Love on Lexington Avenue(26)

“This isn’t dinner and a show, Claire. It’s a different scene entirely. So, what do you say? Trust me with your kitchen?”

She sighed and put her hand in his. “All right, wingman. Let’s do this.”





Chapter Eight


SATURDAY, AUGUST 10

Claire was just finishing putting on her mascara the next evening when she jumped in surprise at the sound of Scott’s voice calling up the stairs.

“Claire? I let myself in. Down here whenever you’re ready.”

She shook her head in bemusement as she wiped the accidental swipe of mascara off her brow bone. It was hard to remember that a week ago she hadn’t even known Scott Turner. Now he had a key to her house, creative control over her kitchen renovation, and she was about to spend Saturday night with the guy.

It should feel like the twilight zone, and instead it felt . . . She gazed distractedly down at the mascara wand for a moment in puzzlement. Instead, it felt exactly right.

Why was that?

The man was basically a stranger, and yet he didn’t feel like a stranger. Perhaps because Scott Turner had zero artifice about him. He was blunt, a little callous, and could be downright rude. It was refreshing as heck. After being married to a two-timing, no three-timing—probably more—snake, Scott’s candor was refreshing and . . . safe, somehow.

Scott was exactly as he seemed to be. No false advertising. No ghosts. No hidden facets. She liked that. She was even starting to like him, when he wasn’t ticking her off.

Done with her makeup, she slipped on her favorite black stilettos, the ones that managed to be comfortable and make her legs look amazing, if she did say so herself, and walked down the stairs. Following the sound of her TV, she walked into the kitchen and found Scott watching a baseball game.

“Well?” she said, just a tiny bit smugly when he didn’t turn. She was oddly eager to see his face when he realized she knew her way around a contour kit and had a rather impressive push-up bra in her arsenal.

He glanced over, then did a double take. And not the good kind. “What is that?”

Claire felt her face fall. “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to a funeral?”

She immediately retracted all her thoughts about his candor being refreshing and gave him a withering look. “Is that really the thing you want to say to a widow?”

Though now that she thought about it, was this the dress she’d worn to Brayden’s funeral? Still, she stood by her choice. “It’s a little black dress,” she argued. “It’s classic and works for every occasion. Everyone knows that.”

“Not this occasion. What else you got?”

“You mean, do I have a gold lamé hooker dress in my closet?”

“Do I look like the type of man who would know what gold lamé is?”

No. No, he did not. He looked exactly the same as he did every day. There was no sign of flannel, but he wasn’t exactly dressed up for a night on the town, either. He wore dark jeans, a gray T-shirt, scuffed boots, and a leather jacket. There weren’t a whole lot of leather jackets spotted in this neighborhood, and she was surprised to realize she didn’t hate it.

He apparently had decided the occasion hadn’t merited a shave, as his usual scruff was approaching full-on beard status.

Scott gave her an amused look. “Are you done staring? Do I pass muster?”

“If you think I have a matching leather jacket upstairs, you’re going to be disappointed. This is my best option. Trust me.”

He sighed and turned off the TV as he stood. “Come on.”

Claire curiously followed him back up the stairs. Since he knew her house as well as she did these days, he went straight to her bedroom, directly to the closet.

“I don’t suppose you’ve figured out a way to make the closet bigger?” she asked hopefully, as he opened the doors.

“Not unless you want to get rid of the tub and shrink your bathroom,” he said, crossing his arms and surveying her wardrobe. “I’m good, but even I can’t pull space out of my ass. Is this everything you own?”

“I keep my formal dresses in the guest bedroom, but otherwise, this is it.”

He glanced over at her, a very unflattering frown plastered on his face as he gave her a once-over. “The shoes are fine. I guess.”

“The shoes are Manolo Blahniks,” she protested. “They’re more than fine.”

“You got anything . . . you know . . . strappier?” He looked over the shoe rack as he said it, then pulled a high-heeled nude sandal with an ankle strap from the shelf and shoved the pair at her. “Here. These are better.”

“These don’t go with the dress.”

“That’s good, because you’re not wearing the dress.” He riffled through the hangers until he found two pairs of jeans. He held both out to her. “Which of these is tighter?”

She pointed to the darker pair, a cropped pair of PAIGEs she wasn’t sure she’d ever worn. She didn’t even know if they still fit. “Probably those, but—”

He draped the denim over her shoulder, then moved on to her shirts, pushing through them with rough impatience. “Do you have any tops that don’t belong at a PTA meeting?”

“Sorry, we can’t all look like we’re grunge-cool, straight out of the nineties, with a dash of farmer.”