Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(77)

Right on cue, Naomi’s doorbell rang, and Claire gave her an innocent smile. “Don’t know who that could be.”

“Me neither, since I haven’t added anyone to my authorized guest list, and the doorman didn’t call to announce a visitor.”

“Well.” Claire picked imaginary lint off the sleeve of her sweater dress. “Hypothetically, a friend of yours could have mentioned to the doorman that you were expecting a visitor and to send him on up—”

Him . . .

Naomi went still. “Claire.”

Her friend was already moving toward the door, and even before she opened it, Naomi knew who was on the other side.

“Oliver, hi,” Claire said.

“Well, well,” Audrey said, with a knowing glance at Naomi. “Isn’t this an interesting episode of déjà vu.”

Even more so when Oliver entered the apartment carrying . . .

“Dom Pérignon!” Audrey announced excitedly, already reaching for the bottle of champagne. “At least we’ll get to enjoy it this time . . .” She caught Claire’s look. “Or, you know . . . not.”

“I’ve heard it’s excellent when served in a coffee mug,” Oliver said in a low voice.

Slowly Naomi forced herself to look at him, mentally cursing Claire for not telling her to change into something other than ratty sweatpants and Oliver’s Columbia shirt, which she’d “forgotten” to return.

His eyes dropped to the tee, then rose back up to hers. “Nice shirt.”

She put her hand to her stomach to calm the butterflies, ended up fisting the shirt, looking very much a flustered, awkward teen and not the cool, composed woman she’d imagined being the next time she saw him.

“You lied to me,” Oliver said quietly.

Claire was busily dragging Audrey toward the door, though they both gave an alarmed glance at that.

Naomi tried to wave them on with her eyes. Whatever Oliver needed to say to her had to come out. The sooner they did this, whatever it was, the sooner she could come to grips with the fact that she’d ruined things with them.

Audrey was clearly reluctant to leave, but she handed Oliver the champagne bottle as she passed him, along with a whisper that sounded suspiciously like, “She’s more fragile than she looks.”

Naomi wanted to deny it. To insist she wasn’t the fragile type, especially over a man, but it was hard to deny that she was incredibly close to shattering.

Oliver inclined his head slightly, taking the champagne bottle, but he didn’t give her friends another look as they scooted out the front door, pausing only long enough to make twin gestures to Naomi of “call me.”

Then the door was shut, and it was just Naomi and Oliver and a big, empty apartment.

He looked around. “Nice place.”

“Yeah.”

He looked back at her. “Sudden move.”

She refused to apologize. She would have told him she was moving if he’d bothered to be around. Or respond to any of her dozen messages.

“I don’t know that I belonged there.”

“No?” He asked it casually, looking down at the bottle as he did. “I don’t know if I do, either.”

Naomi frowned in confusion. “But you’re from there. You’ve always lived there.”

He said nothing, just stared at the label before holding the bottle up slightly.

Naomi answered just as silently, pulling two mugs off the counter that hadn’t found a shelf yet, and held them both out while he popped the cork.

Oliver filled both cups, set the bottle on a stack of boxes, and lifted his mug. “To your new home.”

She clinked her mug against his and took a sip, holding his gaze all the while.

Then she went for it. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“You lied,” he said again.

She closed her eyes. “Look, I can only apologize so much. I should have told you who I was—”

“You said that Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley became friends.”

Naomi blinked rapidly, trying to follow. “Um, what?”

“The other week, you read my dad Anne of Green Gables. The boy called Anne Carrots, much as I called you Carrots.”

“Right?”

“Well, I read it.”

Naomi gave a startled laugh. “You read Anne of Green Gables?”

“Whole series,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne. “You lied.”

“About—”

“Gilbert and Anne. They weren’t friends.”

“Well.” She fidgeted with her mug. “They were, they just . . .”

“They were a hell of a lot more than that.”

“Yeah. Okay,” she relented. “Gilbert called Anne Carrots because he was in love with her all along, that was the only way to get her attention. But surely you’re not comparing that story to . . . us. You didn’t call me Carrots because you were in love with me at ten.”

“Oh God no,” Oliver said, setting his mug beside the bottle on the boxes. “I hated you.”

She smiled at the emphatic tone.

“But I think I’m in love with you now.”

Naomi’s smile dropped, even as her heart soared. “What?”