Love on Lexington Avenue(51)

“Thanks for helping with dinner,” she said to defuse the moment. “I’ve never cooked with someone before.”

“I don’t know that my putting the steaks in a pan on the stove counts as cooking, but you’re welcome.”

“It counts. As much as me tossing red potatoes in butter and garlic and sticking them in the oven does.”

When he spoke next, he kept his gaze on Bob, but the words were clearly for her. “Was he a good husband?”

Claire froze, instinctively wanting to ask Who?, but of course there was only one who. Brayden.

“Why do you ask?” Still a stall, but she was also curious.

He looked up at her, his brown eyes a little irritated, though she didn’t think at her. “He wouldn’t let you get fucking pink pillows. Didn’t like your Christmas gifts. Didn’t cook with you.”

“Well, hold on now,” she said softly. “He didn’t outright criticize anything I bought him. And as for the pillows . . . how would you take to a wife or girlfriend decorating all this with pink?” she said, waving at his blatantly masculine living space. The most color was a painting of the High Line on the wall near the front door that had a few shades of green.

“That’s the difference. I don’t have a wife or girlfriend. But if I did, if I had one who cared enough to pick out my clothes and make my home a home, I’d like to think I damn well wouldn’t criticize. No, fuck that,” he said with heat. “I would have bought the damn pink pillows for her myself if it made her happy.”

Claire felt a little breathless at his forceful tone. The more she got to know this man, the more she realized it was a damn shame he didn’t let anyone into his life. She suspected that beneath all the studied indifference there was a man who had a lot to give.

But he was determined to be alone. Just as she was. And she expected he knew, just as she did, that the more you gave, the more you lost.

“He was a good husband,” Claire said quietly, bringing the conversation back around. “Not perfect. Maybe not a great husband. But he was kind. We had date nights. We were happy. I thought we were happy,” she amended, remembering that in between date nights with her he’d had to “work late,” which she’d later learned had been his nights with Naomi and Audrey, and God knew how many other women.

She laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and Scott watched her. Not prying. Just waiting.

“Did you know . . .” She pushed her plate away. “In that last year of our marriage, whenever he’d take me out to dinner, we’d always go to some little hole-in-the-wall in a different part of town. A tiny jazz club in Harlem. A pho place in Alphabet City. A Greek restaurant in Astoria. I thought it was so romantic, thinking that he was trying to change up our routine, that he’d listened when I told him I’d gotten a little weary of the whole Upper East Side scene that had dominated the first years of our marriage. I learned later that he’d been telling everyone—Audrey included—that we were separated. What I thought was romantic was just him hiding me away, playing it safe, so that we wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.”

She forced a smile because if she gave in to the urge to cry right now, she’d never stop. Claire was frustrated with herself. She’d thought she’d worked through this. Come to grips with the fact that her marriage was failing long before she’d realized it.

How long would it take? Another month? Another year? How long until she could do what Scott had learned to do and keep everyone at arm’s length, keep things light and temporary and easy?

Claire pushed back her chair and picked up her plate. “You done?” she asked pointlessly, since there wasn’t so much as a scrap left on his plate.

“Yeah. But I can clean up.”

She ignored him, taking both their plates to the sink. The plates were easy—a quick rinse and into the dishwasher. The cooking pans required a bit more elbow grease, and she was grateful to have something to distract her from her thoughts—from the intimacy of the night that felt both wonderful and terrifying.

How had she forgotten, Claire wondered as she looked under his sink, found the dish soap and a sponge. How had she forgotten how nice it was to share a meal with someone?

More specifically, with someone who could cause her stomach to swoop and soar from eye contact. She hadn’t had that during dinner with Brett. That had been merely pleasant, take it or leave it. This evening with Scott made her ache for more. More evenings like this, more everything. Every moment with the man seemed somehow achingly familiar and wonderfully new.

She had never felt so confused.

Claire squirted a liberal amount of soap into the pan Scott had used to cook the rib eyes, but before she could dive in with the sponge, Scott came over and nudged her aside. He plucked the sponge out of her hand and replaced it with her glass of wine.

“Drink that,” he commanded as he rolled up his sleeves. No flannel tonight, but a white button-down that looked well-worn. “I’ll clean.”

She did as he said, mostly because he’d already gone to work scrubbing the pan, and her chances of shoving aside a man twice her size were slim. Claire leaned slightly against the counter, sipping her wine, watching the muscles of his forearm work.

“I wonder if she knows,” Claire mused.

“If who knows what?” he asked without looking up.