Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(68)

Naomi dropped her hand and opened her eyes. “Actually? Yeah.”

Claire frowned. “You sounded upset. And pissed.”

“Oh, I am. But I also just had an epiphany.”

“Ooh, I love those! What kind?”

Naomi smiled. “The kind where you realize your story has a twist ending. And you had the wrong villain all along.”





SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3

Oliver was sitting on his couch, whisky in hand, college football on in the background, hunched over his coffee table as he searched for the puzzle piece that had been eluding him the entire quarter.

Normally he searched with ruthless determination for a rogue piece, refusing to quit until he found it. Instead, he flopped back into the couch cushions.

It was no use. He’d been trying to convince himself that he was enjoying having a night to himself. Trying to remember that he used to relish nights exactly like this one, with a drink, a puzzle, the game . . .

But what he really wanted was to be cozied up with the redhead next door.

Preferably naked.

His phone buzzed, and he picked it up, wincing when he saw it was a text from Janice saying that although Walter had finally gone down for bed, he’d been more difficult than usual.

Oliver told her to let him know if Walter got up again and wouldn’t settle, though he sent up a quick prayer that it wouldn’t come to that. He’d been on Walter duty last night, and it had been more exhausting than usual. Lately nothing seemed to please his dad, and he let his displeasure be known through increasingly violent means. Throwing, kicking, shoving . . .

Oliver pulled up the reminders on his phone, made a note to give Walter’s doctor a call on Monday to discuss the recent behavioral changes.

The game went to commercial, and Oliver was standing up for a whisky refill when there was a knock at the door. Not Walter or Janice. He knew both Walter’s pounds and Janice’s brisk taps.

This was more . . . tentative.

He opened the door and blinked, wondering if he’d conjured her up. “Naomi?”

She was wearing jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, looking very much . . . well, girl next door. Literally.

“Come in,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray just how happy he was to see her. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off when he was finally close to breaking through her walls.

She stepped inside and looked around. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been in here?”

“Is it? That can’t be.”

She nodded. “You’ve been in my place, but the rest of the time we’re always in Walter’s.”

“Ah. Well . . . eat your heart out.”

“It’s very . . .”

“Bachelor pad?”

“Well, it looks like you just moved in,” she said, looking at the bare walls, the minimal furniture.

He rubbed a hand over his neck, trying to see it through her eyes. It was depressingly barren. What was even more depressing was that he’d never really noticed. It was a place to eat and sleep in between work and Walter duties.

“I guess decorating’s not really my forte.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, wandering around. She paused when she looked down at the coffee table, at the puzzle, then shot him a bemused look. “Really?”

“Told you I liked puzzles.”

“I thought you were joking,” she said, bending over to get a better look at the London scene. Or at least, what would be the London scene. He hadn’t even finished the border pieces of this one yet.

“How do you even know where to start?” she asked, picking up a piece, running a finger around the edge as she studied it.

He watched her for a moment, wondering what sort of childhood had resulted in someone never doing a puzzle.

“Well,” he said slowly, coming around to stand beside her. “It’s like I said a while ago: you start with the corner pieces.”

She smiled and looked up at him. “I remember. You thought you’d found one of mine.”

“I know I did.”

“What’d you figure out?”

He held her gaze. “That you don’t trust people. And that you definitely don’t trust men.”

“Yeah, well.” She dropped the piece back to the coffee table. “That applies to most of the women of Manhattan.”

“Because of Brayden?”

She shrugged lightly. “Because of a lot of things. In my experience, men generally aren’t . . . nice.”

“I am.”

She looked up at him again. “Yeah,” she said slowly, as though surprised. “You are.”

His gaze dropped to her lips.

Just friends, he reminded himself. He’d meant what he’d told her the other day. He didn’t think he could survive another Bridget. Couldn’t handle another woman who couldn’t handle Dad. Couldn’t risk falling for her only to watch her walk away.

She bent to the table again, this time to pick up his cup. She sniffed the contents. “High West?”

The woman knew his favorite whisky by scent?

It was too damn late. He was already falling for her. Falling for every one of her moods, and there were many. Falling for her strength and her vulnerabilities, falling for the fact that she was kind even when she didn’t want to be . . .