Love on Lexington Avenue(71)

Chapter Twenty-Nine


TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8

Scott peered more closely at the slightly pixelated video of Claire and about half of Bob’s head.

“Is that fried chicken?” he asked incredulously.

“Yup,” Claire said around a bite of drumstick. “Don’t forget it’s eight p.m. here. Dinner.”

“Yeah, I’ve mastered the twelve-hour time difference,” he said. “I guess what I’m a little confused about is why Bob’s eating the fried chicken.”

“Just the occasional piece,” she said, breaking off a piece and giving it to an enraptured Bob. “No bones.”

Scott shook his head with a smile. “Glad I’m not the one who has to take her out tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll have you know that Bob’s morning constitutional lately has been supremely healthy.”

“You know, when you mentioned FaceTime with my dog, this isn’t what I imagined.”

Claire took her time wiping her mouth of chicken grease with a paper napkin, and Scott felt the strangest sense of elation that they were at that level of comfort with each other.

“What did you imagine?” she asked.

Scott realized he didn’t have an answer, because he hadn’t imagined any of it. He hadn’t imagined that Claire would even be willing to speak to him after the way he’d left. Certainly hadn’t imagined that she’d offer to watch his dog.

Least of all that she’d not only want to keep in touch about Bob, but like this.

But the biggest surprise of all was how much Scott enjoyed it. How, in the two weeks since he’d been in Shanghai, had this become the highlight of his day? They didn’t talk every day, mainly because he couldn’t bring himself to ask her for that, much as he longed to. He was the one who’d left; he definitely didn’t get to make demands.

Thus far though, it had worked out to be nearly every day. Unless he had an early meeting or she had evening plans, they had a standing “date” at 8:00 a.m. Shanghai/8:00 p.m. New York time.

If someone had told Scott a few months ago that his day would feel incomplete until he could talk to a woman, he’d have laughed in disbelief. And yet here he was, every morning, impatiently clock-watching through his breakfast of coffee and cereal, counting the minutes until he could see her again.

Them, he corrected. Until he could see them.

The calls always began with Bob and Claire’s faces greeting him on the screen, usually while sharing dinner. Bob, shockingly, lost interest in the whole thing once the food was gone. Scott and Claire both pretended not to notice when their supposed reason for the call inevitably bailed, and it was just Claire and Scott. Talking about everything. Or nothing. It didn’t matter. Scott had always loathed small talk, but there was no such thing with Claire. Even when he ended the call without a clear sense of what the hell they’d talked about for the better part of an hour, he never felt restless. Never bored.

What he felt was lonely.

The very same feelings that had once been his impetus to live the way he did, to leap at the most exotic locations, the longest projects, now seemed bigger than ever because he’d accepted this job.

“How’s the hand?” he asked.

Claire lifted her right hand, curled comically into a claw shape. “Basically useless after six straight hours of writing, which Bob loves. She hasn’t lost a single tug-of-war game since I started the invitations.”

“How’re they coming?” he asked as he refilled his coffee.

“Great. Did I tell you that my client’s daughter loved the sample I sent over at the end of last week? The bride already asked me to do the invitations for her best friend’s baby shower next month. Naomi thinks I should charge more, since they didn’t balk at the last price, but I think I’ll keep my prices consistent until I feel more confident in the whole process.”

“That’s great,” he said, fighting a surge of frustration that he wasn’t the first to hear about these wins for her fledgling business. Why would he be? He’d forgone that right when he’d walked away.

“Oh, crap,” Claire muttered, glancing away from the screen. “Is that the time? Hey, sorry, I have to cut this short tonight. Though I guess Bob already did that, huh?”

Scott loved his dog, but he did not care for one second where Bob was at the moment. It was the woman he was here for.

“Where are you headed?” he asked, sipping his coffee with feigned casualness.

“It’s Clarke’s birthday. He’s rented out a whole cocktail bar for something like two hundred people.”

In that moment, Scott firmly believed that he deserved a gold medal for not asking whether or not Brett would be there. And he deserved a blue ribbon for not asking what she was planning on wearing, and suggesting the ugliest, frumpiest dress in her wardrobe so other men wouldn’t know her shape like he did. And he deserved a round of applause for not begging her to stay on the call with him just a bit longer so he could hear her voice . . .

Oblivious to the ache in Scott’s chest, Claire turned away and shouted for the dog. “Bob! Come say goodbye to your dad! There’s a good girl,” she cooed, as Scott saw the uppermost part of the dog come back into view.

Claire hoisted Bob onto the couch beside her and pointed toward the screen, trying to get the dog to look toward Scott. She was only half successful. Bob was clearly convinced she was pointing to a rogue piece of fried chicken that needed to be eaten.