Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(59)

“To her credit, Bridget did stick around through my mom’s illness,” Oliver said. “It wouldn’t have been fair to ask her to deal with another round.”

“Why not? You have to deal with it.”

“Can we not?” Oliver said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “This isn’t about Bridget. I haven’t even talked to her.”

“Ah. Someone new. Good. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, since you’re a real relationships guy,” Oliver said sarcastically. “You know, other than Bridget, I’ve never even met a woman you were seeing? Random chicks you take home from bars don’t count.”

“Good thing we’re not talkin’ about my love life, then,” Scott said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Talk to old Scotty. Who’s the girl who’s got you drawing this?” He flicked the notepad.

“New neighbor.”

Scott’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Tell me she’s under sixty.”

Oliver laughed. “She’s around our age. No idea why she moved into a building where the mean age is about seventy-four though.”

“You ever ask her?”

“I—” Oliver’s mouth dropped open. Had he? Maybe during the interview process. But as a person? Friend to friend? Interested man to woman?

“Truth be told, I don’t know much about her beyond what I’ve found on Wikipedia.”

“Hell, that sounds like trouble.”

“Not what you think. She’s a businesswoman, started some jewelry empire. Maxcessory?”

Scott shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

Shocker.

“Anyway, Naomi’s my neighbor, and she’s . . .”

“Hot?”

“Hot. Frustrating. A complete pain in my ass.”

“Sounds like a real dream come true. Any good qualities beyond the hot?”

“She’s good with Dad.”

Scott nodded in understanding. A woman being good with his father may not be the sexiest foundation for any relationship, but ever since Bridget had coldly left him when he’d needed her most, Oliver had promised himself he’d never get involved with a woman who couldn’t handle Walter—who didn’t understand that he and his father were a package deal.

“Okay, so she’s hot,” Scott said, holding out a thumb. “She likes Walter, and that’s no easy task . . .” He held out his pointer finger. “She’s built her own empire, so she’s not in it for the money,” he said, ticking off another point.

“So true,” Oliver muttered.

“So what’s the problem?”

“What do you mean?”

Scott shrugged. “Seems to me like a pretty clear-cut situation. You’re attracted to your new neighbor, and she hasn’t gone running off because of your family situation. Neither of those reasons explains why I’m getting major depressed vibes coming off you right now.”

“All right,” Oliver said, deciding to lay it all out there. “How about the fact that from the very second she saw me—literally, the very first second—she decided not to like me.”

Scott made a considering face, waggling his hand. “To be honest, dude, I didn’t like you much the first time I saw you, either.”

Oliver glared at his friend. “What?”

“You’re sort of . . .” Scott narrowed his brown eyes and studied Oliver. “Starchy.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Like your mom used to make you dress for the dinner table, and like you don’t own shirts without collars, and you have a cuff link collection that dates back four generations.”

“I do not have a cuff link collection.”

Though his mom had made him change for dinner growing up. And his amount of non-collared shirts wasn’t exactly numerous.

“Question,” Scott said, setting his mug aside and steepling his fingers. “You work for yourself, right?”

“Yes,” Oliver said impatiently. “You know that.”

“So you’re the boss.”

“Point?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.” Scott looked pointedly at Oliver’s pinstripe suit. “Nobody’s making you.”

“Correct,” Oliver said, smoothing a hand over this gray tie, “I’d just prefer not to look like a . . .”

Scott made a continue gesture with his hand. “Lumberjack? Bohemian? Vagabond? Construction worker?”

“I’m not walking into that trap,” Oliver muttered.

“Look, man, I got over it. Saw that you weren’t actually a prig, you just dressed like one. But it took me a while. People like you don’t generally associate with people like me, and I wasn’t exactly prepared for you to be decent.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘people like you’?” Oliver asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Where am I from?” Scott asked.

“Ah . . .” Oliver racked his brain, was a little embarrassed to realize he had no idea.

“Exactly. Never told you. Why? Because you were born and raised and still live on Park Avenue. Me? A shitty little town in New Hampshire you’ve never heard of, in a two-bedroom house I shared with my dad and three brothers. Two of my brothers still live there. Hell, I probably would, too, had I not decided to elbow my way the hell out, but it doesn’t mean I’m not braced every damn day for someone to see right through me.”