by Lauren Layne
Instead, she was Naomi Fields. The bony nine-year-old girl in hand-me-down clothes who didn’t belong in this part of town and had been reminded of it every damn day.
Grinding her teeth against the memory, Naomi straightened her shoulders and marched up the steps, chin held high.
The foyer smelled familiar, but she ignored the familiarity as she announced herself to the doorman and was pointed toward the small office to the right that she’d always darted past as a girl. The gray-haired woman behind the old-fashioned secretary’s desk was somewhere between middle-aged and senior citizen and probably had been for a very long time.
She peered at Naomi over her glasses. “May I help you?”
“I’m Naomi Powell. I have an appointment?”
“Yes, of course,” the woman murmured, turning toward a pile of manila file folders to her right and handing the top one to Naomi.
“Your interview is scheduled at twelve thirty. Have a seat in the office to your left, and take a moment to review your file. We received it by mail, which is why it’s a bit wrinkled.”
The censure in the woman’s tone was clear, but Naomi ignored it. What she should have asked was why she even had a file in the first place, by mail or otherwise.
Instead she nodded and took the file, going into the office indicated—a stuffy little sitting room with even stuffier furniture, and sat in a chintz chair opposite a large wooden desk. She opened the folder.
Her breath whooshed out. Not at the application itself—that was run-of-the-mill—but at the handwriting on the application. Her late mother’s penmanship had always been the most dignified thing about her. Elegant, swooping script that belied Danica Fields’s tattoos, chain-smoker’s hack, and coarse accent.
“Oh, Mom,” Naomi whispered quietly, running a finger over her name. “What did you do?”
A quick scan through the stack of papers confirmed Naomi’s fears: her mother had applied on Naomi’s behalf to live here, in the very building that her mother had mostly referred to as the Hellmouth.
Naomi’s gaze found the signature at the bottom of the page. As expected, it was her own name but written in her mother’s precise cursive. She looked at the date beside the signature: March 21.
Six months ago. And just two weeks before her mother’s death.
Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Naomi closed the folder, clasped her hands in her lap, and waited.
And waited.
After five minutes, she began watching the old-fashioned clock on the wall that ticked tauntingly at her. After ten, she began glaring at the clock.
Whoever was “interviewing” her was late.
Naomi stood, intending to tell the woman at the front desk that she didn’t have time for this. Heck, she didn’t even want it in the first place. Naomi didn’t need an apartment. Especially one that, given the date on her mother’s application, had a six-month waiting list.
And even if she did need a place to live, she wouldn’t have come to a stodgy place like this, which probably used the word pedigree when deciding whom to accept.
Although, if Naomi was honest with herself, the very thing she disdained about these people was the reason she was here in the first place. She had an almost-morbid curiosity to see if they’d accept her application.
Because although her pedigree was more mutt than pure breed, she was a mutt with a diamond collar. In the eight years since its launch, Maxcessory had gone from a tiny one-woman gig out of her East Village studio to a thriving business with seven-figure funding, hundreds of employees, and offices in New York and San Francisco and soon to open in Los Angeles.
If the co-op wanted to reject her application, she’d make them do it to her face, make them say out loud that her blood wasn’t blue enough. Because God knew her money was certainly green enough.
But before she could go tell the receptionist to shove it, she heard voices. The first belonged to the receptionist, Victoria, but the second was the gravelly rumble of a man’s voice. Her interviewer, perhaps?
Whoever it was, he was apparently unaware—or didn’t care—that the door was open a crack and she could hear every word of their conversation.
“Find someone else to do it,” the man demanded. “The co-op process is archaic.”
Naomi raised her eyebrows. She didn’t disagree, but it was hardly the attitude she’d been expecting.
“Don’t be a child,” the woman said in a bossy tone. “Get in there and interview the girl.”
“Have Doreen do it. She loves this stuff.”
“She’s in Miami with her latest boy toy. The Italian.”
Naomi’s eyes lifted. Well done, Doreen.
There was a soft curse. “What about Janet? Or Ned? They both get off on asking candidates who their ‘people’ are.”
“They’ve already done more than their fair share of interviews. We had hundreds of applicants, and more than fifty passed the initial screening. Everyone has to take a turn with the interviews, and they told me to give you this one.”
“Why?” the man grunted.
“I don’t have the faintest idea, but the poor thing’s been in there close to twenty minutes. Here’s her paperwork. Just pretend to consider her, and then we can all go on with our day.”
Naomi’s eyes narrowed. Pretend to consider her? How was she out of the running already?
Because you’re trash. And they can sense it.
Naomi closed her eyes against the voice. She thought she’d stifled that sliver of her subconscious years ago, but something about this damn building . . .
Naomi had just a split second to whip her head around and feign ignorance before the door was shoved open. She waited with her hands folded as the man entered, slamming the door shut again with just enough force to make it clear he did not want to be here.
Naomi crossed her legs, staring demurely ahead as the man walked around to the other side of the desk. She watched as he dropped a briefcase by his feet and slapped the folder onto the desk before lowering himself to the leather chair opposite her.
He impatiently flipped the folder open, scanning until he apparently found her name, because he said it out loud with gruff irritability. “Naomi Powell.”
Naomi inhaled ever so slightly and forced her expression into what she hoped was placid politeness and raised her eyes to his.
Her breath whooshed out again as her gaze collided with a searing one.
It wasn’t that the man was good-looking, although he was—distractingly so. Thick brown hair, a face with no hint of five o’clock shadow to better show off the masculine edge of his jaw-line, broad shoulders . . .
And light blue eyes she’d know anywhere.
Mostly in her nightmares.
And memories.
Naomi thought she’d come today prepared for anything. Anyone.
But never had she let herself consider the possibility that her interview would be with Oliver Cunningham. Never had she imagined that the boy who’d tormented her mercilessly during their childhood would once again hold her fate in his hands.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Oliver stared in irritated puzzlement at the redhead currently glaring across the desk like she was trying to crush his windpipe Darth Vader–style.
Naomi . . . what was her last name again? He glanced once more at the paperwork. Powell. First impression? Slightly scary. Well, no. That was second impression. His first impression of the woman had been hot. Very, very hot.
Regardless, Naomi Powell was not what he’d expected when Vicky had strong-armed him into conducting this BS interview. For starters, the hair was all wrong. He’d been prepared for silver, not vibrant red. The rest of her was vibrant as well. The people in this building weren’t exactly prone to outbursts of sentiment, but she seemed to crackle with emotion.
Most of the time, Oliver Cunningham didn’t mind living in 517 Park Avenue. Sure, most of the people acted like their silver spoon had been shoved where the sun never shined. And yes, he was the youngest reside
nt by a good thirty years.
But there were upsides. The board had agreed to let him tear down the wall between his kitchen and living room to create a rare, open-concept home on Park Avenue. The change made room for his top-of-the-line kitchen and seventy-inch flat-screen. And though he didn’t particularly relish the “bragging rights” of living in the same building he’d grown up in, he appreciated that he could care for his father while still maintaining his own life. Sort of.
In other words, his place of residence was tolerable. Most of the time.
But then, there were times like now. Times when a rare vacancy occurred and the whole damn building turned more ridiculous than a sorority during rush. As Oliver saw it, the co-op process was little more than an opportunity for octogenarians of the Upper East Side to assert their flawless lineage, delighting in making those who didn’t have some obscure connection to a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller feel inferior.
Oliver tried not to have any part of it, but he’d caved for Vicky’s sake. It wasn’t the longtime receptionist’s fault that with Oliver’s mother dead and his father out of commission, the Cunningham co-op duties fell to him. Like it or not, he had to step up. And to be clear, he did not like it. But since it would be Vicky’s head on the chopping block if Oliver didn’t obey orders and conduct the damn interview, here he was.
Still, Oliver hadn’t been expecting her.
In addition to the red hair and strange animosity coming off her in waves, her face was . . . captivating. She was attractive in that intriguing “look again” kind of way. Her eyes were wide and blue and tilted at the corners, her mouth full and lush and a little bit sulky at the moment. Plenty of freckles that, as far as he could tell, she’d made no effort to cover with heavy makeup. Different from the perfectly symmetrical, made-up features he was used to seeing.
Still, none of this quite explained the death glare Naomi had locked on him. Generally speaking, Oliver didn’t tend to elicit strong emotional reactions from women. Mostly he got a lot of exasperated sighs preceding long, calm dissertations about his inability to demonstrate emotion, followed by a bland parting of ways.
There was nothing bland about this woman.
Instinct took over, and years of following formal societal rules demanded Oliver extend his hand across the desk. “Ms. Powell. I’m Oliver Cunningham.”
Her hesitation was plain, and for a baffling moment, he thought she might actually refuse his handshake.
Eventually she set her palm to his, and though the firm shake was routine, his reaction to it was anything but. His stomach tightened as her palm brushed his, and Oliver clenched his teeth.
Good Lord, had it been so long since he’d been with a woman that handshakes were doing it for him now?
He pulled his hand back and cleared his throat.
“All right, Ms. Powell,” he said, his voice just a touch cool to counter the heat inside him. “I’m assuming if you’ve made it this far, your credit and background checks pass muster, so let’s get right to it. Why do you want to live here?”
He heard her inhale as though trying to get a grip on her temper, although what he’d done to set her off, he didn’t have the faintest clue.
“It’s a lovely building. The prewar architecture is exquisite,” she replied.
His stomach tightened even further. That voice. Low, husky, and seductive as hell.
Get yourself together, Cunningham.
He forced himself to focus on her words, which were as dull as the voice was compelling. Prewar architecture?
He knew plenty of people cared about that crap, but he wasn’t one of them. And for some reason, he hadn’t thought she would be either. Damn. Disappointing.
Oliver leaned back in his chair, picking up the folder and tapping it against his palm as he contemplated the best method for getting her out the door as quickly as possible. Later, a dry-aged rib eye, an ice-cold cocktail, and the Yankees game awaited. Not to mention the two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle he was dying to dig into. Not that he would ever mention the last around the office, or, well, ever. As his former fiancée had pointed out, there was something a little weird about a grown man who enjoyed puzzles.
Oliver disagreed. It’s not as though he laminated and framed the finished puzzles for some sort of weird display. He just enjoyed solving things. Jigsaws. Sudoku. Crosswords . . . People.
“Where do you live now?” Oliver asked, realizing the silence had stretched too long.
“I’m sure it’s in my file,” she said with a wooden smile.
Oliver said nothing, and they had a silent staring—glaring?—contest that was as exhilarating as it was childish.
He won, only because her eyes rolled briefly in irritation. “Lower East Side.”
Oliver nodded. He hadn’t spent much time on the Lower East Side since his college days, but the neighborhood suited her. Vibrant, youthful, and just the slightest bit gritty.
It was also a long way from the Upper East Side, in vibe, if not distance.
Oliver lifted his eyebrows to be deliberately provoking and said as much. “Long trek.”
“Yes, the two-mile cab ride was absolutely exhausting.”
The folder paused just briefly in its tapping against his palm. Odd. Something about her expression and that dry sarcasm felt . . . familiar. He scanned his memory but came up blank. He didn’t have a lot of gingers in his acquaintance. He’d have remembered her.
“Two miles is a lot in Manhattan,” he said.
“Too true,” she said with another of those “smiles” that wasn’t even remotely friendly. “Two miles in this city can mean the difference between real people and pretension.”
Oliver’s jaw clenched. He did not lose his temper often, but this woman was seriously pushing his buttons.
“All right, I give up, Ms. Powell. What’s your deal?”
“My deal?”
“You’ve been eyeing my jugular since I walked in the door.”
He waited for her to deny it. Instead, she inspected her manicure. A deep navy, he noted, and not the demure pale pink or classic red he was used to seeing. And yet everything else, the expensive-looking dress, the brand-name handbag, the sleek hairstyle, was expected, just like every other woman he knew.
But there was something else there—something more interesting that he couldn’t put his finger on. Almost like she was a blend of self-confidence and vulnerability all wound into one feisty, compelling package.
She was a contradiction.
Maybe Oliver didn’t need to start that jigsaw puzzle tonight, after all. He had a hell of a puzzle right in front of him.
“You do realize that I’m the gatekeeper to the next round,” he prodded again.
She craned her neck, pretending to look at his hands. “Oh, is there a ring I was supposed to kiss? I’m new to this whole process. Should I bow?”
There it was again. The flash of familiarity. Who was this woman?
“Have we met?” he asked, tossing the folder on the desk as he studied her.
She looked away, and Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “We have. How do I know you?”
Naomi looked back, her eyes guarded. “You don’t.”
“You sure?”
Instead of replying, she rewarded him with her first genuine smile. And damn, what a smile it was. Seductive and lethal all at the same time.
He was still reeling from its impact when she startled him by standing.
“We’re not done,” he said, then hid a wince at how pompous he sounded. How much like his father he sounded.
“Oh, I think we are,” she murmured. “I think we both know exactly what you’re going to write on my application the second I leave.”
“Yeah, we do,” he snapped, standing up, too. “Left interview early.”
She glared up at him, and Oliver was a little surprised to realize that they were both breathing hard.
Naomi Powell wasn’t particularly short, but at six feet, he had the physical advantage. For the first time
since he’d hit his growth spurt in high school, he relished his height. This perplexing woman got under his skin like nobody had in a long time, and he needed every defense he could get.
Just as he was gearing up for her retort—anticipating it—she turned away.
Oliver called after her. “You understand that I’m not going to recommend you for the next round of interviews, right?”
“No problem, Mr. Cunningham. And look on the bright side. With me gone, there’ll be more room for your emperor complex up in here. I’ll send your secretary in. You’re looking a bit overdue for your daily hand-feeding of grapes.”
Naomi sailed out the office door without so much as a backward glance.
Oliver stood staring at the doorway, feeling somewhere between dumbfounded and off balance. And most annoyingly of all . . .
Intrigued.
Who the hell was that woman?
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28
Naomi picked up her stapler, a fancy tortoiseshell one from Kate Spade, intending to put it in a moving box alongside the matching tape dispenser. Instead, she clicked it rapidly in agitation, looking around at the disaster zone that was her office.
So this was what one got for procrastinating on moving four years’ worth of stuff until the last afternoon before the movers came. Chaos.
Not that Naomi minded the mess. She did some of her best work in the midst of mayhem. But she was rapidly regretting the fact that she hadn’t taken Deena’s advice and let the movers take care of the packing. Naomi’d had grand visions of using the office’s relocation as an opportunity to sort through old inventory, maybe achieve that elusive dream of organization that was always just out of reach.
Instead she’d left it all to the last minute, ending up more disorganized than ever.
And, if she was perfectly honest with herself, her procrastination may have had an emotional component. Excited as she was by her company’s growth, much as she knew her employees needed more space in order to do their best work, she would miss this place. Or at least what it represented. Maxcessory may have been born in her tiny studio apartment years ago, but it spent its formative years here.