Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(28)

His dad’s attention was already back on the TV. “Not done with my drink.”

“I bet she’d let us take it with us and return the glass later,” Oliver said. Then he glanced over at Naomi for confirmation.

“You Cunningham men do like to keep my glassware.”

“Missing that mug, are ya?” he asked, referring to the coffee cup full of champagne she’d left over the weekend.

“It was a favorite.”

“What did it look like?”

She pursed her lips. She didn’t have a damn clue what it looked like, and they both knew it. “It was one of my only ones.”

Oliver walked into her kitchen, opened the cupboard to the right of the sink—guessing correctly the first time—and turned to face her, eyebrows lifted.

Her lips pursed even more. There were close to a dozen mugs in the cupboard, which he’d known, since he’d seen her unpacking them on move-in day.

“But by all means,” he said coolly, closing the cupboard once more. “I’ll definitely rush to return the one you lent me.”

Instead of replying, she rounded the kitchen counter toward him, opening the cupboard he had just shut. Their fingers brushed, just for a moment, and she went perfectly still before shoving his hand away and pulling two mugs out of the cupboard.

She set both on the counter and, in silent question, lifted the bottle of Scotch she’d poured his father’s drink from.

He nodded in silent response. Generally speaking, he wasn’t prone to day drinking, but then he also wasn’t accustomed to verbal battles with attractive women who lived next door.

“Ice?”

“Please,” he said as she opened the freezer. “One cube.”

She dropped one ice cube into his, two into her own, and handed him a mug.

Hers said Work, Play, Slay in hot-pink letters, his had a dumb cartoon kitten. Ten bucks said the selection was no accident.

“Cheers,” he said before she could take a sip.

Naomi looked at his mug skeptically. “To what?”

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” Oliver said wryly. “More than I expected based on our encounter on Saturday. And at your interview.”

He meant it in jest, but she winced slightly, and too late he remembered: Brayden Hayes. She may not have been married to the man, but presumably she’d cared about him if they were sleeping together.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I wasn’t thinking—”

“Forget it,” she said. “Also, before I forget . . .” She picked up Walter’s medical bracelet off the counter and handed it to Oliver.

He accepted the heavy weight of the masculine bracelet. He’d purchased it for his father after about a dozen fights over the old one being “too prissy.” When his father was in a lucid state, he was with it enough to know that in Walter Cunningham’s reality, men didn’t wear jewelry.

“I’m surprised you got it off him,” Oliver said, juggling the bracelet in his hand.

“Oh, we had a little you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Oliver choked on his Scotch. “Excuse me?”

She gestured at the coffee table, where an assortment of jewelry pieces lay scattered about. “The perks of running an accessory business. I’ve got plenty of pieces on hand.”

“Maxcessory,” Oliver said distractedly.

Naomi gave him a curious look.

“It was on your application,” he explained.

“Speaking of that day, why did you put me through to the next round?”

“You mean after you stormed out of the office for no reason?”

“Oh, I had reasons,” she said into her drink.

“Mind telling me what they were?”

She set down her mug with a heavy thunk. “You’re just very . . .”

Naomi waved her hand over him, wrinkling her nose as she tried to think of the right word.

“Polite? Professional?” he prompted, recalling the interview from his perspective.

“Arrogant. Supercilious. You made it clear that I didn’t belong.”

“Supercilious? And you think I’m snobby.”

“I didn’t say snobby,” she said, taking a sip of Scotch. “I said supercilious.”

“You’re impossible,” Oliver muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink, relishing the burn. “Dad, let’s go.”

Walter didn’t respond.

“Dad.” Oliver’s voice was just a bit sharper than he usually used with his father, but he needed to get out of here before he did something absurd. Like kiss the woman who he wasn’t even sure he liked. And who definitely didn’t like him.

Walter gave him a baleful look over his shoulder. “What?”

“Let’s go.”

His dad got a mutinous look on his face, and Oliver softened his tone. “Janice said she recorded yesterday’s Yankees game. I haven’t seen it yet.”

Walter shrugged and turned back to the History Channel. “You go watch it, then. I already saw it. Five–four, Angels.”

Sure, that he remembers. Oliver immediately regretted the frustrated thought and dropped his chin to his chest, defeated. Tired.

He’d nearly forgotten Naomi was there, until her low voice came, quieter than usual. Softer. “When was he diagnosed?”