Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(33)

“Like porn?” Oliver asked, following her in, even though he hadn’t been specifically invited.

Naomi laughed, a genuine laugh, and tossed her purse on the couch. “No. God no. A TV series about my life.”

“That interesting, are you?” Oliver asked. His voice was joking, but secretly he thought it wasn’t a half-bad idea. The woman fascinated him, though it grated to know he wasn’t the only one captivated. He’d seen the way Dylan with a Y looked at Naomi, and the man wanted a hell of a lot more than a television show from her.

Naomi shrugged and opened the cabinet above the fridge, which apparently served as her liquor cabinet. He watched as she pulled down a tiny bottle of something he’d seen bartenders use, then went to her toes, reaching for a bottle of Woodford Reserve.

Even in the black stilettos, the bourbon was just out of reach. Oliver went to her side, reaching above her to grab the bottle. He didn’t mean to—not consciously—but the gesture had him pressing against her side, just for a moment.

They both froze. Damn. This was what had been missing with Lilah tonight. That elusive something. For that matter, he’d been missing it a hell of a lot longer than that. He cleared his throat and handed her the whisky bottle, which she accepted with a nod of thanks. Still, instead of moving away, her eyes crept from his tie up to his face, giving him a suspicious look.

Oliver smiled ruefully. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re always bracing for the other shoe to drop and me to do something wretched.”

She laughed softly and looked down at the bourbon in her hand, tracing the label with a red fingernail. “Let’s just say I’ve been sort of conditioned.”

Oliver felt a sharp flash of anger at whoever had treated her badly, even as he felt relief that he was making progress, that she was finally showing her cards just a little.

“Ah,” he said softly, not wanting to scare her off. “Corner piece.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“You’re like a puzzle,” he said with a smile. “And I’ve just found one of the corner pieces.”

“The corner piece?” She looked genuinely, adorably nonplussed.

“Have you never done a jigsaw puzzle before?” he asked, reaching out slowly. His fingers brushed her neck, and she lurched back.

Oliver held up a hand in an easy motion, the way he would to a skittish animal, a little alarmed at her reaction. “Sorry. You’re just still wearing your coat. Your collar was . . .” He made a motion to indicate it was flipped, and that he’d been trying to fix it.

Her hand flew up to her neck, and she blinked rapidly before letting out a forced laugh, as though her reaction to his touch had been no big deal. She set the bourbon on the counter and shrugged out of her coat.

“Here,” she said, shoving it at him.

He glanced down at the woman’s trench coat he was now holding. So she was still putting barriers between them. Literally. Still, she wasn’t kicking him out, and that bourbon looked hopeful. Even more so when she pulled out two glasses.

She looked at him and paused a moment. His heart sank when she turned to put the glasses away. Then lifted again when she pulled out two mugs instead.

“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing,” she muttered irritably, pulling a box of sugar cubes out of a cupboard.

“Sure we do,” Oliver countered, walking across the room and opening the door of her coat closet. He hung her trench and turned back. “Booze out of a mug.”

“How do you know this drink is for you?” she asked, measuring ingredients into the mugs without looking at him.

“Because you left Dylan with a Y out there on the sidewalk looking pissed.”

Her head snapped up. “He was not.”

“Pissed? Sure he was. I know a dude with blue balls when I see one. He thought he was getting lucky.”

“It wasn’t like that. He just wants me to agree to his show.”

“Do you want to do it?”

Her attention was back on the drinks. “Hmm?”

“The TV series,” Oliver said, coming back to the counter. “Do you want to do it?”

A small crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she tucked a strand of dark red hair behind her ear. “Nobody’s really asked me that.”

“Well, they should,” he said, loosening his tie before he realized he was at her apartment, not his. Strange, that he should feel so at home in the lion’s den. He decided to chalk it up to the fact that their apartments were next door to each other, and not that this prickly woman could feel . . . comforting.

Like she was home.

He pushed the thought aside. “So, do you want to do it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, resuming her drink-making by dropping a handful of ice cubes into each mug. “It’s weird.”

It was weird. He couldn’t imagine having his life translated on the big screen, small screen . . . any screen. But then he wasn’t a billionaire entrepreneur with a scrappy background. Yeah, he’d done his Wikipedia stalking, though there hadn’t been much about her pre-Maxcessory days beyond her being from the Bronx.

“I’m thinking about it,” she said by way of answer, shoving the mug across the counter toward him. “I like the idea of encouraging girls and young women to build their own thing, chase their dreams and all that.”