Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(60)

Oliver stared at his friend. It was a monotone, dispassionate delivery, but his words were . . . telling. It was more than Scott had ever told him. But before he could think of what to say, Scott was pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Let’s test this out. What’s this girl’s name?”

Oliver told him, and Scott typed it into his phone. “Here we go. ‘Naomi Powell, best known’ blah, blah, blah. Ah. ‘Born and raised in the Bronx, Powell has cited her poor upbringing as a major motivator . . .’ ”

Scott looked at Oliver over the phone. “You haven’t read this?”

“No, I have,” Oliver said, shifting in his chair. “So it’s a rags-to-riches story.”

Scott shook his head and put his phone away, his point made. “Sure, but I bet you anything there’s a part of her that still sees herself in the rags, and meanwhile you’re . . .”

“Starchy,” Oliver said, realizing what his friend was getting at.

Scott spread his hands to the side. “My work here is done.”

Oliver laughed. “Like hell it is. You’ve merely insulted me and given me literally zero advice.”

“You know when I first realized you weren’t a complete asswag?” Scott asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Can’t wait to hear.”

“Study group, just shortly before I quit. Remember, it was at your place, and there was supposed to be that cute blond girl with the great rack, but she got sick last minute and never showed, so it was just the two of us?”

Oliver shrugged. “Vaguely?”

“Well, I was dreading the hell out of it, fully expecting you to serve cucumber sandwiches off china plates.”

“And?”

“And you answered the door holding an egg roll, wearing Nike joggers and an undershirt with soy sauce down the front.”

“Jesus,” Oliver said with a laugh.

“That was when I knew we could be friends. When I knew you were real. When I knew there was a man beneath the priss,” Scott said, standing and picking up his mug.

“I think it’s going to take a little more than spilled soy sauce to win over Naomi.”

“All right, so evolve your methods,” Scott said matter-of-factly. “But you want a chance, Cunningham, you’ve got to show this woman that there’s a man beneath those pinstripes.”

“I feel like this conversation just turned weird.”

“Says the man doodling penises.”

Oliver picked up the sketch pad, then flipped it around. “Maybe I can just show her this?”

Scott gave him a boyish grin. “If you take my advice, I’d say you’ve got a pretty decent chance of showing her the real thing.”

Aaaand sold.





MONDAY, OCTOBER 29

Walter, I swear to God, I’m not going to handle it well if you throw that egg at me,” Naomi said, lifting a finger in warning.

The older man gave her a dirty look but to her surprise—and relief—opted to take a bite out of the egg rather than hurl it at her, as he had the past two. She’d dodged them just in time, but he’d thrown them with enough force to send the makings of egg salad crumbling all over the carpet.

“Okay, I’m going to clean this up,” she said, pointing at the eggs. “And you are going to say sorry.”

He chewed, glaring at her mutinously. “Who are you? Where’s Margaret? Get the hell out of my house.”

Naomi inhaled and made a mental note to ask if Janice was Catholic, because if so, Naomi was seriously going to nominate her for sainthood for dealing with this every damn day.

“My name is Naomi. I’m taking care of you while Janice is taking care of her father.”

“Janice,” he said slowly, squinting as he did when he was trying to put pieces together.

“Yep. You remember her?” Naomi asked, taking the trash can from under the sink and carrying it around with her as she began picking up bits of egg.

“Sure, I remember Janice. Mannish.”

“Walter!” Naomi said, giving him a glare. “Be nice.”

She’d never met Janice, so she had no idea if Walter was remembering her or someone else, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to one of his jackass rampages.

“I like ’em curvy,” he muttered.

“Yeah? Margaret was a real hourglass, huh?” she asked, gingerly picking up a piece of egg white.

He snorted. “Margaret? She was a beanpole.”

Naomi slowly stood up. “So, when you said you like ’em curvy, you meant women other than your wife?”

Women like my mother?

He took another sip of water and said nothing.

“Walter?”

“Hmm?”

Naomi opened her mouth to push him, then closed her eyes in self-loathing. Was she seriously doing this? Using a man’s confusion to get answers for her own sake.

No. She was better than that. Better than him.

She noticed his eyes had a vacant, sleepy look, and she sighed, setting the trash aside.

“Come on, let’s get you ready for bed.”

He nodded, and she was grateful it wouldn’t be one of those battles to get him to change into pajamas.

She walked with him to his bedroom, and as usual, refused to look at the bed, knowing full well what had happened there between him and her mother decades earlier.