Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(76)

“Hi,” she said nervously. “I didn’t—how long have you been here?”

He shrugged. “A while.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut in on your time with him. You could have kicked me out.”

“And missed story time?” he said with a slight smile.

She looked down, feeling embarrassed. “Ah, yeah. It’s an old favorite. He seems to like it. Well, at least until he fell asleep.”

Oliver nodded but said nothing else.

She forced a smile. “Well. It’s good to see you. And thank you, truly, for letting me see him. I would have understood if you’d said no.”

Still, he said nothing, his expression watchful.

Naomi forced yet another smile and walked toward the door. He straightened, making way for her to pass, careful not to touch her.

“Take care, Oliver,” she said, keeping her voice light.

“You, too.”

He let her get halfway down the hall before calling her back. “Hey, Naomi?”

She turned back.

He jerked his chin at her purse. “That book you were reading. The girl—Anne. Her nickname was Carrots. Sounds familiar.”

She laughed. “You were listening quite a while. And yeah, it was only her nickname in the mind of Gilbert, who was sort of her tormentor.”

“Ah. Whatever happened to them?”

“To who?”

“Anne and Gilbert.”

“They eventually became friends,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She was a little at a loss as to why they were discussing the fictional characters of Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe when they had major unresolved issues between them.

Oliver studied her a moment, then nodded and stepped into his father’s room without another word.

“Um, okay,” Naomi muttered to herself.

Still, she was a little proud of herself as she left the building. At least she hadn’t broken down and told him how much she missed him.

Her heart might belong to Oliver. But her pride was still her own.





SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1

I just want to point out that we’ve been friends for fewer than six months, but I have helped you move twice. Surely there should be an award for that.”

Claire paused in the process of unwinding packing material from a serving dish and gave Audrey an incredulous look. “You realize that help is a strong word in your case, right?”

“Hey, I’m doing stuff,” Audrey said, lifting her wine mug from where she sat perched on Naomi’s new kitchen counter. “I told those cute boys where to put the dresser.”

“You’re a real lifesaver, dear,” Naomi said, patting her friend’s knee.

“Right? I do love this place though. I mean, the other place was okay, too, but I did think it was sort of an odd choice for you. It smelled like mothballs in the hall.”

“A little bit,” Naomi agreed, ripping open another box marked KITCHEN and pulling out her pasta pot.

“This is much more you,” Audrey said, hopping off the counter and spinning in a circle.

“How much wine have you had?” Claire muttered.

“Enough.” Audrey went to the window overlooking the Hudson River. “You know, I hardly ever come to the west side?”

“No,” Claire said, sounding scandalized. “We are shocked. Just shocked, aren’t we, Naomi?”

Naomi only smiled, relishing the sound of her friends’ good-natured bickering because it meant that she didn’t have to deal with her own thoughts.

Not that she didn’t love her new apartment. Audrey was exactly right. It was more her. A brand-new high-rise on the west side of Manhattan, in a trendy neighborhood, Naomi’s new apartment was perhaps the opposite of 517 Park Avenue, with its impeccable pedigree and old-money vibes.

Naomi may be new money. She may not be of the fur coat and Scotch set. She may drink cheap wine out of cheap glasses and fail to appreciate “good coffee,” whatever that meant, because it was all good with enough sugar . . .

But she was successful. She was financially secure, and then some. She was happy.

Well. Mostly happy.

She was sort of happy.

She was getting there, damn it.

She missed Oliver.

As she unwrapped a skillet, she noticed Claire checking her watch. For the fifth time in less than twenty minutes.

“Claire.”

“Hmm?”

“Got somewhere to be?”

“No! No, not at all, actually.”

“Well, maybe you would, if you’d given Naomi’s blind-date setup a chance.”

“I already told you, he was nice, I had a good time. And I have no intention of going out with him or anyone else for at least a year,” Claire said.

“Why a year?”

“I’ve decided it’s the proper amount of time for a widow to mourn before getting back on the dating horse.”

“It kills me to say so, but you’ve been right all along,” Naomi said glumly. “I should have waited a year. Maybe then I’d have been smart enough not to get involved with Oliver . . .”

Damn it! How long would that last? The agonizing drop in her stomach every time she so much as thought of his name.

Claire checked her watch again, and Naomi tossed the box cutter on the counter and crossed her arms. “Spill. What are we counting down to?”