Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(61)

Naomi pulled out flannel pants and a T-shirt, handing them both to him. “Here you go. Let me know if you need help with the buttons.”

“Where’s Oliver?” His blue eyes were cloudy and a little scared.

“He’ll be home soon, okay?” she said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, relieved when his fear seemed to recede slightly. “You can wait up for him if you want.”

He nodded, but when Naomi knocked and came in a few minutes later to check on him, he was already in bed, covers tucked up to his chin, his gray hair spread out in tufts against the white pillowcase.

Naomi smiled a little as she turned off the nightstand lamp, acknowledging that her feelings about this man were complicated.

To say nothing of her feelings for his son.

She was just squirting some carpet cleaner on a stubborn yolk stain when Oliver came in the front door. He immediately winced when he saw her on her hands and knees. “One of those?”

“One of those,” she said, using her forearm to brush an errant hair out of her face.

“Sexy gloves though,” he said.

She held up her hands, covered in yellow rubber. “You like these, baby?”

“Stop. Don’t tease,” he said, dropping his briefcase by the front door.

For a moment they just looked at each other, a silent standoff to see if either would mention the kiss from a couple of nights before.

Instead he looked away, back down at her hands. “But seriously though, take those off. I’ll finish cleaning.”

“All good,” she said, standing and peeling off the gloves. She tilted her head, taking in the white plastic bag in his hand. “Takeout?”

“Chinese. Too much of it, probably, given that Dad’s already asleep.” He looked at the closed bedroom door. “How bad was he?”

“Lashed out more than usual,” she said, putting the carpet cleaner and gloves under the sink with the cleaning supplies. “Threw eggs, yelled at the TV, barked at some strangers in the park, made some saucy comments about liking his women curvy.”

Oliver gave her a sharp look. “He didn’t . . . he’s never . . . made a move?”

“Hmm?” Naomi was in the process of trying to untie the knot on the Chinese food bag, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. Her head snapped up when it did. “Oh. No. No.” She swallowed. “Why, has he . . . with Janice?”

“Not with Janice,” Oliver said quietly. “But he wasn’t . . . he wasn’t loyal to my mom. Sometimes he would have affairs right under her nose.”

Naomi had gone very still. It was the perfect opening. Tell him. Tell him who you are. Who your mother was.

And she was going to, she really meant to, but his eyes were so shadowed, he looked so utterly exhausted. And for the first time, Naomi realized that she wasn’t the only one impacted by Walter Cunningham’s actions. His son had paid the price as well.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

He stared for a long moment at the bag before giving a quick shake of his head. “No. Not right now. I want a beer and I want an egg roll and . . .”

He broke off, then smiled, then outright laughed.

She lifted her eyebrows. “Got an inside joke with yourself there, Cunningham?”

“An inside joke, though not with myself.” Then he looked up, his eyes a little lighter than before. “Actually, you cool if I leave you for just five minutes? I’ll be right back. I just need to grab something from my place.”

“Sure, no problem,” she said, tearing open the knot when she grew impatient with trying to untie it. “Just don’t expect me to wait before diving in. I’m starving.”

“Help yourself. Be right back.”

True to his word, Oliver was back in five minutes, and Naomi did a double take around a mouthful of chow mein. “Are you wearing . . . sweats?”

He grabbed a plate and began loading food onto it. “You sound surprised. What did you think I wore in my downtime?”

“Elbow patches?”

He gave her a look.

“Okay, no,” she said, taking a sip of water. “But I did imagine you had some sort of monogrammed robe.”

Again with that crooked smile that was almost painfully appealing. Combined with the tight black T-shirt, the low-slung gray sweatpants that did wonders for his, um . . .

He grinned wider now, taking a bite of egg roll. “Ms. Powell. Are you checking me out?”

“Your fault,” she said, pointing her chopsticks at him. “You kissed me the other night.”

“I did,” he said casually, dropping into the chair next to her.

“Why?”

He chewed his egg roll and swallowed, then helped himself to her water glass. “You figure it out yet?”

“No!” she said, pushing her plate aside. “You kiss me right before I’m supposed to go on a date. I ask you what happened. You tell me to figure it out, and I spend the entire date with another guy thinking about it, and—Why are you smiling?”

He just grinned wider and took another bite of egg roll. “You did figure it out. You just didn’t realize you did.”

“No,” she said, stabbing her chopsticks in his direction. “No more cryptic talk. Explain.”