Love on Lexington Avenue(33)

Crap, now she felt awkward around Scott, especially when he was watching her with a slightly knowing grin. “You’re giving Brah another shot even after the waterworks kiss?”

“No. Not him.” She pointed at the fridge. “Can I clean that out when I get back?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“Perfect.” Claire went to the sink to rinse her mug, started to put it in the dishwasher, then paused. “You’re getting rid of this, huh?”

“I’m getting rid of that piece-of-shit that insults dishwashers everywhere, yes, and that’s the last question I’ll answer about the kitchen renovation. Remember, you signed over complete control to me.”

“Seriously?” she asked, adding soap to her mug and washing it by hand. “It’s my kitchen. I at least need to be prepared. And for the record, I signed it over to you for wingman assistance, and I ended up with a slobbering dude who kissed like a dog.”

He pointed at Bob. “Apologize.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” she said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “No offense.”

“Not my fault you picked the wrong guy,” Scott said. “I just told you how to reel ’em in; I didn’t tell you to reel that one in.”

“Fair enough. Better luck this time, right?”

She started for the stairs, intending to finish getting ready for the day when Scott’s fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist, halting her movement.

“Who’s the guy? For your coffee thing?”

Her mouth went a little dry, and it took her a full ten seconds to remember what he was talking about—where she was heading.

“I was at Citarella yesterday, waiting in line for their roast chicken, which by the way is amazing—”

He rolled his finger for her to get to the good stuff.

“Right. Anyway, there was this guy behind me in line. It was crazy crowded so we were waiting forever and got to talking. He’s a widower, and we kind of hit it off. He asked me to coffee.”

“You’re into this guy? Coffee in the middle of the day is first-date stuff, not booty-call stuff.”

“Wait, what? You mean he didn’t invite me to coffee to hump in the Starbucks bathroom?!”

He laughed. “Jesus.”

Claire patted his arm. “Don’t worry, wingman. This guy lost his wife fairly recently. I’m pretty sure he just wants someone to talk to, not the future Mrs. McDonald.”

Claire had known the second the silver fox behind her in line had started chatting her up that he was flirting, but there’d been a sweet awkwardness to it that belied his forty-something age. She’d have bet that maybe he was doing just as Oliver had encouraged her to do. Practice.

And since she was still in need of a little practice with flirting herself, she’d agreed to meet him. Plus, who knew, maybe Carter McDonald was looking for the same thing as her—no strings. It didn’t hurt that he’d been exactly her type. Clean-cut and polished. His polo shirt had been Burberry, his watch Rolex. Not that it was about labels. She wasn’t that much of a snob. But she was allowed to have her fantasies, and she was fully okay admitting that hers was a Christian Grey–millionaire vibe, minus the whole spanking thing.

Scott shrugged and dropped her wrist. Claire’s arm fell back to her side, and she was acutely aware of the coolness on her skin where his fingers had been. “But if I do hump him in the Starbucks bathroom,” she said, “I’ll be sure and tell you all about it.”

“Please don’t.” There was a smile in his voice.

She headed toward the door, pausing in the entryway, resting her hand on the doorjamb as she turned back. “Oh, I didn’t ask. Which one did you go home with?”

“What?” He was helping himself to more coffee.

“The girls at the bar on Saturday. Did you go home with the blonde or brunette? Both were super pretty.”

Scott took his time putting the coffee carafe back in its place before picking up his mug once more.

His eyes flicked up to hers. “Neither. Went home alone.”

“Oh. Well. I guess we both struck out then. Better luck next time.”

He gave a noncommittal nod, and Claire headed upstairs. She frowned halfway up, her hand on the railing, as she tried to figure out why she felt so relieved that Scott’s Saturday night had worked out as it had.

And why, suddenly, she didn’t feel as excited about her upcoming “date.”

Scott’s head was under her kitchen sink when Claire got home a few hours later. Her ancient garbage disposal had been a real pain in the ass, but with a final twist of the wrench, he finally got the damn thing free, grunting in satisfaction just as he felt a slight tap at the bottom of his foot.

Placing both hands on the edge of the cupboard, he levered himself out, found Claire staring at her kitchen in bemused dismay. “How long was I gone?”

“Told you I was fast,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “My guys do good work.”

“But where’d the wall go?”

“It was shitty drywall. Came off in big flimsy pieces, the guys took it with ’em when they left.”

“It looks so different,” she said, walking gingerly around the dusty, newly opened-up floor plan.

“Well, take it all in now. It’s the last view you’ll get until it’s done.”