Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(27)

“Right,” she said quickly. “Forget it. I don’t know what—”

“A finger with ice with a splash of water. A big splash. He’ll fuss, but if you tell him it’s that or nothing, he’ll settle down.”

There was a moment of hesitation. “Really?”

“Really,” Oliver assured her. “Listen, his caretaker’s still out looking for him. I need to give her a call. But I’ll be there in just a couple minutes. You okay until then?”

“We’re fine.”

“Good. Thank you. See you in a few.”

He hung up the phone and immediately called Janice, who picked up on the first ring, a little breathless. “You find him?”

“The neighbor did. He was outside my apartment.”

Her breath whooshed out in relief. “Thank God. Which neighbor? Why didn’t she call me?”

“The new neighbor,” Oliver clarified as he walked up Park Avenue. “She doesn’t have your phone number, but I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Cunningham, it won’t happen again—”

“Yeah, it will,” Oliver said gently. “We both do our best, but we’re human, Janice. And for the hundredth time, call me Oliver.”

“Yes. Oliver,” she said stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. “But I really am sorry. I just went to the restroom, he wasn’t out of my sight for more than a minute.”

“I know,” he said, feeling a wave of regret. Not because of Janice—he’d meant what he said. Even a full-time caretaker couldn’t be with Walter every second of every day. But regret over the disease. Because while these scary moments were rare now, it’s possible they wouldn’t always be.

“The new neighbor’s in 2B, right?” she said, her tone returning to its normal no-nonsense mode. “I can be there in less than ten minutes to retrieve Mr. Cunningham.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m closer.”

She huffed in dismay. “You left work.”

“I did. Not a big deal, I didn’t have any meetings that couldn’t be rescheduled. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“That’s an order, Janice,” he said as he let himself into the main door of the building. “Dad and I will see you later tonight.”

She apparently knew him well enough to know that arguing at this point was pointless. “All right. Thank you, Mr. Cunningham.”

He rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why he ever bothered with the call me Oliver bit. Oliver took the stairs two at a time until he was standing outside Naomi Powell’s apartment.

He heard the unmistakable sound of the History Channel playing softly on the other side of the door, and he gave in to a moment of weakness, resting his forehead lightly on the wall outside her apartment, acknowledging his relief that his father had been found by someone kind.

He pulled his head back at that. Kind was not a word he’d ever thought could be applied to the prickly Ms. Powell, but there’d been no mistaking the gentleness in her tone on the phone. It had given the low rasp of her voice a whole new level of intrigue.

He lifted his hand and knocked.

Naomi opened the door, and Oliver’s mouth went dry, his tongue sticking to the top of his mouth for a long, humiliating moment. She didn’t look glamorous. Far from it. Her hair was straight and tucked behind her ears, her face free of makeup, or at least any that he could notice.

It was the attire that got him.

Black pants snug enough for him to know the exact shape of her thighs, cut to midcalf, and until this moment he hadn’t understood why it had been scandalous for women to show their ankles back in the day.

It was because bare ankles and feet could be hot.

Thank God she wore a baggy sweater, because he didn’t think he could handle anything formfitting above the waist. Though the sweater did hang off one shoulder just a bit, revealing the slim strap of a bra or tank top and . . .

Naomi gave him an irritated look. “What’s with you?”

He shook his head. Right. “Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s always a little unnerving when my dad gets out. Guess I’m still off balance.”

Oliver’s conscience was shaking its head disapprovingly. Had he really just used his sick father to avoid admitting he’d been checking out Naomi?

“’Understandable,” she said, hesitating for just the briefest moment before stepping aside. “Come on in.”

Oliver’s gaze went straight to the TV, where his father sat on Naomi’s white sofa. His conscience was slightly mollified by the fact that Oliver really was relieved to see his dad sitting peacefully. Safe and warm.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, keeping his voice breezy and casual as he walked over to the living room.

Walter’s eyes reluctantly dragged away from the television screen to Oliver. Walter lifted the glass in his hand. “The girl gave me Scotch. Pretty good stuff, but she watered it down too much.”

“Hmm, I’ll talk to her about that,” he said, noting Naomi’s eye-roll out of the corner of his eye, though she didn’t call him out on how she’d only been following his instructions.

“Say, Dad, what do you say we go finish this show upstairs so we can let Ms. Powell get back to her day?”