Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(23)

The mention of her love life reminded him of the bombshell Claire had dropped earlier. “So. Brayden Hayes, huh?”

Her smile dropped. “Not open for discussion.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” he pointed out.

She gave him an icy glare and turned away, but he grabbed her arm, a little surprised by his own action. Still, he didn’t let her go. “I’m not a bad guy, Naomi.”

Naomi remained stubbornly silent before letting her gaze drop deliberately to where he held her arm.

Oliver sighed and gave up, releasing her. “Fine. It’s been a few years since I’ve had an immature nemesis, but I can get on board. Just so I know the rules, is this a cold war, prank war, noise war . . . do I just launch spitballs at you in the mail room?”

Something flickered in her gaze, but before he could identify it, she turned away.

Oliver followed her back into the living room, but instead of resuming his unpacking of her silverware, he headed toward the door.

“Enjoy your solitude, Ms. Powell.”

He stepped into the hallway and shut the door before she could reply—though he was fairly certain she had zero intention of replying.

Oliver stormed back to his own apartment, feeling more irritated and also more alive than he had in months. What the hell was the woman’s problem, he wondered, yanking open his fridge only to slam it shut again when he realized it was empty.

He’d encountered his fair share of man haters, but this seemed personal somehow.

Oliver pulled out his phone and was debating ordering something for delivery when there was a sharp, businesslike knock at his door. He checked the peephole and, seeing nobody, opened the door.

Just in time to hear his neighbor’s door close.

Oliver glanced down. At his feet was a white coffee mug of champagne—she must have topped it off because it was fuller than when he’d left it—as well as a plate piled high with an assortment of fancy cheeses.

He glanced to his right down the deserted hall, then smiled a little as he bent and picked up the items. He set the mug and plate on his kitchen island and flipped up the folded index card she’d used as a note.

I didn’t spit in the champagne. Probably.—N.



Oliver grinned at the begrudging peace offering, and took both the cheese plate and champagne to his coffee table, where he turned on the TV. For a split second, he considered putting the Dom Pérignon into one of the Waterford champagne glasses his mother had given him as a housewarming gift when he’d moved into his apartment.

He decided against it. Turned out, it tasted better from the mug.





MONDAY, OCTOBER 8

If there was an award for settling into a new apartment in record time, Naomi would like to think she’d be a contender. She’d worked her butt off for three straight days to unpack and break down every box, hang up every item of clothing, and find a new home for every last knickknack and handbag.

She’d even hung curtains.

Not that anyone had come around to see her handiwork, and . . . well, that was all on her, now wasn’t it?

Somehow, Naomi had managed to cause two friends and a new neighbor to go running out of her apartment in the span of thirty minutes.

None of them had been back since.

Not one of Naomi’s finer moments to be sure. And though she’d apologized profusely to Claire and Audrey for her churlish mode, she hadn’t quite gotten around to facing Oliver Cunningham again. On one hand, she probably owed him an apology. His gesture had been neighborly—friendly, even. And she’d been nothing but rude. On the other hand, she was having a hell of a time separating out her memories of young Oliver Cunningham. The version whose manners hadn’t been nearly as pretty.

Was it fair to punish a man for a boy’s mistakes? Perhaps not.

But they didn’t just have name-calling in their history. They also had a boy’s careless lie that had literally ruined lives.

She wasn’t quite ready to forgive him for that, no matter how charming the man was. Or how handsome.

If she were honest with herself, her irritation at his presence had been just as much directed at herself, for noticing the man. When she’d first come face-to-face with him at her co-op interview, she’d been too frazzled by his presence to properly register just how good-looking he was.

But the other day, she’d noticed. She’d noticed the way he’d lost the soft edges of his boyish features. Noticed the way the nose that had been just slightly too long as a kid was now perfectly balanced by a strong jaw and a piercing gaze.

Even his eyebrows were sexy. Straight and thick and dark, especially in contrast to the light blue eyes.

Handsome though he was, she was a little surprised by just how reserved Oliver had become. The boy she remembered had been boisterous and rowdy, loving worms and sports and dirt.

Adult Oliver looked like he wouldn’t be able to identify dirt if it hit him in the face (now, there was a tempting thought), and there was a coolness about him that she didn’t remember.

Irritated with herself for dwelling on Oliver—again—Naomi stood and, putting her hands over her head, began stretching as she looked out at the rainy afternoon.

Her new apartment had two bedrooms, and since she had no use for a guest room, she had plans to turn the second one into a home office. But the new furniture she’d ordered wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, which meant she was working at her kitchen table.