Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(41)

“He still trying to get you to sign on for the TV series?”

“Yeah.”

“You thinking about it?”

She nodded, but the moment of hesitation spoke volumes.

Normally, Oliver would have bit his tongue, but she just . . . pissed him off. And it’s not like he had anything to lose—even when he was the perfect gentleman, he hadn’t won her over.

“You’re scared,” he said.

She stiffened. “What?”

Oliver didn’t back off. “You’re a chicken. It’s why you’re even entertaining the idea of dating someone like Dylan Day, while at the same time hesitating on the TV show.”

“What are you talking about?” She started to walk away, but he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her gently around.

“That guy won’t demand anything from you. Not your brain, not your heart. He’s easy, and it’s what you think you want. Conversely, the TV show the guy is pushing for is the very opposite of easy. It’s a risk. It’s putting yourself all the way out there. Not just your work. You. It terrifies you.”

Naomi had gone very still, watching him through wide, unreadable blue eyes. Then she shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t even know me.”

“And he does?”

“You don’t know me,” she repeated, enunciating each word clearly as she jerked her arm free of his grip. “So stay the hell out of my business.”

Naomi started to storm away but turned back with one last parting shot. “I will do that TV series. And in case there was any doubt, you’ll have no part in my life story.”





TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16

Though she sometimes had a hard time believing it herself, somehow over the past couple of years Naomi had become one of those women who enjoyed running.

On her twenty-fifth birthday a few years earlier, she’d had a frank conversation with herself that an able-bodied woman had no good reason for not paying attention to the countless recommendations that movement was a crucial part of good health. Particularly for an entrepreneur whose long working hours meant a lot of time sitting behind a desk, on the phone, and in cabs. At the gym? Not so much.

As with most new habits, exercise had started out rough. She’d tried it all. Yoga. Hot yoga. Pilates. Hip-hop dance classes. CrossFit. Cycling classes. In the end, Naomi’s lone-wolf tendencies hadn’t liked anything that required a schedule or, well, social interaction. Her need for exercise became as much about the desire to clear her head as it did the health benefits, and running had been a natural fit.

She ran a few days a week, outside if weather permitted, the treadmill at her gym if not. Today’s cool and crisp morning had demanded an outdoor run, but instead of pacing herself with her usual steady, sustained long run, her rhythm had been almost frantic in its relentless speed.

After she’d sprinted through Central Park at an almost punishing pace to burn off the extra pent-up energy from working from home, she finally allowed herself to drop into a cool-down walk, gasping for air as she forced herself to acknowledge the truth:

She’d been running from demons.

Naomi had spent the past couple of days reliving her almost-kiss with Oliver.

Had spent her past couple of nights dreaming about it. Wanting it.

And hating herself for it.

She’d had her fair share of boyfriends, lovers, whatever you wanted to call them. She’d even liked most of them, including Brayden, though that obviously didn’t exactly speak to her judgment of character.

But never before had she felt that. That pull toward another person, not just at the physical level, but on an emotional, almost soul level. And then he’d picked a fight.

Damn it.

Naomi picked up her speed again, as though a grueling pace would help put Oliver Cunningham out of her mind.

Wanting him was not part of the plan. Not even close. The plan was simple, nonemotional.

Step one: move into the building to honor her mother’s wishes.

Step two: confront the Cunninghams, letting them know the girl they’d once treated as disposable was now their equal.

Step three . . .

Well, step two was really as far as she’d gotten. If she were being honest with herself, her plan had been more about a nagging need for closure than anything else. Not only for her mother’s sake, but so that Naomi would finally feel like she’d put Naomi Fields behind her.

She didn’t want revenge, just acknowledgment. She wanted the Cunninghams to come face-to-face with the actions of their past, to be reminded of what their carelessness had done. To apologize.

But Margaret Cunningham, that cold woman who’d so heartlessly ignored Naomi’s mother’s pleas for just one more night so she could make alternate arrangements for her daughter, was dead.

Walter Cunningham, was, well . . . even if Naomi wanted to confront him about his past actions, she wasn’t sure she could be that cruel or that he would remember the incident, much less feel remorse.

And as far as Oliver Cunningham . . .

Naomi groaned aloud on the mostly deserted sidewalk and, putting her hands on her hips, stopped in her tracks and tilted her head back to the sky.

Why? Why did she have to want him?

New plan, Naomi told herself, as she resumed walking the final blocks back to her apartment. Avoid the Cunningham men.