Love on Lexington Avenue(6)

The eyes though. They were worth a second look.

He supposed hazel was the official label, but they were a hell of a lot more interesting than that. Green at the centers, gold at the outer edges. Scott had always been fascinated by things that changed the more you looked at them. Prisms. Sunsets. Clouds. The night sky.

He mentally added Claire Hayes’s eyes to the list.

Too bad the rest of her was so Stepford Wife.

“You must be Scott,” she said with a smile that did nothing to light those magnificent eyes, her hand extending to his.

“Must be.” He shook her hand, pleasantly surprised by the strong handshake, even as he looked beyond her to the inside of the brownstone, wanting to move this along.

Claire seemed to sense it, because she forwent any more small talk, moving aside to let him in. Scott stepped into the foyer and immediately felt it. The rush. That feeling he got when he’d stepped into a space that was so far from reaching its potential, it was almost physically painful.

He whistled as he did a cursory scan of his immediate area. He took in the dark foyer, the cramped sitting area just off the front door, the staircase that was as narrow as it was ugly. Even without moving his feet, he could tell that this project was no minor face-lift.

“That bad?” Claire said, watching his face.

“It’s a phoenix,” he muttered, proceeding farther into the home without being invited.

“A what?” She followed him as he ran a finger along the ugly metallic wallpaper in the hallway.

“A phoenix. It’s what I call a space that’s so damned ugly, the only way to fix it is to burn it to the ground and rebuild. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured politely.

Scott stepped into the kitchen. “God.”

“Yeah. It’s my least favorite part,” she said.

“Seventy-four,” he said, taking in the Formica everything, the chipped tile floor, the impractically shallow sink.

“What?”

“Nineteen seventy-four. That’s the last time this place was updated, though the building’s much older than that.”

“Yeah, I think that’s about right,” she said, after a pause. “How’d you know?”

“My job to know.” He started to back out of the kitchen to explore the rest of the downstairs, then came back into the kitchen, pointing at the coffeepot. “That work?”

She followed his point, then looked back at him, giving him a bland look. “You think I keep a broken coffeepot on my counter?”

“How’m I supposed to know? Your knocker’s a summer storm away from blowing off.”

“My . . .”

“Front door knocker,” he clarified, doing what he thought was a damn admirable job of not letting his gaze drop to her breasts. “Not knocker knockers.”

He expected her to blush or at least look flustered. He perversely hoped for it, for which he blamed the lack of coffee. He didn’t get a blush. Hell, he didn’t get any sort of reaction. Claire Hayes merely gave him another of those bland, unruffled looks, before going to the god-awful cabinet and pulling out two mugs. “Cream? Sugar? Vanilla coffee creamer?”

“Just black. Thank you.” He mentally applauded himself for not lunging at the cup. “I’ll be less rude once I get some caffeine in me.”

Maybe. It was a fifty-fifty shot. Scott didn’t consider himself an asshole, but he also knew he wasn’t the poster child of pretty manners, or pretty anything for that matter.

Claire didn’t acknowledge his commentary on his rudeness. She simply handed him the mug, then pulled a container of coffee creamer from the fridge and added a liberal amount to her mug. She pulled out a spoon and stirred the liquid from dark brown to a pale tan color.

He gave a slight shake of his head at the crime of diluting the caffeine.

“So, I know you haven’t seen the whole house yet, but what do you think?” she asked, cupping both hands around the mug and lifting it to her face. She didn’t take a sip, just watched him over the top, the steam adding another layer of mystery to those strange green-gold eyes.

Scott met her gaze directly. “It’s god-awful. But you already know that.”

She lowered her mug and tilted her head, studying him the way one would a zoo animal.

“What?” he asked, a little surprised to realize that he was genuinely interested in what she was thinking.

“I was under the impression that you and Oliver are good friends.”

“We are.”

“Huh.” She took a sip of her coffee, and damn it, he was all the way interested now.

“That surprises you?” he asked, sipping his own coffee. It was good. Really good.

“Well, yes. Oliver has impeccable manners. You, not so much.”

Scott shrugged. “What did you expect me to say, that the house has character? I don’t speak in niceties, Ms. Hayes, so if you’re looking for gentle euphemisms on what needs to be done, I’m not your guy.”

And he wanted to be her guy, as it related to this project. This home needed him.

“I suppose it’s refreshing. In its way,” Claire said, apropos of nothing, as though he hadn’t spoken.

“Sorry?”

Claire waved a hand over him. “The basic blue jeans. The flannel over T-shirt that I haven’t seen since Gilmore Girls was on the air. A jawline that’s . . .” She tilted her head and studied him. “Four days past a shave?”