Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(63)

“Your handsome neighbor?”

“Maybe,” she muttered irritably.

He grinned, then picked up his plate. “I’m going to reheat this. You want me to heat yours first?”

She shook her head. “I’m done, actually.”

They both stood and moved toward the counter, him to put his plate in the microwave, her to rinse hers. Well. This was sexy.

Was she the only one still thinking about Saturday’s kiss?

The microwave beeped, and Oliver punched open the door, but instead of taking out the plate, turned back to her.

“Screw it,” he muttered, taking a step toward her.

She instinctively stepped back, even as her heart pounded.

“Wait. Wait. You don’t even like me,” Naomi said quickly.

He smiled. “Wrong. You don’t like me. I’ve never said a damn thing about not liking you.”

Her breath quickened at the intense look on his face. “You shouldn’t like me.”

“Call me crazy,” he murmured as he eased toward her, moving slowly as though not wanting to startle her. “But I’ve always been a sucker for beautiful women who play hard to get.”

She gave a nervous laugh as she stepped backward. “Trust me, that’s not what’s going on here.”

“No?” His hands slowly lifted, resting on either side of the counter as he leaned toward her, almost touching but not quite.

“I can’t breathe when you do that,” she whispered.

“When I do what?” His lips drifted over her jaw, a feather-light almost-kiss.

“When you look at me like that,” she said, her voice husky as his lips moved down her neck. “When you touch me.”

“I’ll back off if you want,” he said against her skin, his mouth coming back up to hover just over her lips. “Say the word and we can go back to antagonistic neighbors who set off fireworks every time we’re in the same room.”

She wanted to. She wanted to tell him that this would never work, that they were all wrong in ways he didn’t even know. That he would hate her if he knew who she really was, that she was the housekeeper’s daughter he’d so despised . . .

And there lay the crux of her issue. She’d started this driven by her loathing of the Cunninghams, but she was increasingly coming face-to-face with a more alarming reality:

That her anger was really fear. That she’d been clinging to her hatred of everything Oliver represented not because of old grudges, not even because of her promise to her mother, but because she was terrified that she would never be good enough. That at any minute, the life she’d so carefully built could come crashing down, taking it all away. And if she let Oliver in and then lost him . . .

He seemed to register her indecision, and though his gaze flickered with frustration, he started to pull away.

It was that. The fact that this man could not only read her but seemed to care about what she wanted.

Naomi’s hand reached out, fisted in the front of his T-shirt, and Oliver froze. Their gazes locked and held for a second. She pulled him forward at the same time he leaned in, their mouths colliding in a kiss that was somehow both sweet and frantic, a battle of wills that neither could lose.

Oliver’s palm spread wide against her back, her fingers slowly releasing his shirt so her arms could wind their way around his neck.

If the kiss on Saturday had been the promise, this was the delivery. The sort of kiss that ruined a girl for all other kisses in the future.

His other hand found her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, tilting her toward him so they both gasped.

His mouth moved once more down her neck, and Naomi’s head fell back. Something clattered to the ground as he lifted her onto the counter, but neither paused in their restless exploration of the other’s taste and touch.

Naomi’s legs wrapped around his waist, his hand finding her butt, pulling her close . . .

“Who’s there?”

They both froze.

Slowly Oliver pulled back, his gaze locking on hers for a moment before closing his eyes in resignation. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

“Ollie? What the hell you doing out there, boy?”

Naomi smiled a little at the childhood nickname, and Oliver’s forehead came down to rest on her shoulder with the slightest laugh. “Nothing. You need something?”

“Where’s your mom?”

Oliver stiffened under her arms, and Naomi’s heart went out to him. She wondered if it would ever get better. If it would ever not hurt to have his father lost in time, forcing his son to relive the fact that both of his parents were essentially lost to him, over and over . . .

Knowing the moment had passed, Naomi’s legs slowly dropped from around his waist, though she surprised herself by giving in to the urge to brush her hand against his hair in comfort.

He caught her hand just before it slipped away, holding her gaze as he pressed a quick kiss to her palm.

Then he helped her down as Walter shuffled into the kitchen, and she sent up a silent thank-you for all their sakes that he hadn’t been in one of his pants-off moods.

“Who are you?” he asked, blue eyes sleepy, hair wild.

“Hi, Walter,” she said, adjusting the hem of her shirt and refusing to feel embarrassed.

“Dad, this is Naomi. You know her.”