Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(57)

Naomi had started to open her mouth to tell him that she could date whomever she wanted, when she wanted, but then his actual words sank in and her mouth snapped shut.

“Oh. Thanks.”

He grinned. “Sure.”

And then he walked past her, whistling on his way to the garbage chute. Whistling!

So much for her worrying about telling him—or thinking that he’d care.

Naomi took a deep breath to gather her thoughts before she pivoted on her heel and headed toward the stairs.

Oliver was just coming out of the trash room as she reached the stairwell, and he gave her a perfunctory, neighborly smile as they passed. She returned the smile with gritted teeth, not entirely sure why she was mad at him, but her temper simmered all the same as she reached for the door to the stairs.

“Oh, hey, Naomi,” he said, snapping his fingers as though just remembering something.

She turned, startled because he was right there. “What’s up?”

“Just this,” he said.

Then his hand slid beneath her hair, cupping the back of her neck, as his mouth came down on hers.

Her eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected kiss, then fluttered closed because it was also a really good kiss. Firm, yet teasing, full of possession and promise and . . .

Then it was over. Way too fast.

Dazed, it took Naomi a full fifteen seconds to open her eyes after he pulled away, another ten to remember her own name. “What—what was that?”

Instead of answering, he reached out and gently brushed the pad of his thumb beneath her lower lip. “Your lipstick’s smeared.”

“Whose fault is that?” she muttered, her voice a little shaky.

His hand dropped from her face and he shoved both hands into his pockets, rocking backward on his heels. “Sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

She searched frantically for some witty retort, but instead she found her gaze locked on his mouth. Wanting a repeat. A long repeat.

Finally she lifted her gaze back to his. “Want to explain what just happened?”

“Nah.” He continued to rock on his heels looking boyish and painfully appealing.

“But—”

“Naomi.” He stopped rocking and gave her a look that heated her to her very core. “Figure it out.”

With that, he turned and walked back to his apartment, resuming his whistling and looking as though he had no idea that he’d managed to turn Naomi Powell’s world upside down with one simple, unforgettable kiss.





MONDAY, OCTOBER 29

Oliver picked up his glasses and pencil for the tenth time in an hour, only to toss them back onto his standing desk. Also for the tenth time in an hour.

It was no use. It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to land the Gabe Green project, he wouldn’t be able to draw so much as a single straight line until he could get a certain red-haired temptress out of his mind.

Not an easy task, considering he now had the memory of her taste and feel to contend with.

Kissing her on Saturday had been . . . a mistake.

No, not a mistake, because he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

It had been a misstep—what he should have done was kissed her and not stopped.

He should have backed her up against the wall, wrapped her legs around his waist, and told her to forget the date. To forget the other guy. To be his.

Instead he’d let her walk away, hoping like hell that his gamble would pay off, that she’d realize that if she was ready to start dating again after Brayden, that the right guy was right here . . .

Oliver dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he realized his train of thought. Was he the right guy? For anyone? There was a reason his fiancée had bailed on him years earlier.

He barely had time to take a shower in between work and Walter obligations, much less make it to the gym. Much less squeeze in a date. Much less have a girlfriend.

Especially a girlfriend like Naomi, who wasn’t exactly the easy, docile, low-maintenance type. The woman was fire and energy, and at the top of her game. He’d done his homework. Her company, that she’d so modestly dismissed as a “start-up,” was valued at close to a billion.

A billion! And yet the woman had zero trace of snobbery. If anything, her dislike of him seemed to be because of his perceived snobbery. Oliver had never been quite so aware of the stigma of being born with money, which he could understand if it was from someone who had none, but Naomi Powell was loaded.

From what he could tell, her life had been one long string of interviews and photo shoots and 30-under-30 features. She was frequently photographed at the newest restaurants, seen dancing at the hottest clubs, often with some beefed-up arm candy by her side.

Oliver didn’t fit into that picture. Old Oliver maybe could have swung it. He’d never been one for late nights and clubbing, but he hadn’t been stodgy, either. He liked to go out, have a few drinks, maybe one too many. He liked the satisfaction of wowing a woman with reservations at some swanky place. Hell, he didn’t even mind the occasional black-tie affair necessitating a penguin suit and small talk.

But that wasn’t his life now. It couldn’t be. He was lucky if he got one night off a week, and those were usually spent catching up on work, trying to maintain the few friendships he still had left, or just getting some damned peace and quiet.