Love on Lexington Avenue(12)

“Sounds like someone I know,” Claire said with a smile.

Naomi blew her a kiss, knowing full well that she was good at her job and, like Scott, had no qualms saying so.

“Is he hot?” Audrey chimed in.

“No,” Claire said, just as Naomi said, “Yes.”

“Oh, come on,” Naomi protested. “I may be in love with Oliver, but even I can see Scott’s got his own appeal. He wears a bomber jacket when it’s not a million degrees out, and let me tell you, it looks good.”

Claire shrugged. “Well, yesterday he showed up wearing flannel. And it did not look good.”

“Hmm,” Audrey said, tapping a fingernail to her chin. “See, I feel like I could totally work with the flannel. Lumberjack is super in right now.”

“What about an ego so big it barely made it through my front door?” Claire asked. “Is that super in?”

“Always,” her friends said in unison.

“It even has a name,” Audrey said. “Alpha.”

“Well, trendy or not, alpha lumberjack is not my thing. But as long as he goes along with my house plan, he can wear whatever he wants,” Claire said, setting her napkin in her lap as the server brought their food. “And he skips haircuts more often than he should.”

She dove into the fries and closed her eyes for a moment in bliss. No doubt about it. Spontaneity tasted way better than lettuce.

“Okay, what is the house plan?” Audrey said, picking up her fork.

“The house plan is there is no plan,” Claire said gleefully.

“Wait, seriously? You’ve been working on this for months, if not years. You’ve got that enormous pile of samples and crap.”

“All in the garbage,” Claire said. “I’m starting fresh, bringing in whatever idea I feel like at the moment. If that’s a disco ball tomorrow and a built-in stripper pole next week, I’m rolling with it. And your boy Scott will have to roll with it, too,” she told Naomi defiantly.

“I cannot wait to see this go down,” Naomi said, taking a bite of her cheese-laden sandwich. “When does Scott start?”

“He’s there now.”

True to his word, Scott had shown up at Claire’s home at seven that morning. She’d been ready with coffee, figuring it was the least she could do, though she regretted the kind gesture when he’d rolled his eyes upon hearing about her Home Depot errand.

“Actually,” Claire said, reaching down and pulling out some of the swatches from her bag. “You ladies can help me with my first impulse while we eat.”

“Ooh, pretty,” Audrey said, reaching out and running a finger over a lavender-tinted paint swatch. Her gaze scanned the assortment of pinks as Claire set them on the table, then grinned. “Strawberry lemonade! For your home.”

Claire smiled. “Yup. I mean, I don’t want it looking like a gingerbread house or anything, but I don’t want to default to the expected neutrals.”

“Like a Barbie dream house!” Audrey explained, already reaching for the brightest color options.

Claire gave Naomi a wide-eyed Help! look.

“We’ve got this,” Naomi said reassuringly, shoving a subtler set of colors into Audrey’s hand. “I’m thinking we’re going for fresh and feminine, right?”

Claire nodded, grateful her friend understood the vision. Fresh, to shake off the stale feeling a year of mourning had left her with. Feminine, because even with her new impulse project, there was one thing she wasn’t leaving up to whim and spontaneity: She had no intention of sharing her home—or her life—with a man.

Ever again.





Chapter Four


THURSDAY, AUGUST 8

Claire returned home from her time with Naomi and Audrey feeling both a little mellow from the champagne and revived by the companionship.

Claire had always been a girl’s girl. Throughout high school and college, she’d prided herself in her ability to navigate among the cliques and have multiple friend groups. She’d been the “mom” in every group. Levelheaded and thoughtful, Claire was the one who always had ChapStick, a bobby pin, and breath mints. The one who’d handed out water at frat parties and held her friends’ hair when they’d ignored her water and ended up puking their guts out. She was the one who’d dispensed advice that perfectly straddled tough love and gentle.

When she’d married Brayden, she’d been extremely conscious of not letting her girlfriends fall by the wayside. Of course, it had helped that nearly all of her friends had similarly been married or in serious relationships. It had been great. For a while. Claire’s social calendar had alternated between wine and book club nights with the girls while the guys had poker nights and golf trips, and couple-centric dinner parties.

And then Brayden had died, and everything had just . . . changed.

Not at first. At first it had been . . . okay. Or as okay as the death of a cheating spouse could possibly be. When the news broke, Claire had been inundated with support, both the well-meaning and nosy varieties. She’d received more flowers than she had surfaces to put them on and had enough bagels delivered to fuel the carbo-load for all of the New York marathon runners.

Eventually, though, the invitations had stopped. While she still heard from her college best friends with baby updates and the occasional check-ins, Carrie and Melissa didn’t live in New York. Text messages, phone calls, even FaceTime didn’t make up for an in-person shoulder to lean on, and those had become scarce after Brayden’s death.