Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(43)

Naomi’s mouth was suddenly very dry, her pulse a little . . . jumpy.

And she was definitely no longer cold.

“Dad,” Oliver said, his eyes closing in relief. “Dad, you can’t do that!”

“Can’t do what?” Walter said, going inside. “Why are you wearing a towel?”

“Because I was in the shower,” Oliver said in exasperation. “You were still asleep, and—Never mind.” He broke off on a deflated sigh, running his hand through his wet hair.

He still hadn’t acknowledged Naomi, which was probably a good thing, considering she seemed to be having a heck of a time remembering how to breathe. And an even harder time looking away from his bare chest.

He was . . . well, nicely shaped. She’d suspected as much from the way he filled out his suit, but the reality was even better than expected. She found herself wondering what he did for exercise, because she suspected it wasn’t Jazzercise or squash, and the cut of his biceps told her he did more than run.

There seemed to be no fat on the man—his torso was narrow as it tapered down into the navy towel knotted around his waist, and—

Oliver cut his eyes over to her without moving his head, and their gazes collided.

Whoops.

She’d definitely been caught ogling the man she’d all but ordered out of her life.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough and a little hesitant. “I was in the shower for less than five minutes, I thought—then he was just gone—”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly, reassuring him. “Walter’s fine. I caught up to him before he got more than a block away.”

His eyes closed. “I was just calling the neighbors. Usually he sticks within the building, but if he’s starting to go outside . . .”

Her heart went out to him at the genuine anguish on his face. Not only because of the magnitude of terror he must feel at the thought of his father wandering alone in New York City, but because he knew the days of his father living at home were perhaps limited.

And even with their antagonistic moment from Friday fresh on her mind, even with the memories of their childhood always lurking, she realized she wanted to help. She couldn’t slow the progression of Alzheimer’s, but maybe she could help in a small way.

“Do you want me to stay with him while you finish getting dressed?” she asked, even as she realized that watching Walter would mean entering the apartment—the same apartment where her mother’s life had completely gone off the rails.

Closure. Remember? That’s what you’re after.

Oliver gave her a startled look, then glanced down at his body and groaned, obviously just now realizing his state of undress. “God.”

She gave a small, hesitant smile. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve got a few miles’ worth of sweat on me.”

Naomi immediately regretted the careless admission, because his gaze raked over her, and she felt it. Sure, she was more clothed than him, but her blood was still pumping from the run, her emotions still simmering from the other night, and there was a rawness in the air.

No, that was too vague. There was a rawness between them. A heat that she didn’t want, and sure as heck didn’t know what to do with.

A loud thump from inside the apartment ruined the moment, as did Walter’s muttered cursing. Oliver closed his eyes, as though for patience. “It’s been one of those mornings. If you could just keep an eye on him for five minutes. Two minutes . . .”

“Absolutely,” she said, already stepping inside, her eyes going to Walter, who was near the coffee table. The thump they’d heard was a pile of books, and Naomi went immediately to pick them up.

“You don’t have to do that,” Oliver said, closing the door to the apartment.

“Better me than you in a towel,” she said with a sly grin over her shoulder.

He winced. “Right. I’ll be back.”

“I’ve got this, Walter,” she said to the other man. “You can go ahead and sit down.”

“Who are you?” he asked irritably, doing as she suggested and lowering himself to the recliner.

“I’m Naomi.”

“Are you here to see him?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the room Oliver had disappeared into.

“Nope, here to see you.” She stacked the books on the coffee table, noting that while most were generic coffee-table books with fancy colors and pretty photographs, there was also a Stephen King novel that, while seemingly brand-new, didn’t at all look like it went with the others.

“This yours, Walter?” she asked, holding up the book.

He looked at it blankly. If it was his, he obviously didn’t remember. Though it could have just as easily been Janice’s. Or Oliver’s.

She ran a finger down the spine. It was one of his newer titles that she hadn’t read yet.

“I used to love Stephen King,” she told Walter, even as he reached for the remote and turned on the TV, ignoring her completely.

“What happened?”

Naomi whipped her head around to where Oliver was coming out of the bathroom. His hair was still damp, but he’d shaved and was dressed in a black sweater and jeans. The first time she’d seen him without a suit, and she tried not to notice that he looked just as good dressed in upscale casual as he did in business formal.