Love on Lexington Avenue(58)

But that wasn’t his life. Next month he’d be God knew where, and then what? She’d have found some other guy to talk to about her new business. Some other man would be the one to take her to bed at night.

Some other man already had.

That, he realized, was what was bothering him more than anything. The fear that this—all of it, the companionship, even the sex—wasn’t about Scott. That he was a stand-in for a husband she hadn’t expected to lose.

“I didn’t make it to the grocery store,” she was saying as she stacked up the assorted cards and papers on the table. “I’m sorry. I can run out real quick or—”

Scott’s temper snapped. “Don’t.”

She flinched at the sound of his bottle clinking firmly as he set it on the counter, and that made him even more pissed. “Don’t apologize. I don’t expect some cozy little domestic scene when I get home; I don’t expect dinner on the table.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not him, Claire!”

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even realized it had been on his mind. And he regretted it the second the words echoed in the kitchen like a bullet. Her face went pale as she straightened, before she slowly—too slowly, as though she were fighting for control.

He expected anger, dreaded seeing hurt, but he saw something far worse. Flatness. As though all that life that she’d been radiating just minutes before had been sucked from her. By him.

“You’re not who, Scott?” she asked coldly.

He didn’t answer. They both knew who he’d meant.

It was a dick move, throwing her dead husband in her face, but damned if it hadn’t clawed at him to think that he’d stepped into the man’s shadow, even for a moment. First with the couple routine, a glimpse into a lifestyle he didn’t want, then with her apology, which had rolled off her tongue far easier than he would have liked.

Claire might like to think her marriage had been fine—even happy—aside from Brayden’s infidelity, but Scott was putting together a different picture of a man who’d taken advantage of her kindness and strength. He’d bet anything Brayden had used Claire to lever himself up, not caring that he’d pushed her down in the process.

Even the dog sensed the tension in the room, and Bob slunk away as though she’d been scolded, even though it was Scott who deserved the reprimand.

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t move. She just stared at him with cool hazel eyes.

“I just . . .” Scott scratched his cheek, feeling atypically uncomfortable. He didn’t do this; he didn’t get flustered. And yet now that Brayden’s presence was in the room, Scott realized there was something he needed to say. Realized why the thought of her upstairs bedrooms made him tense up every time.

“I’m nearly done with the downstairs,” he said. “I mean, there’s still all the finishing. But the old floors, the old shelves, all the ugly is gone. I’ll be starting on the upstairs soon. You’re still good to move back in tomorrow night, but assuming you still want that overhaul of the master bed and bath, you’ll have to sleep in whichever room we’re not working on, and I’ll need a temporary place to put your master bedroom furniture . . .”

“Get to the point.”

Scott took a deep breath and laid it all on the table. “You’ve got an entire room full of his stuff.”

He thought she’d been frozen before, but now she seemed to go entirely brittle.

“That is none of your business.” Her voice was like ice.

“Well now, it sort of is,” he said, trying to keep his voice easy. “I don’t have enough room to work.”

“Work around it,” she said, taking her wineglass to the sink, where she dumped the entire thing.

“I can’t, Claire. Where am I supposed to put your bed when I pull up the carpet in your bedroom? The other room’s too small.”

“Figure it out. Isn’t that why they pay you the big bucks?”

He didn’t reply to her snide tone, waiting until she finished washing the glass and looked back at him. “Even if I could work around it, don’t you think it’s . . . time?”

She let out a harsh laugh. “Time to what? Move on? To put him behind me? You tell me, Scott. How’s moving on going for you?”

“How the hell are you possibly turning this around on me?” he asked. “I’m not the one—”

“Whose best friend is a dog? You can’t even commit to a house, Scott—you have two. And that’s when you’re in your home state, which is never, because you can’t stay in the same place for two months, much less sleep with the same woman twice in a row, am I right? Is that what this is about? Last night when I said we’d figure it out later, did you think I meant we’d figure out how to blow it up? Because you’re doing a damn good job.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Like hell it isn’t. It’s about both of us. I’m not going to pretend I’m not dealing with a ghost, but I’m not the only one. I don’t know if it was your fiancée cheating, your mom leaving—”

Scott’s blood turned to ice, then turned hot just as quick. “Overstepping, Claire.”