Love on Lexington Avenue(24)

“Not half your age,” he amended. “And that was seduction?”

“Hey,” she snapped, though there was a good-natured joking to it. “I was married for years and have been widowed for one. Give me a break.”

“It’ll come back to you,” he said. “Plus, bonus, it’s easier for women.”

“How’s that?”

He took a sip of wine. “Breasts.”

Claire snorted. “That may be true of twenty-year-old boobs. Thirty-five-year-old boobs, not so much.”

I can assure you, your thirty-five-year-old boobs are fine.

More than fine. Claire’s body was neither skinny nor particularly generous, just appealingly feminine.

“Trust me, it’s just a matter of putting yourself out there,” Scott said, clearing his throat. “You know, just maybe not with one of my guys. Especially not the married ones.”

She flinched. “I’m horrified. Knowing how much it hurt to find out my husband had been with other women, I can’t believe I even tried to make a move on a married guy.”

Shit. He felt even worse now for not telling her. It hadn’t just been embarrassment for Claire, it had been a reminder of what she’d been through.

He should have brought two bottles of wine.

“So how do you do it?” she asked, washing her hands. Scott noted the way the flimsy faucet sprayed every which way. He made a mental note that the whole sink had to go; the thing was ancient and awful.

“Do what?”

“You’re all about the casual sex, right? How do you find your partners?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t call them partners,” he said with a slight smile.

“Okay, this is good. Tell me more.”

“Isn’t this a conversation to have with your friends?” he asked skeptically, taking another sip of wine. “Not a contractor you’ve known for three days?”

“Maybe. But it’s like I said earlier, your stance is . . . refreshing. I can’t imagine having this conversation with some of my girlfriends.”

“What about Naomi, and who was your husband’s other side piece? Aubrey?”

“Audrey. And I love those women to death, but I’m not entirely sure how supportive they’d be of my most recent . . . endeavor.”

“What endeavor is that, exactly? I confess I don’t speak fluent woman and only have half a clue what you were yelling at me about earlier.”

“I wasn’t yelling. But to answer your question, I guess I’m after . . . casual sex. Or at least the possibility of casual sex?”

“With a married wannabe model?”

“I didn’t know he was married, because someone forgot to mention it.”

He grinned. “I didn’t forget.”

“I knew it,” she grumbled. “You did do it on purpose.”

“I did,” he admitted. “And I’m not proud of it.” He took a deep breath and released it. “And I’m sorry. For the thing with Dean, and for the things I said about Brayden earlier. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with your husband’s stuff. Or when.”

She was silent for a long moment before looking up and meeting his eyes. “Thank you. And, forgiven.”

He tilted his head, surprised. “Just like that?” In his experience, women liked to hold on to their mad for at least an hour.

She sipped her wine. “Well, I mean, don’t do it again. But if I survived my husband cheating on me many times, I can certainly ignore your acting like a boar.”

“Well, thanks,” he said, still feeling ill at ease. “Believe it or not, I don’t get off on watching women feel embarrassed.”

“What do you get off on?”

Scott choked on his wine. “Jesus.”

“Oh, calm down,” she said practically. “I’m not acting as an interested party. But Oliver said something today—”

“You saw Oliver?”

Jesus. Surely he wasn’t jealous. Of his best friend. He knew Oliver was with Naomi, that he and Claire were just friends, and yet . . . he also knew that Oliver and Claire were the same. They both had the same polished manners, the same genteel way of speaking. They were alike in a way he would never be like Claire.

“Yeah, I ran into him at Starbucks. I always forget what a small town Manhattan can be. Anyway, he got me thinking that just because I never want to get married again doesn’t mean I have to be a nun.”

“And you’re telling me, because—”

“Well. Rumor has it you’re sort of a no-strings-attached guy. I’m wondering how that works.”

She took a sip of her wine, and then pulled a spoon out of the drawer and took a taste of the chili. Her head waggled from side to side as though she were contemplating something, and then she pulled out another spoon, held it out. “Here. Taste. Does this need more salt?”

He didn’t want to talk about salt. He wanted to know more about this no-strings-attached sex thing, and how he fit into it. But he also sensed it wasn’t something he could rush her on, so Scott went to her side, taking the spoon and tasting the chili. “A bit, yeah.”

He watched as she sprinkled some salt into the pot, a little surprised by how non-weird it was to be standing in the kitchen of a woman he’d just met, talking about sex and seasoning and the philosophy of the color white.