Naomi swallowed. “My mom was sort of a housekeeper/cook/ nanny for a family on Park Ave for a while. We lived with them.”
Caleb nodded, jotting something down in his notebook. “Good, this is good stuff. Cinderella stuff. You said you were there for about a year?”
“Yup.”
“Why’d you guys leave to head back to the Bronx?”
You and your daughter are trash, and you will always be trash. Get out of my home before I call the authorities.
It was funny that what Naomi remembered most about that awful day was the way Margaret Cunningham never used contractions, chose words like authorities instead of cops, police, or any of the other less flattering terms Naomi was used to hearing, even by age nine.
“The gig had to end sometime, right?” Naomi said, keeping her voice light.
“Sure, I guess,” Caleb said, sounding a little deflated. Again, he flipped back through his pages, frowning. “You said she was a housekeeper?”
“Yep.”
“You haven’t mentioned that before. You said she was a cocktail waitress. A bartender. Manicure gal . . .”
“Oh, they’re called nail artists now,” Deena chimed in.
Caleb gave her a fleeting smile, then turned back to Naomi, clicking the end of his ballpoint pen. “She have any other housekeeping gigs?”
“No.”
The Cunninghams had made sure of that. Naomi didn’t remember much about those days after the incident other than the god-awful mildewy smell of the homeless shelters in February, but she remembered watching her mother’s face grow angrier and angrier as she was systematically rejected from every housekeeper job she’d applied to, live-in or otherwise.
“All right,” Caleb said, tossing his pen down and putting his head between his hands, expression thoughtful. “That’s fine. This is still good stuff. If the first six episodes are about Naomi’s childhood, I’m thinking this year in Park Avenue can be an entire episode, at least—”
“No,” Naomi interjected.
Caleb frowned. “No?”
“That year is off-limits. You can refer to it, or whatever, but I don’t want to show it.”
“But it’s a huge part of your childhood—”
“I said no,” Naomi gritted out.
Oliver, is that true? Did you and Naomi see your father with that woman? Angry blue eyes had drilled into Naomi’s that day as the lie spilled out of his mouth. I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“Off-limits,” she repeated, her voice a little ragged as the memory of Oliver’s betrayal ripped through her.
There was a long silence in the room, and some other guy whose name she’d already forgotten spoke up. “Respectfully, Ms. Powell, our aim here is to show the full story—”
“Dude.” This time it was Dylan who interrupted. “She said it’s off-limits. Drop it.”
Naomi’s head jerked up in surprise, and she met the producer’s gaze across the table. He gave her a smile and a brief nod, and Naomi made up her mind then and there.
Dylan Day deserved a chance.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27
Damn it. It was official. She was broken.
Pre-Brayden, Naomi had loved dating. Specifically, she’d loved getting ready for the date. The primping, the anticipation. The wondering.
But twenty minutes before she was supposed to meet Dylan for their first official date, she couldn’t find even a flicker of excitement. She’d thought looking the part would make her feel the part, but nope. Despite wearing Alexander McQueen leather pants that did excellent things for her lower half, an asymmetrical Trina Turk top paired with gold bangles and tiny gold earrings—she felt . . . flat.
Where was the sparkle? The wondering of what if. What if he kissed her? What if she kissed him? What if she owned up to being an independent twenty-first-century woman and slept with him on the first date simply because she wanted to?
She already knew she didn’t want to though.
Because when she’d pulled out her best black-bra-and-pantie set, she hadn’t been thinking about Dylan. When she’d carefully lined her eyes with a bit of black liner and gray shadow that she knew made her blue eyes pop, she hadn’t been thinking about Dylan. And now, as she stood in front of her shoe rack, debating between red patent Manolo Blahniks and strappy black Jimmy Choos, she wasn’t thinking about Dylan.
“Damn you,” she muttered at a man who wasn’t even present. A man who, despite her friends’ assurances, Naomi wasn’t even sure was interested.
She hadn’t seen Oliver all day, which shouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that she’d gotten sort of used to him. She’d gotten accustomed to listening for the sound of his key in the door. Gotten accustomed to their bickering over whether or not ordering pizza counted as proper fulfillment of his end of the bargain to feed her. Gotten accustomed to sitting with a glass of wine, watching him cook when she inevitably won the argument that pizza did not count.
And she’d deny to her dying day that she pushed for the home-cooked meal over takeout because it tended to extend their time together.
But today was Saturday, which meant she was off Walter duty, and since her role as his caretaker was apparently the only use he had for her . . .
“Enough,” Naomi snapped, disgusted with herself. She grabbed the red stilettos. Good enough.
No, better than that. Perfect. They were exactly the shoes that the good girls Oliver Cunningham liked to date wouldn’t wear.
Next, she dug through her makeup bag for a matching shade of lipstick, one eye on the clock as she did so. Plenty of time.
She and Dylan were meeting at the cocktail bar. Her idea. Naomi had never bought into that whole gentlemanly, escort-the-little-lady-to-and-from-the-date practice. If the date was a dud, the transportation time to and from her apartment to the date location only extended the agony. And if the date was a good one—really good—they’d eventually end up at his place. Never hers—that was just asking for a clinger.
Plus, look what had happened last time Dylan had walked her home. She’d run into Oliver and his date, and had been haunted for days.
Her phone buzzed, and Naomi rolled her eyes at the incoming text.
Audrey
Pic. Now.
Naomi
That feels a little bit like ‘what are you wearing,’ creeper.
Audrey
It’s EXACTLY that. I NEED to know your outfit.
Naomi obliged, going to the full-length mirror in the bedroom and snapping a photo she sent off to Audrey.
A moment later, her phone buzzed again.
Audrey
Had to include C on this. Couldn’t be alone in my jealousy that you can pull off those pants.
Naomi
Does it help to know I can barely breathe, and definitely can’t bend down?
Claire
It does a little. Very little.
Audrey
Still hate you. What are we talking, Pilates fanatic?
Naomi
Running nut.
Audrey
Hate you more.
Claire
A runner? Friendship officially canceled.
Naomi
Nope. Neither of you get to cancel until we ALL go through this.
Naomi bit her lip and hesitated only a moment before sending the question she really wanted to ask.
Naomi
Did I make a mistake picking Dylan?
Their replies were immediate.
Audrey
Yup.
Claire
Definitely.
She rolled her eyes, sorry she’d asked.
Naomi
Heading out. Wish me luck.
Claire
Did you have to wear Spanx to pull up those pants?
Audrey
Did you tell Oliver?
Naomi shook her head as she dropped her cell into her purse without replying.
There was no room for anything other than her tiniest
thong beneath these pants, and as for telling Oliver she was going on a date? No. Just no.
With one last look at the mirror, Naomi swiped a finger across her front teeth to remove any stray lipstick smudges and stepped into the hallway.
She was just pulling her door shut when the door next to hers opened.
Oliver’s door.
No! she pleaded silently. No, no, no . . .
“Hey, neighbor.”
Damn it.
She turned toward Oliver as he stepped into the hallway, trash bag in hand.
“You wear glasses?” she blurted out.
He crossed both arms and leaned against the door as he pulled it shut, managing to look incredibly sexy even with a trash bag dangling from his right hand.
“If we’re going to be discussing appearances, Ms. Powell, yours is the one worth mentioning.”
His appraisal was slow, deliberately so, and she felt it, from the black bra he couldn’t see all the way down to the four-inch red heels that he could.
“But to answer your question,” he said when she felt too tongue-tied to reply, “yes, I wear glasses.”
“Since when?”
He gave a crooked smile. “You’ve known me for all of a month. Surely I’m allowed to have a few secrets.”
Oliver hadn’t worn glasses as a kid. She knew because she had, and he’d called her four eyes, when she wasn’t Carrots. And she’d be lying if she said that that long-ago name-calling hadn’t had a little something to do with her decision to get LASIK three years ago.
Belatedly she realized that the glasses weren’t the most important question. “Where’s Walter?”
Oliver jerked his chin in an upward direction. “His place. We had a rough day, so I asked Serena to come by and stay with him for the night. He and I both needed a break.”
Naomi nodded because she understood. Overall she hadn’t minded watching Walter, but when he was frustrating, he was really frustrating. She imagined it would be even harder for a family member to deal with the volatile ups and downs.
“Ah, gotcha,” she said, tucking her YSL clutch further into her armpit and juggling her keys lightly in her hand. “Well, have a good night.”
“Naomi,” he said as she turned away.
She sighed and turned back. “Yeah?”
Oliver pushed away from the door, slowly ambling toward her, his eyes piercing behind the lenses of his rimless glasses. No suit today, but he may as well have been wearing one. His slacks were perfectly tailored, with an immaculate seam running down the front as though they’d come straight from the tailor or dry cleaner, his white button-down starched to perfection . . .
She swallowed, only her mouth seemed to have gone dry, causing the motion to be almost painfully audible in the otherwise silent hallway.
He stopped a few paces from her. His expression never changed from easygoing, but his eyes blazed down at her. “Where are you off to?”
“Out.”
His gaze dropped to her red mouth, then back to her eyes. “Girls’ night?”
“None of your business,” she said tartly.
His jaw tensed. “So it’s a date.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but if it was a girls’ night, you would have said that.”
“Fine,” Naomi said, giving in. “I’m going on a date. Okay?”
The way his eyes narrowed slightly said not okay. But then he lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Cool. Have fun.”
Naomi had started to open her mouth to tell him that she could date whomever she wanted, when she wanted, but then his actual words sank in and her mouth snapped shut.
“Oh. Thanks.”
He grinned. “Sure.”
And then he walked past her, whistling on his way to the garbage chute. Whistling!
So much for her worrying about telling him—or thinking that he’d care.
Naomi took a deep breath to gather her thoughts before she pivoted on her heel and headed toward the stairs.
Oliver was just coming out of the trash room as she reached the stairwell, and he gave her a perfunctory, neighborly smile as they passed. She returned the smile with gritted teeth, not entirely sure why she was mad at him, but her temper simmered all the same as she reached for the door to the stairs.
“Oh, hey, Naomi,” he said, snapping his fingers as though just remembering something.
She turned, startled because he was right there. “What’s up?”
“Just this,” he said.
Then his hand slid beneath her hair, cupping the back of her neck, as his mouth came down on hers.
Her eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected kiss, then fluttered closed because it was also a really good kiss. Firm, yet teasing, full of possession and promise and . . .
Then it was over. Way too fast.
Dazed, it took Naomi a full fifteen seconds to open her eyes after he pulled away, another ten to remember her own name. “What—what was that?”
Instead of answering, he reached out and gently brushed the pad of his thumb beneath her lower lip. “Your lipstick’s smeared.”
“Whose fault is that?” she muttered, her voice a little shaky.
His hand dropped from her face and he shoved both hands into his pockets, rocking backward on his heels. “Sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
She searched frantically for some witty retort, but instead she found her gaze locked on his mouth. Wanting a repeat. A long repeat.
Finally she lifted her gaze back to his. “Want to explain what just happened?”
“Nah.” He continued to rock on his heels looking boyish and painfully appealing.
“But—”
“Naomi.” He stopped rocking and gave her a look that heated her to her very core. “Figure it out.”
With that, he turned and walked back to his apartment, resuming his whistling and looking as though he had no idea that he’d managed to turn Naomi Powell’s world upside down with one simple, unforgettable kiss.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 29
Oliver picked up his glasses and pencil for the tenth time in an hour, only to toss them back onto his standing desk. Also for the tenth time in an hour.
It was no use. It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to land the Gabe Green project, he wouldn’t be able to draw so much as a single straight line until he could get a certain red-haired temptress out of his mind.
Not an easy task, considering he now had the memory of her taste and feel to contend with.
Kissing her on Saturday had been . . . a mistake.
No, not a mistake, because he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
It had been a misstep—what he should have done was kissed her and not stopped.
He should have backed her up against the wall, wrapped her legs around his waist, and told her to forget the date. To forget the other guy. To be his.
Instead he’d let her walk away, hoping like hell that his gamble would pay off, that she’d realize that if she was ready to start dating again after Brayden, that the right guy was right here . . .
Oliver dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he realized his train of thought. Was he the right guy? For anyone? There was a reason his fiancée had bailed on him years earlier.
He barely had time to take a shower in between work and Walter obligations, much less make it to the gym. Much less squeeze in a date. Much less have a girlfriend.
Especially a girlfriend like Naomi, who wasn’t exactly the easy, docile, low-maintenance type. The woman was fire and energy, and at the top of her game. He’d done his homework. Her company, that she’d so modestly dismissed as a “start-up,” was valued at close to a billion.
A billion! And yet the woman had zero trace of snobbery. If anything, her dislike of him seemed to be because of his perceived snobbery. Oliver had never been quite so aware of the stigma of being born with money, which he could understand if it was from someone who had none, but Naomi
Powell was loaded.
From what he could tell, her life had been one long string of interviews and photo shoots and 30-under-30 features. She was frequently photographed at the newest restaurants, seen dancing at the hottest clubs, often with some beefed-up arm candy by her side.
Oliver didn’t fit into that picture. Old Oliver maybe could have swung it. He’d never been one for late nights and clubbing, but he hadn’t been stodgy, either. He liked to go out, have a few drinks, maybe one too many. He liked the satisfaction of wowing a woman with reservations at some swanky place. Hell, he didn’t even mind the occasional black-tie affair necessitating a penguin suit and small talk.
But that wasn’t his life now. It couldn’t be. He was lucky if he got one night off a week, and those were usually spent catching up on work, trying to maintain the few friendships he still had left, or just getting some damned peace and quiet.
Oliver didn’t know if Naomi had even heard of the concept of peace and quiet.
Though, perhaps that wasn’t fair. This past week and a half she had offered to watch his father, and she’d seemed oddly content to relax in his apartment . . .
Until she’d gotten bored, apparently. Until she’d gone on a date.
“I know that face. You’re chewing on a problem.”
Oliver turned toward the open door of his office to see one of his best contractors and longtime friends stroll through the door.
“Hey, man,” Oliver said with a genuine smile as he went to give Scott Turner a one-armed man hug. “Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Seattle. Just got back last Thursday,” Scott said, helping himself to one of the coffee pods Oliver’s assistant kept on an end table before popping it into the machine on the far side of the room.
“Right,” Oliver said, dropping into the chair at the small table he kept in his office. He liked to stand as he worked, so his actual desk was tall and facing the window. The table was reserved for client meetings, or in this case, catching up with friends. “How’d it go? Worth turning down my project?”
“Your project was a swanky hotel. You know that’s not my thing.”
“And weird museums are?”
“Pretty much,” Scott said, picking up his coffee mug and joining Oliver at the table. “Though, joke was on me. The project was cool on paper, but the client was a diva.”
Passion on Park Avenue Page 17
