Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(24)

Deena had been right about the team loving the temporary “work from home” arrangement. During their usual Monday-morning conference call, Naomi had noted less makeup and more messy buns, and though everyone had put on business-appropriate attire on top, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that below the camera’s view, everyone was in yoga pants.

Or maybe that was just her.

Still, luxurious as it was to not have to leave her home and commute to an office for the next few weeks, she was learning the hard way that her kitchen chair was not cut out for an almost-thirty butt and back to sit in for long amounts of time.

Naomi pressed her fingers into her lower back, arching backward as she mentally began composing an email to a potential advertiser whose pushy tactics were starting to piss her off. She had just settled on her phrasing when she heard a commotion outside her front door.

She ignored it at first. One of her neighbors had a bichon that delighted in getting out of the apartment and engaging in a five-minute battle of wills with its owner as it decided whether “a yummy, yummy doggy cookie” was incentive enough to go back home.

But the sound kept on, and finally she registered that this was different. There was no quick little patter of tiny-dog feet or cajoling voice of the elderly owner promising chicken.

This was more of a slow shuffle and occasional muttered oath.

Naomi went to the door and checked the peephole. Nothing. Slowly she opened it and stepped into the hall, her eyes going wide in surprise at the source of the noise.

An older man was wearing an expensive-looking sweater over what seemed to be a perfectly starched collared shirt.

And on the bottom? Light blue boxers and argyle dress socks.

Pants? Not present.

She watched for a moment as he shuffled a few feet, paused. Pounded the wall lightly with his fist, then put his ear to the wall as though listening for something. He muttered something, then repeated the process.

“Sir?” Naomi asked tentatively.

He went still, then slowly turned on slightly unsteady feet to face her.

Naomi gasped.

She’d envisioned this moment dozens of times. Maybe hundreds of times. She’d pictured, in very vivid detail, the moment she’d come face-to-face with Walter Cunningham, the man who’d had an affair with her mother and then thrown her and her mother out on the streets like they were trash. Hell, he’d called them trash.

She’d pictured entering his cushy downtown office, chin held high. She’d envisioned knocking on his door and him angrily asking who the hell she was, only to pass out in shock when she told him.

She’d envisioned seeing him in a bar, buying him the most expensive Scotch on the menu, and then observing his surprise when he realized who’d just paid for his drink.

There’d been a handful of more vindictive scenarios as well, but not one had come close to the reality of this.

Naomi hadn’t expected him to recognize her on sight. He’d barely paid attention to her twenty years ago, and she was a far cry from her nine-year-old self. Her hair was several shades darker than the neon orange of her childhood. Her first “big” purchase once Maxcessory began to take off was braces, so her horribly crooked teeth were a thing of the past. She still wore glasses, but only at night and first thing in the morning. And even without all of that, she’d simply grown up.

But while she hadn’t expected him to recognize her as his ex-lover’s daughter, Naomi hadn’t been prepared for the possibility that he perhaps didn’t recognize anyone.

His gaze was vacant and confused, and though she wanted desperately to hate him—still did hate him on some level—her heart twisted a little in sympathy.

The fog in his eyes cleared slightly, replaced with irritation. His hands went to his hips, thick brows drawn into a glower. It was a move that she remembered as being extremely intimidating when she’d accidentally knocked over a water glass as a girl. The effect was diminished now by the lack of pants.

“May I help you, young lady?”

Oh boy. Naomi was thoroughly out of her depth here. She hadn’t spent much time with senior citizens and certainly not with someone who she suspected was affected by dementia.

Did she act like nothing was wrong? Did she take charge of the situation?

She glanced at Oliver’s door, wondering if the man was home, though she suspected at one p.m. on a Monday, he was likely at work.

“Are you looking for Oliver?” she asked tentatively.

Walter Cunningham’s frown deepened, looking lost in thought. “Oliver . . .” His expression cleared slightly. “Oliver’s my son.”

“Yes, and he lives right there,” she said tentatively as she stepped further into the hallway, pointing at Oliver’s door. “You were looking for him?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Walter mused, glancing at the wall opposite Oliver’s door. “I thought I heard something. A person.”

“In the walls?” Naomi asked, keeping her voice light.

“Yes.”

“It’s an old building. Perhaps the pipes?” she said, stepping even closer.

“Perhaps, perhaps.” He knocked again, then seemed to lose interest in the walls altogether, turning toward her. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Naomi. I just moved in,” she said, pointing to her open door.

Walter frowned. “That’s Harriet’s place.”