Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(45)

The woman nodded politely as she and Naomi passed each other, and Naomi listened numbly as Oliver and Serena Grogan made each other’s acquaintance.

She couldn’t resist a quick glance back over her shoulder, but Oliver had already closed the door, shutting her out.

It was just as she wanted, and yet . . . it wasn’t at all.





TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16

Oliver had been fighting a losing battle against an impending headache since three that afternoon, and the now-unmistakable sound of a hard-boiled egg hitting the wallpaper in the kitchen was like a jackhammer on his temple.

He’d set up a makeshift office in his dad’s guest room for the day, wanting to stay close and get some work done as Walter and Serena got used to each other.

At least that had been the intention. In reality, he hadn’t gotten more than five minutes of uninterrupted time to deal with a single email, and as far as Walter and Serena getting used to each other . . . there’d been little to no progress.

Oliver went to the open door and looked out into the kitchen, watching as Serena calmly and quietly whisked away the plate and water cup that she’d placed in front of Walter for dinner.

“How about some TV, Walter? Your son said you enjoy the History Channel?” she asked, her voice never losing its pleasant hum, even as she went to pick up the egg from the carpet and drop it into the trash.

She paused as she saw Oliver, apparently noting his tension, because she gave him a reassuring smile.

He wasn’t reassured. He knew he didn’t need to apologize. Knew his father didn’t have a grasp on what he was doing, but he felt like apologizing anyway.

His father had been a menace all day. Not just the usual mood swings and unpredictability of dementia, but something different. For whatever reason, he’d decided he didn’t like Serena, and his dislike of her seemed to transcend all moods and waves of memories.

To the woman’s credit, she didn’t seem to mind. No doubt she’d dealt with it before, if not worse. In Oliver’s opinion, women like Serena and Janice were saints. Yes, they were paid for their work, but it took a special sort of person to treat Walter with unwavering patience. Walter’s former friends didn’t do it. His surviving siblings didn’t do it. Hell, Oliver wasn’t above losing his cool with his father on a particularly rough day.

Janice and Serena though, they never seemed fazed.

Naomi never seemed fazed.

Oliver leaned a shoulder on the doorway, absently watching as Serena coaxed Walter over to the living room, even as his mind was on a different woman altogether.

“Leave me the hell alone,” Walter grumbled at her as she tried to put a blanket over his legs.

Oliver entered the room, smiling apologetically at Serena as he went to his father, but Walter persisted in his bad mood.

He shoved at Oliver, “You’re in the way.” He gave a suspicious look to the kitchen, where Serena had started doing the dishes. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Serena, Dad. She’s going to keep you company for the next couple weeks while I go to work.”

“I don’t want company.”

“It’s not up for debate,” Oliver said, hearing the tiredness in his own voice.

“Where’s Janice?”

“Her father’s sick. She’s caring for him.”

“Thought we paid her to care for me. Don’t like her.” He pointed at Serena accusingly.

“Dad, give her a chance.”

“Where’s the other one?” Walter demanded.

“The other what?”

“The girl. The one you like with the orange hair.”

Oliver froze, a little surprised his father recalled someone he’d met only twice. “Naomi?”

Walter gave him a conspiratorial smile, and Oliver would have warmed to his father’s rare attempt to connect as father and son if it hadn’t been over the one person Oliver was trying desperately not to think about.

“Where is she?” Walter asked again. “I like her better than that one.” He said it loudly, then pointed at Serena again.

There was no way the blond caretaker wasn’t overhearing this, and Oliver gave her an apologetic wince across the room, but she smiled and gave a quick wave of her hand as she continued cleaning the counter.

“Naomi’s not your caretaker, Dad. She’s just our neighbor.”

Walter’s expression turned mutinous, and defeated, Oliver lifted his hands in resignation. Naomi had offered, and Oliver was tired. So tired.

“What about this, Dad? I’ll ask if Naomi can help sometimes, if you be nice to Serena the rest of the time.”

Walter gave Serena one last dirty look, then a defiant nod.

Oliver exhaled in relief. It was probably a futile argument, since his father more than likely would forget who they all were tomorrow, if not in the next moment, but Oliver was determined to make Walter’s lucid moments as bearable as possible, and if that meant Naomi . . .

Oh, who was he kidding. His desire to have Naomi around had very little to do with his father. He was going to figure that woman out if it killed him. And it might. Or she might.

Oliver went back into the kitchen to Serena. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ve been doing this far too long to take anything personally.”