Love on Lexington Avenue(38)



He pulled back slightly so he could see her face. “What’s going on with you?”

Claire glanced up briefly, then looked away again. “Sorry. I’m in a bad mood, just hate being here. I feel like everyone knows about Brayden.”

“Oh, you think they noticed he’s not here?”

She gave a surprised laugh. “I think they all know about his women.”

“Probably.”

Claire grunted. “Thanks.”

“Who cares what they think. What happened to him is his problem. It doesn’t have anything to do with you unless you let it have something to do with you.”

She was quiet for a moment, realizing it was oddly nice to be able to talk about this with someone other than Audrey and Naomi. “Do you know he told Audrey that he and I were getting divorced? The entire time they were together, she thought we were long separated and I was completely out of the picture.”

“Well, then she fell for the oldest line in the book. That’s not your fault, either.”

“I know. But then I start wondering who else he lied to. What other lies he told. And I go down this path of thinking everyone around me knows more about my life than I do.”

Instead of replying, Scott pulled her infinitesimally closer so her chin brushed against his shoulder as they danced. She closed her eyes just for a moment, relishing the proximity to another human being. To a man, specifically.

“You know, when I was a kid, my mom disappeared,” he said, causing her eyes to pop open in surprise. “People said my dad killed her. The kids at school, mostly, but adults, too.”

Claire’s stomach twisted in dismay. “Scott—”

“He didn’t,” he interrupted. “My dad wasn’t an outstanding individual by any stretch of the imagination. He was lazy, a little selfish. But he wasn’t violent. Couldn’t even abide hunting. My mom wasn’t murdered; she left in the middle of the night. She just left. Drove away without looking back when I was eight. Sent me birthday cards every year, always a month late, but I knew at least that she was alive.”

Claire tried to pull back to see his face, but he held her close, avoiding eye contact.

“The point is,” he continued a little roughly, “I learned early on that we create our own narrative. It doesn’t matter what other people say about us as long as we know who and what we are. And here’s the other thing people don’t want you to know: you don’t have to be the same thing all the time. You can wear scuffed work boots one day, a bow tie the next. You can make out with an overgrown frat boy in the street one weekend and dance with a handsome contractor the next.”

She smiled a little at that.

“So, what’s your narrative, Claire?” His voice was husky.

“Well.” She glanced at the swaying couples over his shoulder, caught one or two women whose gaze quickly darted away from hers when she made eye contact. No doubt about it, people were curious and a little puzzled that she was here. That she was dancing with someone who apparently was the guest of honor.

Claire liked that. She liked surprising them.

She told Scott that. “I have to admit, it amuses me that some of these people are wondering how we know each other. What we’re talking about. Wondering if we planned this and what we are to each other. I love knowing that they don’t know that we weren’t expecting to see the other person here.”

Scott’s palm pressed more firmly against her back. “I knew.”

Claire frowned. “What?”

He cleared his throat slightly, but his voice was still husky when he answered her question. “I knew you’d be here.”

Scott slowed to a stop, and Claire realized that the song had ended. Embarrassed that she hadn’t realized the dance was over, she took the slightest step back, though Scott didn’t release her.

She raised her eyes to his, asking a silent question she was too scared to verbalize out loud. Did you come because you knew I’d be here?

Claire was too scared to ask it—but not too afraid to hope.

Scott’s brown eyes burned into hers, and Claire wondered if she had the courage to step forward, to press her lips to his in front of a hundred people. Wondered if he’d kiss her back, wondered—

“There you are!”

The moment was shattered by an unfamiliar female voice, and Scott’s hand dropped away.

Claire turned, then sucked in a breath when she came face-to-face with one of the more stunning women she’d ever seen in real life. There was little doubt in Claire’s mind that the woman was a model. The wide eyes, full mouth, high cheekbones, and waifish figure were classic supermodel.

“Hello,” the woman said with a friendly smile and a faint accent. “I’m Ivet Orlav.”

Claire recognized the name. Definitely a model. A very famous supermodel.

“Ivet, this is Claire Hayes,” Scott said. “I’m in the process of renovating her house.”

“Oh, you are so lucky!” Ivet said with a beaming smile. “He does the best work. Did he tell you I first met him in Paris when he was hired to consult on some maintenance on the Louvre?”

No, he didn’t, Ivet. There’s a lot he doesn’t mention.

Claire sucked in a quick breath when Ivet reached out and wrapped both skinny arms around Scott’s arm and brushed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m always so thrilled when Scott and I are in the same city at the same time,” Ivet said, flicking a playful finger over Scott’s bow tie. “He always makes the best date to these events.”

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