Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(70)

“You don’t drink it.”

“No, I do,” she said, flopping back down on the pillow. “As long as it’s like, half coffee, half sweet creamer stuff.”

He winced as he pulled sweatpants out of a dresser drawer. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Where’s your key?”

“Hmm?”

“Your apartment key. I don’t think I even have milk, but if you have the makings to bastardize coffee in your place, I can go grab it.”

“Back pocket of my jeans,” she said, sitting up and pulling the sheet under her armpits. “Which are . . .”

Oliver picked them up from the doorway, where they’d been dropped. Flung? Hmm.

“I’ll go,” she said as he held up the key.

“You’ll stay. I find I’m really liking the looks of you in my bed.”

“Good, because I’m pretty damn happy to be here.”

Naomi flopped back on the pillows as he disappeared.

Several minutes later, he reappeared with two steaming mugs and her trusty Coffee-mate tucked under his arm.

“Okay, I added some,” he said, setting one of the mugs on the nightstand and handing her the other. “I was assuming you didn’t literally mean half-and-half, but . . .”

“No, I meant it,” she said, waggling her fingers for the bottle of vanilla creamer.

“I don’t think I can watch this,” he muttered, handing her the bottle and pulling a spoon out of his pocket.

She added a generous dollop more and stirred. “You know it’s right when it’s mostly white with just a little hint of brown.”

He stared at her, horrified. “I think I want to break up.”

Naomi popped the spoon in her mouth, sucked it clean.

Oliver blinked. “Or not.”

“Break up. Seems to me in order to break up, we’d first have to be . . . together?” she asked, taking a sip of the perfectly sweetened coffee.

Oliver sat on the edge of the bed. “Seems like it.”

Are we? she wanted to ask.

She didn’t. Because she couldn’t, in good conscience, ask him to think of her like a girlfriend when he didn’t even know her. Didn’t know their history.

Damn it, she’d done that thing.

That thing where you wait too long to tell someone something important, and what would have been merely an awkward conversation now felt monumental.

“Oliver—”

“Naomi.” His voice was steady. Calm. Because he was steady and calm. He was a rock. For his mother when she was sick, for his father now. He was that guy. The one people could count on. The one who stuck around when shit got difficult.

She studied him, trying to remember the monstrous little boy he’d been and . . . couldn’t. Adult Oliver had replaced all memories of crappy, brat Oliver. The boy she’d hated had become a man she—

“Do you want to go to brunch?” she blurted out. “There’s this great little place in the Village with the most amazing French toast and eggs Benedict. It’s impossible to get into without reservations, but one of my employees is dating the owner, so I could probably get us a spot at the bar . . .”

Even as she babbled, she saw the light go out of his eyes, watched as he shut down.

“You don’t like brunch?”

Never before had she seen someone dim so much at the mention of French toast.

“No, I do.” He rubbed a hand over his hair, looking suddenly exhausted. “It’s just—it’s not really a luxury I’ve been able to indulge in the past couple years.”

Ah. “Walter.”

He looked at her, eyes tired. Apologetic. “Janice does brunch and church with her sister’s family every Sunday. I’m on Walter duty. If I know in advance, I can sometimes make it work, but—”

“No, of course,” Naomi interrupted, holding up her hand. “I should have realized . . . I know you’re usually with him on weekends. And evenings.”

“Rethinking that together thing?” he asked, his eyes bleak as he looked at her.

Yes, but not for the reason you think.

“Maybe you’re right,” Naomi said quietly. “This whole thing is complicated. It’s happened fast. If we could just slow down for a second—”

“Naomi. I get it,” he said. “It’s like I told you the other day, I don’t hold it against anyone who wants no part of this, but this is also my life. You’re young, gorgeous, successful. You deserve the brunches and the fancy happy hours and the late-night dinners. But that’s never going to be with me. Not anytime soon.”

She nodded because it was easier to let him think that was the reason she was walking away than the real reason.

Naomi took another sip of coffee before handing him the mug. “I’ll get dressed.”

He stayed still for a minute, looking at her with undisguised regret before he stood and took both mugs into the kitchen. Naomi got out of the bed, finding her underwear and jeans, then wincing when she realized her bra and shirt were still in the living room.

Deciding that borrowing a T-shirt without asking was decidedly less embarrassing than leaving the bedroom topless, she helped herself to a Columbia University shirt she found in a drawer.

Oliver did a double take when she came out of the bedroom wearing it but said nothing as she picked up her bra and shirt as calmly as possible, wrapping the bra inside the shirt in case she ran into any other neighbors on the way back to her apartment.