by Lauren Layne
“So he could have flown out tomorrow morning.”
“I’d never ask a man to change flight plans for me.”
You shouldn’t have to ask. Still, her admission was another piece of the puzzle. Not a corner piece, but an important one. It told him that she wasn’t accustomed to men making her a priority.
“Why’d you ask him to come with you tonight?”
Her shoulders lifted. “Audrey told me to bring a date.”
Damn it, Naomi, open your eyes. I’ve been right here.
“He still trying to get you to sign on for the TV series?”
“Yeah.”
“You thinking about it?”
She nodded, but the moment of hesitation spoke volumes.
Normally, Oliver would have bit his tongue, but she just . . . pissed him off. And it’s not like he had anything to lose—even when he was the perfect gentleman, he hadn’t won her over.
“You’re scared,” he said.
She stiffened. “What?”
Oliver didn’t back off. “You’re a chicken. It’s why you’re even entertaining the idea of dating someone like Dylan Day, while at the same time hesitating on the TV show.”
“What are you talking about?” She started to walk away, but he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her gently around.
“That guy won’t demand anything from you. Not your brain, not your heart. He’s easy, and it’s what you think you want. Conversely, the TV show the guy is pushing for is the very opposite of easy. It’s a risk. It’s putting yourself all the way out there. Not just your work. You. It terrifies you.”
Naomi had gone very still, watching him through wide, unreadable blue eyes. Then she shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t even know me.”
“And he does?”
“You don’t know me,” she repeated, enunciating each word clearly as she jerked her arm free of his grip. “So stay the hell out of my business.”
Naomi started to storm away but turned back with one last parting shot. “I will do that TV series. And in case there was any doubt, you’ll have no part in my life story.”
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16
Though she sometimes had a hard time believing it herself, somehow over the past couple of years Naomi had become one of those women who enjoyed running.
On her twenty-fifth birthday a few years earlier, she’d had a frank conversation with herself that an able-bodied woman had no good reason for not paying attention to the countless recommendations that movement was a crucial part of good health. Particularly for an entrepreneur whose long working hours meant a lot of time sitting behind a desk, on the phone, and in cabs. At the gym? Not so much.
As with most new habits, exercise had started out rough. She’d tried it all. Yoga. Hot yoga. Pilates. Hip-hop dance classes. CrossFit. Cycling classes. In the end, Naomi’s lone-wolf tendencies hadn’t liked anything that required a schedule or, well, social interaction. Her need for exercise became as much about the desire to clear her head as it did the health benefits, and running had been a natural fit.
She ran a few days a week, outside if weather permitted, the treadmill at her gym if not. Today’s cool and crisp morning had demanded an outdoor run, but instead of pacing herself with her usual steady, sustained long run, her rhythm had been almost frantic in its relentless speed.
After she’d sprinted through Central Park at an almost punishing pace to burn off the extra pent-up energy from working from home, she finally allowed herself to drop into a cool-down walk, gasping for air as she forced herself to acknowledge the truth:
She’d been running from demons.
Naomi had spent the past couple of days reliving her almost-kiss with Oliver.
Had spent her past couple of nights dreaming about it. Wanting it.
And hating herself for it.
She’d had her fair share of boyfriends, lovers, whatever you wanted to call them. She’d even liked most of them, including Brayden, though that obviously didn’t exactly speak to her judgment of character.
But never before had she felt that. That pull toward another person, not just at the physical level, but on an emotional, almost soul level. And then he’d picked a fight.
Damn it.
Naomi picked up her speed again, as though a grueling pace would help put Oliver Cunningham out of her mind.
Wanting him was not part of the plan. Not even close. The plan was simple, nonemotional.
Step one: move into the building to honor her mother’s wishes.
Step two: confront the Cunninghams, letting them know the girl they’d once treated as disposable was now their equal.
Step three . . .
Well, step two was really as far as she’d gotten. If she were being honest with herself, her plan had been more about a nagging need for closure than anything else. Not only for her mother’s sake, but so that Naomi would finally feel like she’d put Naomi Fields behind her.
She didn’t want revenge, just acknowledgment. She wanted the Cunninghams to come face-to-face with the actions of their past, to be reminded of what their carelessness had done. To apologize.
But Margaret Cunningham, that cold woman who’d so heartlessly ignored Naomi’s mother’s pleas for just one more night so she could make alternate arrangements for her daughter, was dead.
Walter Cunningham, was, well . . . even if Naomi wanted to confront him about his past actions, she wasn’t sure she could be that cruel or that he would remember the incident, much less feel remorse.
And as far as Oliver Cunningham . . .
Naomi groaned aloud on the mostly deserted sidewalk and, putting her hands on her hips, stopped in her tracks and tilted her head back to the sky.
Why? Why did she have to want him?
New plan, Naomi told herself, as she resumed walking the final blocks back to her apartment. Avoid the Cunningham men.
Clearly they messed with her head, and Naomi did not do well with feeling out of control. She needed to get back to where she’d been just a few months ago.
Three months ago, she’d felt like the most in-control woman on the planet. Her work life has been perfectly structured. She’d had a lover whose company she enjoyed, and with whom she could see herself potentially getting serious. And she’d had a solid plan for moving on from her nasty past once and for all.
Fast-forward to the present, and her lover was dead and an asshole, and the ghosts from her past were complicated. And she didn’t even have an office to escape to for another few weeks.
It was as though the universe was telling her she could run as fast as she wanted but sooner or later she’d have to sort out her jumble of emotions. And much as it pained her to admit, even to herself, her emotions were involved as far as the Cunninghams were concerned.
To undo that, she needed some distance. To regain perspective.
And don’t even get her started on Oliver’s harebrained assertion that she was avoiding the TV series because she was scared. Screw that. She’d woken up this morning so determined to prove him wrong she’d emailed Dylan to say she was in.
The contract was on its way to her lawyer, and Naomi felt . . . well, she’d deny it to her dying breath if Oliver ever asked, but she was nervous. Excited. Confident that it was the right decision, and yet she was vulnerable as all heck. Somehow she had to figure out how to maneuver the story to reveal the inspirational truth about starting a billion-dollar company from a tiny studio apartment while also protecting the people she cared about.
Naomi’s personal life could be an open book, but she’d go to her grave protecting her mother’s memory. Claire’s and Audrey’s privacy as well.
Naomi was nearly back to her apartment, but her footsteps slowed when she spotted a man several feet ahead of her shuffling down Park Avenue wearing only a white T-shirt and blue boxers. At least he was wearing shoes this time.
His familiar gray hair ruffled against the cold autumn breeze, and Naomi winced. The cool ai
r had been perfect for her morning run, but she was wearing gloves, running leggings, two top layers, and a headband to keep her ears warm.
Walter was in no way dressed for the thirty-something temps. Naomi glanced hopefully at the front door of their apartment building, wishing that Oliver or Janice would come bursting out to retrieve him.
Nothing.
Naomi blew out a breath. All right then.
“Hey, Walter!” she called out. So much for steering clear of the Cunningham men.
He didn’t turn around, so she broke into a slow trot to catch up to him, which wasn’t hard, considering his slow gait.
“Hey there,” she said, tapping his arm.
Walter gave her a startled glance. “Hello.”
“It’s Naomi,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, since he didn’t seem to recognize her. “I live in your building. We’re friends.”
He smiled. “I like pretty friends.”
I bet you do, you old geezer.
The thought was without any real animosity, and . . . damn it. Was she starting to feel a bit of affection toward the man?
“Where are you going?” she asked casually as he started walking once more.
“Going?” The wind picked up again, and Walter shivered, then looked around, seeming heartbreakingly confused. Wherever he’d planned to go when he’d started out, he’d clearly forgotten.
She maneuvered so she was in front of him, blocking his path. “I’m in the mood for some breakfast. You want to eat with me?”
“What are you eating?” he asked skeptically.
“Pancakes?”
He made a look of disgust.
“Or eggs?” she said, grasping at straws. She was pretty sure she was out of eggs, but hopefully Oliver had some. If not, she’d order them from one of New York’s dozen food-delivery services. Anything to get the man safely back inside.
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Perfect,” Naomi said in relief, hooking her arm in his.
He let her lead him back toward their building. She kept her pace slow to match his so he wouldn’t think he was being maneuvered and balk at her.
Walter glanced at her attire. “You’ve been exercising. My wife likes Jazzercise.”
“Oh yeah?” Naomi asked. “What about you, any exercise?”
“Pretty good at squash. You play?”
“Definitely not. I barely even know what squash is,” she said, pressing the button in the elevator for Walter’s floor instead of her own. She’d kill for a hot shower, both to warm up and get rid of the dried sweat, but she needed to get Walter back to his apartment before Oliver and Janice freaked out.
Heck, Oliver probably was already freaking out.
Walter had switched topics from squash and was rambling something about the Dow dropping two hundred points, and she had no idea whether he was talking about today, yesterday, or twenty years ago, so she just made mm-hmm noises as she led him to his apartment.
“Do you have a key?” she asked him.
“Key?”
“Never mind.” She lifted her hand and knocked.
The door jerked open midknock, her hand suspended in the air as she came face-to-face with Oliver.
A nearly naked Oliver.
Naomi’s mouth was suddenly very dry, her pulse a little . . . jumpy.
And she was definitely no longer cold.
“Dad,” Oliver said, his eyes closing in relief. “Dad, you can’t do that!”
“Can’t do what?” Walter said, going inside. “Why are you wearing a towel?”
“Because I was in the shower,” Oliver said in exasperation. “You were still asleep, and—Never mind.” He broke off on a deflated sigh, running his hand through his wet hair.
He still hadn’t acknowledged Naomi, which was probably a good thing, considering she seemed to be having a heck of a time remembering how to breathe. And an even harder time looking away from his bare chest.
He was . . . well, nicely shaped. She’d suspected as much from the way he filled out his suit, but the reality was even better than expected. She found herself wondering what he did for exercise, because she suspected it wasn’t Jazzercise or squash, and the cut of his biceps told her he did more than run.
There seemed to be no fat on the man—his torso was narrow as it tapered down into the navy towel knotted around his waist, and—
Oliver cut his eyes over to her without moving his head, and their gazes collided.
Whoops.
She’d definitely been caught ogling the man she’d all but ordered out of her life.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough and a little hesitant. “I was in the shower for less than five minutes, I thought—then he was just gone—”
“It’s okay,” she said quietly, reassuring him. “Walter’s fine. I caught up to him before he got more than a block away.”
His eyes closed. “I was just calling the neighbors. Usually he sticks within the building, but if he’s starting to go outside . . .”
Her heart went out to him at the genuine anguish on his face. Not only because of the magnitude of terror he must feel at the thought of his father wandering alone in New York City, but because he knew the days of his father living at home were perhaps limited.
And even with their antagonistic moment from Friday fresh on her mind, even with the memories of their childhood always lurking, she realized she wanted to help. She couldn’t slow the progression of Alzheimer’s, but maybe she could help in a small way.
“Do you want me to stay with him while you finish getting dressed?” she asked, even as she realized that watching Walter would mean entering the apartment—the same apartment where her mother’s life had completely gone off the rails.
Closure. Remember? That’s what you’re after.
Oliver gave her a startled look, then glanced down at his body and groaned, obviously just now realizing his state of undress. “God.”
She gave a small, hesitant smile. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve got a few miles’ worth of sweat on me.”
Naomi immediately regretted the careless admission, because his gaze raked over her, and she felt it. Sure, she was more clothed than him, but her blood was still pumping from the run, her emotions still simmering from the other night, and there was a rawness in the air.
No, that was too vague. There was a rawness between them. A heat that she didn’t want, and sure as heck didn’t know what to do with.
A loud thump from inside the apartment ruined the moment, as did Walter’s muttered cursing. Oliver closed his eyes, as though for patience. “It’s been one of those mornings. If you could just keep an eye on him for five minutes. Two minutes . . .”
“Absolutely,” she said, already stepping inside, her eyes going to Walter, who was near the coffee table. The thump they’d heard was a pile of books, and Naomi went immediately to pick them up.
“You don’t have to do that,” Oliver said, closing the door to the apartment.
“Better me than you in a towel,” she said with a sly grin over her shoulder.
He winced. “Right. I’ll be back.”
“I’ve got this, Walter,” she said to the other man. “You can go ahead and sit down.”
“Who are you?” he asked irritably, doing as she suggested and lowering himself to the recliner.
“I’m Naomi.”
“Are you here to see him?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the room Oliver had disappeared into.
“Nope, here to see you.” She stacked the books on the coffee table, noting that while most were generic coffee-table books with fancy colors and pretty photographs, there was also a Stephen King novel that, while seemingly brand-new, didn’t at all look like it went with the others.
“This yours, Walter?” she asked, holding up the book.
He looked at it blankly. If it was his, he obviously didn’t remember. Though it could have just as easily been Janice’s. Or Oliver’s.
She ra
n a finger down the spine. It was one of his newer titles that she hadn’t read yet.
“I used to love Stephen King,” she told Walter, even as he reached for the remote and turned on the TV, ignoring her completely.
“What happened?”
Naomi whipped her head around to where Oliver was coming out of the bathroom. His hair was still damp, but he’d shaved and was dressed in a black sweater and jeans. The first time she’d seen him without a suit, and she tried not to notice that he looked just as good dressed in upscale casual as he did in business formal.
“What?” She forced her eyes back to his blue ones.
“You said you used to like King. What happened to change your mind?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, climbing to her feet, book still in hand. “I just don’t have much time to read anymore.” She caught herself and glanced down at the book. “That’s not true. I guess I don’t make time to read anymore.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Adulthood does that to all of us. Eats up our schedule bit by bit until we don’t even realize all of our free time’s just . . . gone,” he said, coming toward her and reaching for the book, running a finger down the spine the same way she had just moments earlier.
The absent gesture told her all she needed to know. “It’s yours.”
He smiled ruefully and set the book back on top of the others. “I, too, am a fan. And I, too, can’t seem to find a minute to start the damn thing.”
“Why is it here instead of your apartment?”
“It’s for nights when Janice is out and I stay with Dad. He usually goes to bed early, and I always intend to finally start the book.”
“What do you do instead? TV?”
“Yeah. And work, mostly.”
She nodded in understanding but said nothing.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Well. Thanks for keeping an eye on him. Normally he’s fine while I shower or dress or take a phone call, but he’s been restless and irritable all morning.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Walter groused, apparently not nearly as into his television show as he seemed.
“Sure, now you pay attention to me,” Oliver said good-naturedly to his father as he nodded for Naomi to follow him into the kitchen, out of Walter’s hearing.