Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(58)

Oliver didn’t know if Naomi had even heard of the concept of peace and quiet.

Though, perhaps that wasn’t fair. This past week and a half she had offered to watch his father, and she’d seemed oddly content to relax in his apartment . . .

Until she’d gotten bored, apparently. Until she’d gone on a date.

“I know that face. You’re chewing on a problem.”

Oliver turned toward the open door of his office to see one of his best contractors and longtime friends stroll through the door.

“Hey, man,” Oliver said with a genuine smile as he went to give Scott Turner a one-armed man hug. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

“Seattle. Just got back last Thursday,” Scott said, helping himself to one of the coffee pods Oliver’s assistant kept on an end table before popping it into the machine on the far side of the room.

“Right,” Oliver said, dropping into the chair at the small table he kept in his office. He liked to stand as he worked, so his actual desk was tall and facing the window. The table was reserved for client meetings, or in this case, catching up with friends. “How’d it go? Worth turning down my project?”

“Your project was a swanky hotel. You know that’s not my thing.”

“And weird museums are?”

“Pretty much,” Scott said, picking up his coffee mug and joining Oliver at the table. “Though, joke was on me. The project was cool on paper, but the client was a diva.”

“Hovered?”

Scott grunted in confirmation, and Oliver gave a single nod of understanding.

He and Scott Turner had met at Columbia, both setting out to get their masters in architecture. Scott had dropped out after the first year, realizing his passion was building, not design. He’d started his own construction firm, and though he kept it small, he was known as a perfectionist and had his choice of projects.

Oliver always recommended Turner Construction for his projects, knowing that Scott got Oliver’s designs in a way the bigger companies didn’t always see. But Scott was picky. If one of Oliver’s projects didn’t suit his mood, he went for something else.

Seattle, in this case.

“How was it, besides the douche client?” Oliver asked.

“Good. As rainy as they say, but my wardrobe certainly fit in better there.”

Oliver believed it. Though Scott had a loft apartment on the west side, he was no Manhattan yuppie. Come to think of it, Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend wear anything besides jeans and a T-shirt. Even now, in late October, Scott had layered a short-sleeve navy tee over a long-sleeve white T-shirt. There were no signs of the usual aviator glasses, but Oliver was betting they were tucked into the bomber jacket Scott had set over the back of the chair.

“So what’s next?” Oliver asked.

“TBD,” Scott said, taking a sip of the coffee and studying him. “I need a palate cleanser. Something . . . simple. Basic. You ever miss your earliest projects? Back before we knew how to do fancy and just sort of threw our backs into regular stuff?”

“No,” Oliver admitted. “But considering the first thing I ever saw you sketch was a log cabin, I think I know what you mean.”

“Yeah, well.” Scott rolled his shoulders in impatient irritation. “I want something like that. I want to gut something small, then take my time getting the details right.”

He nodded in the direction of Oliver’s desk. “What’re you workin’ on?”

Oliver tipped his chair back, leaning over nearly to the point of tipping over, to grab his sketch pad before dropping it on the table in front of Scott.

Scott picked it up, rubbed a palm absently over his chronic five o’clock shadow, which was really a twenty-four-hour shadow in Scott’s case. “Good old cock and balls. Nice.”

His friend tossed the pad aside—it really was a cock and balls Oliver had doodled on the pad in utter, uninspired boredom—and studied him. “Blocked?”

“No. I’m thinking a building of exactly that design would be perfect next to the High Line. Thoughts?”

“Plenty of people would get a kick out of it,” Scott said, propping a booted foot on his opposite knee. “I also think you’re avoiding my question. How’s Walter?”

“Good,” Oliver said. “I mean he’s not, but . . . no change.”

“Did the Tribeca fancies pick your design for that mixed-use monstrosity downtown?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said distractedly, pulling his pencil from behind his ear and fiddling with it.

“All right, so it’s not family. Not work. Woman.”

Oliver’s gaze flicked up and met Scott’s before moving away again.

“Nailed it,” Scott said, not bothering to hide the gloat. “Who is she? You haven’t taken up with that bitch Bridget again, have you?”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Oliver grumbled.

“I have. Many times. Any woman who’d walk away within a month of your dad’s diagnosis isn’t worth a second more of your thoughts.”

Oliver nearly reminded Scott that he, too, had been engaged. At the same time as Oliver. The two couples had been nearly inseparable at the time, though neither had made it to the altar. As much as Bridget bailing on Oliver had hurt, it had nothing on what Scott had gone through when Meredith cheated on him.