’d have rolled them. Still, she was glad there was a hint of playfulness in him. He’d been downright brooding all morning.
Claire understood. She’d been feeling a little surly herself, exceedingly aware that the clock was ticking down, even as she didn’t fully know why it felt that way.
They’d slept together a handful of times since that spontaneous moment in her bedroom. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other, really. And though she’d relished every minute, she was also aware that for all her talk about wanting to have no-strings-attached sex, she apparently wasn’t cut out for that. Because there were strings now. And Claire was all tangled up in them.
“All right,” he murmured, halting her and moving in front of her. His fingers slid beneath the scarf, lifting it gently. Scott balled it into one fist, but his other hand lingered near her face, his fingertips drifting lightly over her cheek.
Claire’s heart flickered in surprise at the tender touch, and she searched his face, looking for explanation, but the guarded look in his eyes was at direct odds with the sweetness of his action.
His hand dropped, and he smiled slightly, the moment over. “You ready?”
“What if I hate it?” she teased.
“Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”
Claire gave him a knowing look. “Bullshit. How do you really feel?”
His grin widened, amused at being called out. “If you hate it, then you have none of the taste I thought you have, and I’ll wish I’d given you laminate cabinets and linoleum counters. Beige.”
She mock gasped. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Never.” His kiss caught her off guard; it was a little firmer than usual, a touch desperate. As though he were nervous.
Then he stepped back, and Claire got her first glance at her new kitchen.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. When she finally forced her feet forward, it was only a couple of steps before she stopped and stared again.
The cabinets were dark brown, nearly black, with modern silver handles. The counter was enormous, made of stunning black marble. The appliances were a dark graphite she hadn’t seen before in all her Pinterest stalking, and they were perfect. None of that’s what had her feeling a little breathless.
It was the backsplash behind the six-burner stove, the pillar she’d joked about painting magenta, the walls of the kitchen . . .
They were all green.
A gorgeous, rich shade of sage green that managed to be vivid without being loud.
She walked slowly around the kitchen, taking it all in before coming back to his side, realizing that he’d been looking at her the entire time she’d been looking at the kitchen.
“It’s green,” she whispered. “You made my kitchen my favorite color.”
“Do you like it?” The touch of vulnerability in his voice squeezed her heart, hard. It also told her that this was no coincidence. He’d listened to what she’d wanted. Not to what she thought she’d wanted. There was no pink. But he’d listened when she’d told him her favorite color. That she’d mentioned it in passing and he remembered, felt . . . it felt like something.
Her eyes watered as she nodded. “Like it” was an understatement. She didn’t like it. She loved it.
She loved him.
She bit back the sob, tried to cover it with enthusiasm over the finished kitchen.
“It is perfect. I never thought—I didn’t expect,” she babbled. “Why?”
He stared at the newly installed refrigerator, avoiding her eyes. “You might have mentioned earlier that pink wasn’t actually your favorite color, you know. I had to redo the damn thing, but I’m glad I did. You said you wanted the pink because you wanted to be reminded that your life was yours, to remember that he couldn’t tell you what to do anymore. I didn’t want to build you the anti-Brayden kitchen. I wanted to build you the Claire kitchen. It makes no sense, now that I’m sayin
g it out loud.”
Her heart squeezed again, harder this time. “No, it does.”
He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. “I want you to be happy. I guess . . . that matters to me.”
“Ah. Always leave the client satisfied,” she said lightly.
He didn’t move his head, but his eyes darted back to hers. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Scott.” Claire swallowed and forged ahead, heart in her throat.
This was hard. And a little awful. But Claire pressed ahead anyway. She’d been in love once and lost it. And it had sucked. She was in love again, and she knew that loving and not even trying would be so much worse.
“Scott.” Her voice broke. “I think I—”
“I’m going to Shanghai,” he interrupted shortly.
Claire’s breath whooshed out. “Shanghai? China? Why?” Then it clicked into place. “Your next job.”
He took a step forward, his motions a little jerky, his eyes pleading. “It’s a big one. A new hotel. The plans have it being the tallest in the world when it’s done. It’s got an indoor waterfall, rooftop infinity pool—it’s a demanding as hell challenge.”
“Well, of course you have to do it,” Claire said, her voice a little shaky with shock.
He exhaled. “Yeah?”
“Of course,” she said with a smile that she knew wobbled. “You have to know—I’d never expect you not to chase your dreams. I know you’d never tell me not to chase mine.”
“Never,” he agreed.
What if you’re my dream?
Even as Claire’s thoughts spiraled, she still clung to hope. He was leaving, yes, but not forever. He still lived here; people did long distance all the time.
“So, how long?” she asked.
“A year. Maybe a little longer.”
Claire’s heart dropped to her feet. “A year? That’s— Do you come back at all? Like . . . weekends?” she finished, hating how lame and pathetic this was making her feel.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “It doesn’t really work that way. I can get a weekend off here and there . . .”
Her heart couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t handle the not knowing.
“Scott. Just tell me,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “If you tell me to wait, I will. But you have to tell me. You have to ask. That’s all you have to do. We can figure everything else out. Later.”
Scott made a harsh exhaling noise, as though she’d knocked the wind out of him.
“Just ask,” she whispered; this time it was a plea. I’m not your mom. I’m not Meredith any more than you are Brayden. You can count on me.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, she knew. She knew and felt as though her heart had been cleaved in half.
“Don’t wait,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t wait, Claire.”
She stood still, even as she felt a little dizzy with the pain of it. Somehow though, she held herself upright, kept her eyes dry. Claire had learned she was a survivor.
She’d survive this, too.
“Got it,” she said, her voice light but sure. “Understood.”
“Claire—”
“What about Bob?” she broke in. “Can I at least have her?”
She smiled a little, and Scott blinked, clearly surprised at the abrupt shift in conversation. Probably a little relieved, too. He looked tired, almost boyish, his shoulders hunched forward. “In hindsight, it was selfish to get a dog with my job. I don’t know why I did it with my schedule . . .”
It’s because you wanted somebody to love—and somebody to love you back, you big oaf.
But that wasn’t the type of thing you could teach someone. They had to figure it out on their own, and Scott wasn’t there. At least not with her.
He glanced up, looking like himself once more, a little distant and completely in control. “I can’t ask you to watch my dog.”
“You didn’t,” she argued. “I asked you. I want to. Really. Please.”
Scott searched her face for a long minute, then finally nodded. “Thank you. I’d rather leave Bob with you than anyone else.”
Any other time, Claire might have warmed to the compliment. In light of the fact that she’d just handed over her heart only to have it handed right back, her responding smile felt a little plastic.
“When do you leave? How much time do I have to find Bobsie a proper dog bed? That ugly yellow one you have is all wrong for her fur. Pink would work so much better. Or green.” She expected a smile, but she didn’t get one.
“Tuesday,” he replied.
“Tuesday,” she repeated. “As in five days from today?”
He nodded. “It may not be much of a consolation, but I just found that out this morning. In fact, I just committed this morning. But these things move fast.”
He was right. It wasn’t much of a consolation.
She inhaled. “All right. Keep me in the loop about logistics. I can come pick Bob up Monday night if it’s easier. And don’t worry about Bob forgetting you. Dogs never do, but just in case, we’ll Skype or FaceTime or whatever so she can see you.”
Scott looked stunned. “You want to FaceTime with me?”
Yes, because unlike you I don’t just cut people out of my life the second I’m done with them.
“I want you to FaceTime with Bob,” she corrected.
“With Bob,” he repeated a little robotically. “How often?”
Claire smiled with false brightness. “Whatever. We’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8
Scott peered more closely at the slightly pixelated video of Claire and about half of Bob’s head.
“Is that fried chicken?” he asked incredulously.
“Yup,” Claire said around a bite of drumstick. “Don’t forget it’s eight p.m. here. Dinner.”
“Yeah, I’ve mastered the twelve-hour time difference,” he said. “I guess what I’m a little confused about is why Bob’s eating the fried chicken.”
“Just the occasional piece,” she said, breaking off a piece and giving it to an enraptured Bob. “No bones.”
Scott shook his head with a smile. “Glad I’m not the one who has to take her out tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll have you know that Bob’s morning constitutional lately has been supremely healthy.”
“You know, when you mentioned FaceTime with my dog, this isn’t what I imagined.”
Claire took her time wiping her mouth of chicken grease with a paper napkin, and Scott felt the strangest sense of elation that they were at that level of comfort with each other.
“What did you imagine?” she asked.
Scott realized he didn’t have an answer, because he hadn’t imagined any of it. He hadn’t imagined that Claire would even be willing to speak to him after the way he’d left. Certainly hadn’t imagined that she’d offer to watch his dog.
Least of all that she’d not only want to keep in touch about Bob, but like this.
But the biggest surprise of all was how much Scott enjoyed it. How, in the two weeks since he’d been in Shanghai, had this become the highlight of his day? They didn’t talk every day, mainly because he couldn’t bring himself to ask her for that, much as he longed to. He was the one who’d left; he definitely didn’t get to make demands.
Thus far though, it had worked out to be nearly every day. Unless he had an early meeting or she had evening plans, they had a standing “date” at 8:00 a.m. Shanghai/8:00 p.m. New York time.
If someone had told Scott a few months ago that his day would feel incomplete until he could talk to a woman, he’d have laughed in disbelief. And yet here he was, every morning, impatiently clock-watching through his breakfast of coffee and cereal, counting the minutes until he could see her again.
Them, he corrected. Until he could see them.
The calls always began with Bob and Claire’s faces greeting him on the screen, usually while sharing dinner. Bob, sh
ockingly, lost interest in the whole thing once the food was gone. Scott and Claire both pretended not to notice when their supposed reason for the call inevitably bailed, and it was just Claire and Scott. Talking about everything. Or nothing. It didn’t matter. Scott had always loathed small talk, but there was no such thing with Claire. Even when he ended the call without a clear sense of what the hell they’d talked about for the better part of an hour, he never felt restless. Never bored.
What he felt was lonely.
The very same feelings that had once been his impetus to live the way he did, to leap at the most exotic locations, the longest projects, now seemed bigger than ever because he’d accepted this job.
“How’s the hand?” he asked.
Claire lifted her right hand, curled comically into a claw shape. “Basically useless after six straight hours of writing, which Bob loves. She hasn’t lost a single tug-of-war game since I started the invitations.”
“How’re they coming?” he asked as he refilled his coffee.
“Great. Did I tell you that my client’s daughter loved the sample I sent over at the end of last week? The bride already asked me to do the invitations for her best friend’s baby shower next month. Naomi thinks I should charge more, since they didn’t balk at the last price, but I think I’ll keep my prices consistent until I feel more confident in the whole process.”
“That’s great,” he said, fighting a surge of frustration that he wasn’t the first to hear about these wins for her fledgling business. Why would he be? He’d forgone that right when he’d walked away.
“Oh, crap,” Claire muttered, glancing away from the screen. “Is that the time? Hey, sorry, I have to cut this short tonight. Though I guess Bob already did that, huh?”
Scott loved his dog, but he did not care for one second where Bob was at the moment. It was the woman he was here for.
“Where are you headed?” he asked, sipping his coffee with feigned casualness.
“It’s Clarke’s birthday. He’s rented out a whole cocktail bar for something like two hundred people.”
Love on Lexington Avenue Page 21
