Love on Lexington Avenue(23)

She gave him a quelling look as she pulled a corkscrew out of the drawer and reached for the wine bottle.

“There’s white, and then there’s white,” Scott told her.

“Clears it right up. Thank you.”

He ran a finger around the edge of the marble, trying to figure out how to explain. Wondering why he even wanted to. Typically, he told his clients what they wanted, and they nodded and agreed, or they found another contractor. This project was different. She was different. Though how, he was still figuring out.

“When you talk about blah white, you’re talking about using white as the absence of color. A drab blank canvas with no personality, no vision. It’s how most people use white in a home. They tell themselves they’re selecting neutral, but really they just lack the guts to commit to one thing, so they choose something that will go with everything.”

He glanced up and found her listening with rapt attention.

“Other whites,” he said, continuing to rotate the piece of marble with his finger, “like this one, are deliberate whites. See the strands of silver? The glimmer? The vibrant richness of the white? You didn’t choose this because it goes with everything. You chose it because it is the thing. That’s the difference.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, and Scott was fully braced for her to make a polite excuse to get him out the door. Scott didn’t try to express himself often; he knew he wasn’t good at it . . .

Claire held up the wine bottle. “If I open this, will you have a glass, or does that threaten your manhood?”

He exhaled slightly in relief, strangely pleased that she wanted him to stay.

She misunderstood his lack of response and shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t have any beer in the fridge, but I’ve got some red wine and a couple of other liquor bottles up there.” She pointed to the cupboard above the fridge. “Brayden liked whisky, you’re welcome to help yourself. Unless that stuff expires.”

He reached out, took the bottle from her. “I think I’ll take my chances with the pink wine over a dead man’s booze.”

“You can stay for dinner. If you want. It’s just chili, but it’s pretty good if you’re okay with spice.”

He felt another of those unfamiliar surges of pleasure at the invitation, though he kept his tone indifferent. “Okay. Might as well, since I’m not sure I could drag Bob away just yet.”

“Me and Bobsie have bonded, haven’t we, sweetheart?” She crouched down to pet the dog with both hands, and he searched for wineglasses.

“If I get a dog.” she said, rubbing Bob’s ears, “I’m getting a big dog just like this one.”

“Says the woman who thought she was a dinosaur. And you say that now, but you haven’t had to pick up her poops yet.” He poured two glasses of wine, a generous one for her, smaller for him. He had to drive and wasn’t at all sure he’d even like the pale pink liquid.

Claire winced at the poop mention as she stood and accepted the glass he held up. “I’d forgotten that part of owning a dog in Manhattan.”

She started to take a drink, then lowered her glass and looked at him. “I just realized I don’t know where you live. Manhattan?”

He nodded. “And Brooklyn.”

“And?”

“I’ve got a place over on Sixtieth and Eleventh Avenue, but I kept my place in Bushwick. I keep meaning to rent one out, but I can never decide which.”

That was only part of the truth. The whole truth was that not having options made him itchy. Picking a place seemed like the first step to settling down, and that’s not something he wanted. Hadn’t wanted in a long time.

“Huh. I’d never have pegged you for a Manhattan guy.”

“Yeah, well. My neighborhood and your neighborhood are not the same Manhattan.”

“True,” she said, sipping the wine. “Which does Bob like better?”

Scott shrugged. “I’ve got a little yard in Brooklyn, so probably that one. But Manhattan means a shorter commute from your place, so at the moment, I think she likes that one.”

“She’ll be coming with you every day now,” Claire said matter-of-factly.

“I guess.” He sipped the wine tentatively.

“Well?”

He looked at the glass. “I don’t know that I’d buy it for myself, but it’s not as bad as I was expecting.”

“Most people expect rosé to be sickly sweet, but it doesn’t have to be. This one reminds me of strawberries and lemon.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Strawberry lemonade.”

“Right! I didn’t think of that.” Her spontaneous laugh thawed something deep inside him, but he immediately put that shit on lockdown and scowled.

It was a wasted frown. She was looking at the stove. “Hmm, now that I think about it, the wine doesn’t at all go with the chili. But I suppose after the day I’ve had, I’ll take any alcohol in lieu of a proper pairing.”

“What was wrong with your day?” He winced as soon as he asked it, belatedly remembering the reason he was here in the first place, with his pink wine peace offering.

She scoffed and picked up the wooden spoon, giving the sauce a stir. “Did you not see me awkwardly try to seduce a married man half my age?”