by Lauren Layne
There was a compliment in there, but there was also a question. Where was the Prince Charming of this story? The Mr. Big? Why was there no Ross to her Rachel, no Jim to her Pam?
It wasn’t a question she particularly wanted to answer. It had been weird enough sharing the inner workings of her professional life. The only reason she was even considering signing over her story to the network was the hope that maybe her story could inspire someone.
If even one girl, somewhere, would know that it was possible to overcome a seriously crappy childhood, then the invasion of privacy would be worth it. If Naomi empowered another woman to know that she didn’t need the picket fence or cookie-baking mother or Ivy League education to make something of herself, then Naomi could stomach the idea of “selling out.”
Her personal life, though . . . that was different. For starters, there was no inspiration to be found there. Any little girl dreaming of having it all—the doting husband and the thriving career—would have to find another role model than Naomi Powell.
The problem wasn’t that she didn’t have men in her past. It was that she had more than she cared to count. Men who came into her life and left, without either party scathed, or even affected, by the encounter. The exception, perhaps, being Brayden Hayes, whose departure was of the more tragic variety.
This sort of revolving romantic door had been exactly as Naomi wanted it, and yet there was something distinctly uncomfortable about having to say, out loud, that she’d never been in love. That she wasn’t sure she was even capable of it. It felt vaguely tawdry to confess that she treated romance more as a diversion, especially to someone she was fairly certain wouldn’t mind being one of those diversions.
“Come on,” Dylan said with a cajoling smile. “Just give me a hint. Something to work with. A childhood sweetheart. A mysterious stranger you keep crossing paths with. An illicit affair?”
Naomi’s hand froze just slightly at the last in his list. How would he—
She looked closely at him, looking for any signs that he knew about Brayden, that his list of possible dalliances had been more than his imagination at work.
He waggled his eyebrows. “Or if you told me you’d been holding out for a very handsome, charming TV producer to come your way and sweep you off your feet, I wouldn’t be upset.”
She relaxed slightly. Naomi wasn’t ashamed of her relationship with Brayden—it’s not as though she’d known he was married. But she cared enough about Claire to want to keep her affair as far from Dylan Day as possible.
“Are you asking on behalf of StarZone?” She asked, referring to the production company looking to produce the show. “Or as Dylan Day?”
He grinned, quick and unapologetic, his eyes smiling and open. “Can I ask as both?”
Naomi laughed even as she scanned the dining room, wanting to hurry along the bill. “You’re persistent.”
“I want what I want,” he said, lifting a finger to flag down the server. Dylan paid for dinner on his corporate Amex and, a few minutes later, helped her into her coat as they stepped out into the fall evening.
“There’s a great cocktail bar just around the corner. Nightcap?” His fingers brushed her neck under the guise of freeing a straud of hair caught on her earring as he asked it, and Naomi waited for the tingle. Hoped for it.
Nothing.
She was both relieved and disappointed. “Actually, I should be heading home,” she said, pointing in the direction of her apartment.
To his credit, he knew when to back off. “I’ll get you a cab.”
“I’m just a few blocks over. I can walk.”
“Did I mention I’m from Alabama?” Dylan asked, adding a bit of Southern drawl to his voice.
“And?”
“And I was raised to see a woman home, walking or otherwise,” he said, gesturing for her to lead the way.
Naomi shrugged, rapidly learning that the best way to handle Dylan Day was to pick her battles. A half block later, she was regretting her decision. What she’d hoped would be a semi-quiet, relish-the-first-nip-of-fall kind of walk quickly turned into his hard sell.
“I don’t mean to push you,” Dylan said for the third time. “It’s just that we really want to get this in for the fall season, and to ensure we get the right cast, the right team . . .”
He droned on for two more blocks about the opportunity, how the exposure was exactly what could bump her business to the next level, how it was the chance of a lifetime . . .
Finally her building came into view, and she could say without hesitation that she had never been so glad to see 517 Park Avenue. They came to a stop outside her building and she faced him. “How much say do I get?”
“Sorry?”
“If I agree to this show, do I get to review the script? A say in casting? The stories you tell?”
He hesitated. “Well, you’d work with our team upfront to get the details of Max right—”
“Max?”
“That’s what we’re hoping to call the show. A catchy shortening of your company name, easy to remember.”
Naomi nodded. She didn’t hate it.
“I want to do this,” she told him honestly. “But there are parts of my life that are off-limits.”
“Which parts?”
She smiled slowly. “The ones I haven’t told you.”
“The men?”
She laughed at his persistence. “Among other things.”
He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. “What about one guy? There’s got to be one we can talk about. Sexy investor in your business, maybe a little off-limits?”
Naomi shook her head again. “I specifically targeted female investors who’d get the vision.”
“What about a charming TV producer?”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Good night, Dylan.”
He caught her arm. “Look, Naomi. There’s a conflict of interest here, I get that. What if I hand off the proposal for your show to my boss? I’m just the acquiring producer, anyway. That way you won’t technically be mixing business and pleasure by going out with me.”
“I didn’t realize we were going out.”
“I was getting to that,” he said, his smile cocky and reminding her uncomfortably of the night she’d met Brayden at a West Village wine bar. Brayden’s smile had been equally as cocky, his confidence level through the roof, and she’d bought it. Every bit of it. And maybe it wasn’t fair comparing Dylan to Brayden just because they were quick with a smile and a line, but all she could think was that it didn’t feel like enough.
For the first time in her life, she had the sense that maybe she wanted more, deserved more, than a fling with a good-looking guy. The realization was . . . annoying. She’d never overanalyzed flings with guys before. Usually she picked the ones who were uncomplicated, made her laugh, and didn’t make her feel anything too deep.
In other words, Dylan Day was exactly her type. And yet . . .
“Dylan, I’m flattered, but—”
Her rejection froze on her lips when another couple approached from her right. She glanced their way, then back to Dylan, then her gaze swung back to the couple again. To the male half of it, anyway.
Oliver Cunningham met her gaze steadily before looking at Dylan, his expression unreadable.
Well, crap.
The woman with Oliver was chattering away, unaware of Oliver’s attention on Naomi. Unaware of Naomi and Dylan altogether. Oliver said something that made the woman laugh, and she reached out for his hand.
Naomi’s stomach clenched, and that was the exact moment she realized:
There it was.
The feeling she’d been missing all night with Dylan Day had just occurred with Oliver Cunningham of all people. That awareness, that want. Surely her reasoning for suddenly wanting more in her relationship with a man wasn’t due to her childhood nemesis.
But then it got so much worse, because as she watched Oliver smile at the other woman, another emotion took over. Jealousy.
/> Her eyes slammed shut. This was not happening. She was not actually jealous of . . . what had Oliver said his girlfriend’s name was? Layla? Lana?
“Naomi?” Dylan’s voice was bemused.
She opened her eyes. “Sorry. I must have had too much wine.”
Oliver’s girlfriend giggled, but Naomi kept her gaze purposefully on Dylan, ignoring the other couple.
“We should go out again. Definitely,” she said.
Dylan blinked in surprise, smart enough to have realized that just a few moments ago she’d been gearing up to reject him.
He recovered quickly. “Sure. Friday?”
“Done,” she said before she could change her mind. “I’ll text you?”
“Okay—”
“Great. Looking forward to it.” Naomi stepped forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek to end the conversation.
She kept her pace deliberately slow as she walked toward the front door, casually digging in her bag for her keys, even as her heart pounded, far more aware of Oliver and his date than she was of Dylan Day.
Still, she didn’t look back, and once inside, she leaned against the wall, just for a second.
Had that just happened?
Had she just agreed to a date with Dylan simply because she couldn’t bear the thought that she might actually want to date him . . . The front door opened, and she opened her eyes to see Oliver Cunningham, pairing his usual conservative navy suit with an impervious glare.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 10
From the way Naomi had all but run into the building, Oliver had assumed she’d be in the safety of her apartment before he got to the main door.
Instead he stopped short, surprised to find her still standing there.
For a long moment, neither said a word as they gave each other a wary look.
“So,” she said, standing up straight from where she’d been leaning against the wall with the same ugly wallpaper that’d been there since he was a boy. “That was . . . ?”
“Lilah,” he supplied.
Yeah. The Lilah. After he’d stupidly told Naomi that he was dating her, his conscience had kicked his ass until he’d finally dialed the number that had been languishing on a Post-it Note on his desk for weeks. He’d thought to schedule something for sometime next week. Next month, even.
Instead, Lilah had dropped a half-dozen hints about some wine tasting this week, obvious enough that he couldn’t figure out how to say no without sounding like an ass.
It had been . . . fine.
Lilah was kind. Sweet. Laughed a lot. As in, a lot.
And while he liked a decent glass of wine as much as the next guy, spending all night discussing whether he was getting more red fruits or dark fruit in the finish of the ’03 Barolo was not exactly how he’d envisioned a rare night away from work and Walter.
“So,” Naomi said as they both began climbing the stairs. “She seemed nice.”
“Quite,” he said, trying not to notice the way her hips moved from side to side as she walked up the steps in front of him. “And your date. Very . . .”
She gave him a dark look over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Let me guess,” Oliver said, as they stepped onto the landing of the second floor. “His name has a Y.”
“What?” she snapped.
“His name,” Oliver said, leaning a shoulder against the wall next to her door as she palmed her keys as though debating whether to open her apartment or stab his jugular. “Does it have a Y? Ryan. Myron. Bryson.”
“Says the guy named Oliver.”
“What’s wrong with my name?”
“Nothing, if you’re a nineteenth-century orphan.”
“So what’s his name?” Oliver pushed, leaning toward her slightly.
She huffed. “Dylan.”
Oliver smiled. “Now, is that spelled . . . ?”
“With a Y, yes, and now tell me, how is Dickens these days? Do you call him Chuck, or . . .”
“Invite me in for a drink,” he interrupted.
Naomi blinked. “You’re inviting yourself into my apartment?”
“You can serve the drink in a mug. I’m starting to like it that way.”
“What about Lilah?” she said, singsonging the word while crossing her arms, keys jingling in her left hand.
“Well, get this. Every now and then, she allows me to consume a beverage without having to get permission first. What about Dylan with a Y? You guys serious?”
“Actually,” she said, sticking her key into the lock and shoving open the door, “he’s trying to make a show about me.”
“Like porn?” Oliver asked, following her in, even though he hadn’t been specifically invited.
Naomi laughed, a genuine laugh, and tossed her purse on the couch. “No. God no. A TV series about my life.”
“That interesting, are you?” Oliver asked. His voice was joking, but secretly he thought it wasn’t a half-bad idea. The woman fascinated him, though it grated to know he wasn’t the only one captivated. He’d seen the way Dylan with a Y looked at Naomi, and the man wanted a hell of a lot more than a television show from her.
Naomi shrugged and opened the cabinet above the fridge, which apparently served as her liquor cabinet. He watched as she pulled down a tiny bottle of something he’d seen bartenders use, then went to her toes, reaching for a bottle of Woodford Reserve.
Even in the black stilettos, the bourbon was just out of reach. Oliver went to her side, reaching above her to grab the bottle. He didn’t mean to—not consciously—but the gesture had him pressing against her side, just for a moment.
They both froze. Damn. This was what had been missing with Lilah tonight. That elusive something. For that matter, he’d been missing it a hell of a lot longer than that. He cleared his throat and handed her the whisky bottle, which she accepted with a nod of thanks. Still, instead of moving away, her eyes crept from his tie up to his face, giving him a suspicious look.
Oliver smiled ruefully. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re always bracing for the other shoe to drop and me to do something wretched.”
She laughed softly and looked down at the bourbon in her hand, tracing the label with a red fingernail. “Let’s just say I’ve been sort of conditioned.”
Oliver felt a sharp flash of anger at whoever had treated her badly, even as he felt relief that he was making progress, that she was finally showing her cards just a little.
“Ah,” he said softly, not wanting to scare her off. “Corner piece.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“You’re like a puzzle,” he said with a smile. “And I’ve just found one of the corner pieces.”
“The corner piece?” She looked genuinely, adorably nonplussed.
“Have you never done a jigsaw puzzle before?” he asked, reaching out slowly. His fingers brushed her neck, and she lurched back.
Oliver held up a hand in an easy motion, the way he would to a skittish animal, a little alarmed at her reaction. “Sorry. You’re just still wearing your coat. Your collar was . . .” He made a motion to indicate it was flipped, and that he’d been trying to fix it.
Her hand flew up to her neck, and she blinked rapidly before letting out a forced laugh, as though her reaction to his touch had been no big deal. She set the bourbon on the counter and shrugged out of her coat.
“Here,” she said, shoving it at him.
He glanced down at the woman’s trench coat he was now holding. So she was still putting barriers between them. Literally. Still, she wasn’t kicking him out, and that bourbon looked hopeful. Even more so when she pulled out two glasses.
She looked at him and paused a moment. His heart sank when she turned to put the glasses away. Then lifted again when she pulled out two mugs instead.
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Our thing.”
“We don’t have a thing,” she muttered irritably, pulling a box of sugar cubes out of a cupboard.
>
“Sure we do,” Oliver countered, walking across the room and opening the door of her coat closet. He hung her trench and turned back. “Booze out of a mug.”
“How do you know this drink is for you?” she asked, measuring ingredients into the mugs without looking at him.
“Because you left Dylan with a Y out there on the sidewalk looking pissed.”
Her head snapped up. “He was not.”
“Pissed? Sure he was. I know a dude with blue balls when I see one. He thought he was getting lucky.”
“It wasn’t like that. He just wants me to agree to his show.”
“Do you want to do it?”
Her attention was back on the drinks. “Hmm?”
“The TV series,” Oliver said, coming back to the counter. “Do you want to do it?”
A small crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she tucked a strand of dark red hair behind her ear. “Nobody’s really asked me that.”
“Well, they should,” he said, loosening his tie before he realized he was at her apartment, not his. Strange, that he should feel so at home in the lion’s den. He decided to chalk it up to the fact that their apartments were next door to each other, and not that this prickly woman could feel . . . comforting.
Like she was home.
He pushed the thought aside. “So, do you want to do it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, resuming her drink-making by dropping a handful of ice cubes into each mug. “It’s weird.”
It was weird. He couldn’t imagine having his life translated on the big screen, small screen . . . any screen. But then he wasn’t a billionaire entrepreneur with a scrappy background. Yeah, he’d done his Wikipedia stalking, though there hadn’t been much about her pre-Maxcessory days beyond her being from the Bronx.
“I’m thinking about it,” she said by way of answer, shoving the mug across the counter toward him. “I like the idea of encouraging girls and young women to build their own thing, chase their dreams and all that.”
“Hell of a thing you’ve built,” he said, meaning it.