Love on Lexington Avenue(19)

“You don’t want me to become a cynical old crone.”

She smiled, but he didn’t smile back. “No, Claire. I don’t want you to become lonely.”

Her smile disappeared as the word seemed to hit her squarely in the throat. It was a word—an emotion—she hadn’t really let herself consider since Brayden’s death, and yet she knew, she sensed that it was lurking around every corner. On an emotional level, and yes, to the point Oliver was dancing around, on a physical level. Brayden was dead. She wasn’t. And her body knew it.

“Also, sex is fun,” he said, as though reading her mind, and lightened the mood with a grin.

“Yeah, well.” She took a sip of the Frappuccino. “Trust me, I have zero game.”

“I’m an adult male who loves jigsaw puzzles, and I got a hot billionaire girlfriend.”

“Nerds are in right now,” Claire argued. “And even if they weren’t, you’re ridiculously charming. I don’t even know how to flirt.”

Oliver downed the rest of his coffee and checked his watch before standing. “Well then. Might I suggest a tried-and-true approach for learning a new skill?”

Claire groaned, knowing what he was going to say even before he said the word.

“Practice.”

Having parted ways with Oliver, Claire took a leisurely walk home, less fired up than she was when she’d left the house. Granted, she still felt the urge to scream when she thought of Scott, but the joy of talking with a good friend had taken the edge off her anger. And if she were honest, the male company in particular had been pleasant. Not in a romantic or sexual way—she thought of Oliver like a brother. But there was no denying that spending time with the opposite sex felt . . . different.

Nice.

Which, annoyingly, sort of proved Oliver’s point. If Claire wasn’t careful, she was going to end up lonely. And as for the rather cheeky suggestion of a booty call, Claire was rather intrigued by the idea, even as she felt completely out of her element just considering it.

Walking up the steps to her brownstone, Claire heard the boisterous sound of male voices, even before she opened the door.

“Oh!” she said, taking a startled step back, as a gray-haired man with a ponytail crossed her foyer, single-handedly maneuvering one of her sitting room chairs up the staircase.

A happy bark had her bracing for Bob’s greeting, and she was relieved when the dog went easy on her, sitting patiently by her feet for a pet rather than jumping up on her as she feared.

“Hi, girl,” she said, rubbing the dog’s ear tentatively, enjoying how soft it was. “How’s it going in here?”

She stepped forward as she asked, poking her head into the sitting room. Her first thought was how much bigger it looked when it wasn’t dwarfed by too-large furniture.

Her second thought?

Oh, mama.

Claire had never been the type to ogle a man, but then she’d never seen a man who looked like this one. She had the epitome of man candy in her home.

He wasn’t particularly tall—an inch or two shorter than Scott, who was on the other side of the room doing something with a tool and an end table, and who Claire purposely ignored.

But what the fantasy man lacked in height he made up for in sheer brawn. His biceps were tanned and filled out his Yankees shirt to perfection. His dark hair was cut short, his teeth white and even against his tanned skin. He was also clean-shaven, not a hint of five-o’clock shadow in sight.

Simply put, he was the personification of a boy-toy fantasy. The type of man that would be cast as the “young hot stud” with whom the middle-aged divorcée has a steamy vacation fling.

He must have felt the weight of her stare—or sensed her drool—because he grinned her way with a polite nod. “Ma’am.”

“Hi,” she said, her voice a little breathy, like the shy freshman who’d just earned a wink from the senior homecoming king.

Scott glanced up, eyes narrowed as he studied Claire for a moment. She saw his gaze drop to the pink beverage still in her hand before rolling his eyes.

Turning back to the younger guy, Claire’s hand lifted almost against her will, as she gave a ridiculous little finger waggle of a wave.

Worse and worse.

She was grateful he’d already turned away from her and missed the awkward gesture. Scott, however, was still watching her, a puzzled What the hell am I looking at here? expression on his face.

Ignoring him, Claire ordered herself back to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She eyed a package of mixed greens, debated making a salad for lunch. She shut the refrigerator without taking anything out. She didn’t want salad. She wanted . . . damn it, Oliver. She wanted sex. Or at least the prospect of it.

Maybe she’d just check on the movers, see if they needed anything . . .

The gray-haired guy with the ponytail had returned, only to leave the room once more with the other chair in hand. Scott was nowhere to be seen, but dark and hunky was still in the sitting room, unscrewing a lightbulb.

You can screw my lightbulb.

No, too obvious.

Light my fire?

Too awful.

Still oblivious to her staring, or too kind to embarrass her by noticing, the man bent down and began adding some sort of protective tape to the underside of the glass of her coffee table.

The muscles of his forearms flexed slightly, and—