Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(32)



Well, crap.

The woman with Oliver was chattering away, unaware of Oliver’s attention on Naomi. Unaware of Naomi and Dylan altogether. Oliver said something that made the woman laugh, and she reached out for his hand.

Naomi’s stomach clenched, and that was the exact moment she realized:

There it was.

The feeling she’d been missing all night with Dylan Day had just occurred with Oliver Cunningham of all people. That awareness, that want. Surely her reasoning for suddenly wanting more in her relationship with a man wasn’t due to her childhood nemesis.

But then it got so much worse, because as she watched Oliver smile at the other woman, another emotion took over. Jealousy.

Her eyes slammed shut. This was not happening. She was not actually jealous of . . . what had Oliver said his girlfriend’s name was? Layla? Lana?

“Naomi?” Dylan’s voice was bemused.

She opened her eyes. “Sorry. I must have had too much wine.”

Oliver’s girlfriend giggled, but Naomi kept her gaze purposefully on Dylan, ignoring the other couple.

“We should go out again. Definitely,” she said.

Dylan blinked in surprise, smart enough to have realized that just a few moments ago she’d been gearing up to reject him.

He recovered quickly. “Sure. Friday?”

“Done,” she said before she could change her mind. “I’ll text you?”

“Okay—”

“Great. Looking forward to it.” Naomi stepped forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek to end the conversation.

She kept her pace deliberately slow as she walked toward the front door, casually digging in her bag for her keys, even as her heart pounded, far more aware of Oliver and his date than she was of Dylan Day.

Still, she didn’t look back, and once inside, she leaned against the wall, just for a second.

Had that just happened?

Had she just agreed to a date with Dylan simply because she couldn’t bear the thought that she might actually want to date him . . . The front door opened, and she opened her eyes to see Oliver Cunningham, pairing his usual conservative navy suit with an impervious glare.





WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 10

From the way Naomi had all but run into the building, Oliver had assumed she’d be in the safety of her apartment before he got to the main door.

Instead he stopped short, surprised to find her still standing there.

For a long moment, neither said a word as they gave each other a wary look.

“So,” she said, standing up straight from where she’d been leaning against the wall with the same ugly wallpaper that’d been there since he was a boy. “That was . . . ?”

“Lilah,” he supplied.

Yeah. The Lilah. After he’d stupidly told Naomi that he was dating her, his conscience had kicked his ass until he’d finally dialed the number that had been languishing on a Post-it Note on his desk for weeks. He’d thought to schedule something for sometime next week. Next month, even.

Instead, Lilah had dropped a half-dozen hints about some wine tasting this week, obvious enough that he couldn’t figure out how to say no without sounding like an ass.

It had been . . . fine.

Lilah was kind. Sweet. Laughed a lot. As in, a lot.

And while he liked a decent glass of wine as much as the next guy, spending all night discussing whether he was getting more red fruits or dark fruit in the finish of the ’03 Barolo was not exactly how he’d envisioned a rare night away from work and Walter.

“So,” Naomi said as they both began climbing the stairs. “She seemed nice.”

“Quite,” he said, trying not to notice the way her hips moved from side to side as she walked up the steps in front of him. “And your date. Very . . .”

She gave him a dark look over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Let me guess,” Oliver said, as they stepped onto the landing of the second floor. “His name has a Y.”

“What?” she snapped.

“His name,” Oliver said, leaning a shoulder against the wall next to her door as she palmed her keys as though debating whether to open her apartment or stab his jugular. “Does it have a Y? Ryan. Myron. Bryson.”

“Says the guy named Oliver.”

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“Nothing, if you’re a nineteenth-century orphan.”

“So what’s his name?” Oliver pushed, leaning toward her slightly.

She huffed. “Dylan.”

Oliver smiled. “Now, is that spelled . . . ?”

“With a Y, yes, and now tell me, how is Dickens these days? Do you call him Chuck, or . . .”

“Invite me in for a drink,” he interrupted.

Naomi blinked. “You’re inviting yourself into my apartment?”

“You can serve the drink in a mug. I’m starting to like it that way.”

“What about Lilah?” she said, singsonging the word while crossing her arms, keys jingling in her left hand.

“Well, get this. Every now and then, she allows me to consume a beverage without having to get permission first. What about Dylan with a Y? You guys serious?”

“Actually,” she said, sticking her key into the lock and shoving open the door, “he’s trying to make a show about me.”

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