Love on Lexington Avenue(34)

“How do you figure? I live here.”

“Starting tomorrow, the kitchen’s off-limits until I’m finished. I don’t want you getting all freaked out, trying to race in here with your raspberry ice paint samples.”

“Aha! So you’ve looked at my paint samples.”

“Absolutely. I gave a real long look as I was tossing them in the trash. And I’m not lying. The kitchen’s off-limits while I work.”

“All right,” she said, surprising him with her easy agreement. Then again, he didn’t know why he was surprised. That seemed to be her MO. She was both unbearably complicated and bafflingly easygoing.

He thought about standing, but he wasn’t quite done with his work under the sink, so instead he hauled his knees up and rested his elbows on them as he looked up at her. “So. Did we end our dry streak with a little afternoon delight?”

“None of your business.” She dragged a fingertip along the counter, then wrinkled her nose when it came away covered in drywall dust.

He tossed the towel up to her, and she gingerly wiped her finger.

“Thought you were going to tell me all about it,” he said, not entirely sure why he was pressing on something he didn’t really want to know.

She sighed. “Okay. Fine. It was weird.”

Scott looked up at her, sensing she needed to talk and finding it both strange and pleasant that he seemed to have found himself in the role of confidant for the first time in his life.

“He was perfect,” she said, and Scott’s fist clenched. He changed his mind. Nothing pleasant about being the confidant.

Claire continued. “We went to coffee and just . . . talked. There was plenty of chemistry, or at least enough. Then he asked if I wanted to go for a walk in the park, and who doesn’t, right?”

Scott mimed sleeping, and Claire gently kicked his shin. “Anyway, we got to this secluded part of the park, no one was around, and he kissed me—”

I definitely do not want to hear this.

“And I was so sure it was going to be perfect. I mean, the guy looks a little like Jon Hamm. But . . .”

“Another slobberer?” he asked, sympathetic, and not in the least displeased.

“Worse,” she grumbled. “He moaned.”

Scott winced. “From kissing?”

“Yes, and it’s not like we’d gotten really into it. It was like, first contact—” She made a comically disturbing groaning noise.

“This is what you get for going solo,” he said, starting to go back under the sink. “I’d have told you not to take the date.”

“Hindsight. How helpful.” She crouched down so that they were at eye level. “How can you tell? How do you know when you meet a girl that she’s not going to lick your face or moan?”

“Well.” Scott carefully unscrewed the base of the garbage disposal. “In all honesty, a woman moaning can be kind of hot.”

She pinched his calf with irritation. “You know what I mean. How do you find someone to hook up with that doesn’t turn you off? Am I being too picky?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “I mean, if your goal is to get laid, you can’t nitpick.”

“My goal is to get laid and like it.”

Scott nearly bit the inside of his cheek to keep from volunteering. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he found her patiently watching him. Trusting.

He sighed. “Give it a little time. It’s been two days.”

She huffed and stood, clearly not liking his response.

“Where are you going?” He called after her.

“You’re useless. It’s time to bring in my wingwomen.”





Chapter Eleven


SATURDAY, AUGUST 24

There’s a reason I RSVPed no to this,” Claire said, taking a sip of her champagne and trying to ignore the feeling that everyone was looking at her.

“Fate was the reason you RSVPed no,” Audrey agreed happily, linking arms with her. “You RSVPed no so that you could end up being my plus-one.”

“I thought Clarke was supposed to be your plus-one,” Claire said, referring to Audrey’s longtime best friend.

“Yeah, but he had his own invite to this shindig, and his flavor of the week wanted to be his plus-one.”

Claire smiled at the idea that one of the city’s most exclusive black-tie events was being described as a shindig, though it didn’t surprise her in the least that Audrey and Clarke West had warranted their own respective invites. They were both Manhattan elite in the truest sense of the word, more so even than Oliver’s family. The Cunninghams were old money, but in a stately Park Avenue–address sort of way.

The Tates and Wests were on a whole other level entirely. Audrey’s father was one of those people who seemed to be a majority stakeholder in every business Claire had ever heard of, and Clarke’s family legacy had started with early funding of railroads and was now in honest-to-goodness space exploration.

It was no wonder Clarke and Audrey were as close as they were. Claire knew it was no hardship to have that sort of family money, but she also knew that it came with a massive set of pressures and stereotypes. She saw it on her friend’s pretty face sometimes, the sheer exhaustion of being Audrey Tate. She suspected Clarke understood Audrey in a way that she and Naomi never could.