Love on Lexington Avenue(46)

He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “You want romance.”

Claire looked away. “No. I mean, I guess. Maybe.” She took a breath and turned toward him. “I know I don’t want to get married again. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t believe in the fairy-tale ending. But apparently I need to actually like the person I’m going to sleep with.”

And I don’t qualify?

Scott managed to keep from saying it out loud, but was less successful at warding off the stab of hurt from her words.

“Anyway, I’m trying again with Brett.” She began putting the makeup scattered across the counter back in the cosmetics bag.

Hurt shifted to anger. “The guy from Saturday night?”

“He seemed really nice. He called, suggested a do-over—”

Scott had heard enough.

“Damn it, Claire!”

She jumped at his shout, dropping the makeup bag to the counter. The contents spilled out, and she started to put everything away again, but Scott was faster. Reaching out, he snagged her elbow, pulled her gently around to face him. “What game are you playing?”

She frowned. “No game.”

“Really? Because it feels a lot like you wanted me to kiss you yesterday, and now you’re pretending it didn’t happen so you can go on a date with some pretty boy.”

She jerked her arm out of his grip and turned away. “What do you want from me, Scott? You want to take me to dinner? Make small talk? Discuss my childhood aspirations, learn my favorite color—”

“I already know your favorite color. Pink.”

“No!” She spun around, her eyes a little wild. “No, it’s not pink. You know why I want pink all over this house? Because he hated it. Brayden hated it. He was one of those typical guys who got nervous when I bought him a tie with coral stripes for Christmas, worried it was the slippery slope toward magenta. I once bought pink throw pillows and had to get rid of them because he complained nonstop about living in a bordello. My favorite color is actually green, not that anybody has ever remembered that. Not my parents, not Brayden. But anyway, that’s not the point. I want what he said I couldn’t have, because I need to know that this is my life and he’s not a part of it anymore. This date,” she said, waving her hand wildly, “it’s not about you. It’s not even about Brett. This is about Brayden, and how I need to get the hell over him even when I already hate him.”

She threw her hands in the air, seemingly exasperated, but she wasn’t done. “You’ve had time to deal with your fiancée’s betrayal. You’ve had years to become hardened and practiced at cynicism. I want to say that I’m there, too. But I’m still new to this whole jaded-widow thing. I need some space to figure out this part of my life because I’m not going to be good at it immediately. And I don’t want to stumble through it with someone who I have to sit across from at a dinner party a few months from now, or whenever you’ll be back in town from your next fabulous international adventure. Can you understand that?”

Her eyes were dry but pleading all the same. Pleading with him to understand.

The hell of it was, Scott did understand. He didn’t know how she knew about his past with Meredith—Naomi, probably—but he’d been messed up over that for years, and that’s without the added trauma of his ex passing away.

Belatedly, Scott was realizing that Claire had had two hats foisted upon her at the same time: betrayed wife and widow. She had to figure out how to be mad at Brayden, how to mourn for him, and how to live without him, all at the same time.

He couldn’t blame her for being a little inconsistent. A little confused. And though he wished like hell he could help, he heard loud and clear what she was telling him.

Right now, Claire needed someone completely temporary—someone she could flirt with, sleep with, and never see again if she didn’t want to. Or she needed someone who would be there for the long haul and work through this with her.

Scott didn’t fit into either category. He had to let her go.

“Say something,” she said softly.

Scott reached out slowly and, acting on an unfamiliar tender emotion he didn’t recognize, pulled her toward him gently to press a kiss to her forehead. It was a gesture he’d never made toward anyone, ever, but it was the best he could do to tell her that he was there if she needed him—in whatever way. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Then he turned, snapping once for his dog to follow, and thankfully Bob got the message, because the dog fell into step beside Scott as he headed down the stairs, but not toward the front door. To the in-progress kitchen.

He had some changes to make.





Chapter Seventeen


TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

Shit,” Scott muttered, already knowing what the exterminator was going to say.

“Termites,” George Romero announced, sounding almost gleeful. George had been Scott’s go-to “bug guy” for years, and Scott had learned that George seemed to take on every pest infestation as a personal challenge he loved to accept.

Scott had known the second he’d ripped up the ugly carpet and baseboards in the living room off the kitchen what he was dealing with, but the confirmation still chafed. “How bad?”

“I’ve seen worse, but it’s not great,” George said, putting his meaty hands on his hips and looking around. “And it looks like you’re the first guy to do any work on this place in a while. Wouldn’t be surprised if these little shits are everywhere, but I’ll have to take a look.”