Love on Lexington Avenue

by Layne, Lauren

  “That’s the difference. I don’t have a wife or girlfriend. But if I did, if I had one who cared enough to pick out my clothes and make my home a home, I’d like to think I damn well wouldn’t criticize. No, fuck that,” he said with heat. “I would have bought the damn pink pillows for her myself if it made her happy.”

  Claire felt a little breathless at his forceful tone. The more she got to know this man, the more she realized it was a damn shame he didn’t let anyone into his life. She suspected that beneath all the studied indifference there was a man who had a lot to give.

  But he was determined to be alone. Just as she was. And she expected he knew, just as she did, that the more you gave, the more you lost.

  “He was a good husband,” Claire said quietly, bringing the conversation back around. “Not perfect. Maybe not a great husband. But he was kind. We had date nights. We were happy. I thought we were happy,” she amended, remembering that in between date nights with her he’d had to “work late,” which she’d later learned had been his nights with Naomi and Audrey, and God knew how many other women.

  She laughed, a harsh, grating sound, and Scott watched her. Not prying. Just waiting.

  “Did you know . . .” She pushed her plate away. “In that last year of our marriage, whenever he’d take me out to dinner, we’d always go to some little hole-in-the-wall in a different part of town. A tiny jazz club in Harlem. A pho place in Alphabet City. A Greek restaurant in Astoria. I thought it was so romantic, thinking that he was trying to change up our routine, that he’d listened when I told him I’d gotten a little weary of the whole Upper East Side scene that had dominated the first years of our marriage. I learned later that he’d been telling everyone—Audrey included—that we were separated. What I thought was romantic was just him hiding me away, playing it safe, so that we wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.”

  She forced a smile because if she gave in to the urge to cry right now, she’d never stop. Claire was frustrated with herself. She’d thought she’d worked through this. Come to grips with the fact that her marriage was failing long before she’d realized it.

  How long would it take? Another month? Another year? How long until she could do what Scott had learned to do and keep everyone at arm’s length, keep things light and temporary and easy?

  Claire pushed back her chair and picked up her plate. “You done?” she asked pointlessly, since there wasn’t so much as a scrap left on his plate.

  “Yeah. But I can clean up.”

  She ignored him, taking both their plates to the sink. The plates were easy—a quick rinse and into the dishwasher. The cooking pans required a bit more elbow grease, and she was grateful to have something to distract her from her thoughts—from the intimacy of the night that felt both wonderful and terrifying.

  How had she forgotten, Claire wondered as she looked under his sink, found the dish soap and a sponge. How had she forgotten how nice it was to share a meal with someone?

  More specifically, with someone who could cause her stomach to swoop and soar from eye contact. She hadn’t had that during dinner with Brett. That had been merely pleasant, take it or leave it. This evening with Scott made her ache for more. More evenings like this, more everything. Every moment with the man seemed somehow achingly familiar and wonderfully new.

  She had never felt so confused.

  Claire squirted a liberal amount of soap into the pan Scott had used to cook the rib eyes, but before she could dive in with the sponge, Scott came over and nudged her aside. He plucked the sponge out of her hand and replaced it with her glass of wine.

  “Drink that,” he commanded as he rolled up his sleeves. No flannel tonight, but a white button-down that looked well-worn. “I’ll clean.”

  She did as he said, mostly because he’d already gone to work scrubbing the pan, and her chances of shoving aside a man twice her size were slim. Claire leaned slightly against the counter, sipping her wine, watching the muscles of his forearm work.

  “I wonder if she knows,” Claire mused.

  “If who knows what?” he asked without looking up.

  “Meredith.”

  Scott froze, the water from the faucet running over his still hands.

  Claire pressed forward. “I wonder if she knows what she missed out on. What she threw away.”

  Slowly Scott’s hands began moving again, back to cleaning, but whether it was the wine or something else bringing out uncharacteristic boldness, Claire set her glass on the counter and kept talking.

  “I hope that cheating wench knows that she lost out on a man who cooks, cleans, shares his dog, donates to charity, and loves the Eiffel Tower. I hope she knows that you look just as good with scruff as you do freshly shaven, that you make sure that a lonely widow not only has a place to stay, but that she has her favorite coffee creamer. I hope she knows that I’ve never felt like I do when you look at me, and—”

  Scott tossed the sponge in the sink and turned toward her. Wet hands tunneled through her hair as his lips collided with hers.

  Claire gasped a little in surprise and went still, letting herself register the moment, then she sighed, eyes fluttering closed. He caught the sigh with his lips, his mouth moving gently over hers in a searching, searing kiss. His hands in her hair were probably still soapy, but she didn’t care. The kiss was perfect. It was everything she’d needed for so long.

  A moan escaped her throat, and Scott started to pull back. Claire grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned in gratification, one of his hands leaving her hair to wrap around her waist, pulling her all the way against him.

  It wasn’t just a kiss. It was the kiss. The one she’d been craving for months now, even if she hadn’t realized it until recently. Until him. For the first time in a long time, she felt alive. She felt wanted. In this moment, in Scott Turner’s arms, she wasn’t some sad, pathetic widow. She wasn’t Brayden’s fool wife. She was a desirable woman who wanted to act on that desire, consequences be damned.

  Her hands slid to his waist as she poured every unidentifiable emotion into the kiss, tentatively at first, then meeting his urgency, trying to convey with her kiss that she’d meant every word of what she’d been trying to tell him. Scott Turner was so much better than some woman’s castaway, he was—

  Special. Important. To her.

  Overwhelmed by her sheer lack of control over what she was feeling, Claire pulled back slightly.

  He searched her face, then started to slowly pull back, but she held him close, trying to sort her thoughts. “Do you remember,” she asked quietly, “that first day when you came to my house? You told me that figuring things out later was half the fun?”

  He frowned in confusion. “Sure?”

  She fiddled with the button on his shirt, not quite able to meet his eyes for what she was about to say. “I want it to be you. I know it’ll be complicated. I know we said we wouldn’t complicate things, what with us having mutual friends, with you leaving as soon as the house is done, but . . . we can figure all that out later. I want it to be you,” she repeated, more firmly this time.

  He touched her face softly. “You want what to be me?”

  She lifted her gaze to his, then she went to her toes, pressing her lips to his. He hesitated for a moment, then his arms slid down, wrapping around her as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, and Claire gave in with a soft sigh. His arms tightened even further the second she did, until there was no distance between them, until everything drifted away, from the still-running water, to Bob scratching against the counter searching for steak scraps, to the consequences of tomorrow. There was only him, and the realization that she didn’t want to be with any random guy, she didn’t want meaningless sex with someone she barely knew.

  She wanted this. She wanted Scott.

  With a soft curse he pulled back, fumbling blindly behind him for the faucet handle, and turned the water off.

  “You want me to be what, Claire? I need you to be real clear because I
really don’t want to misunderstand here,” he said, his voice rough.

  Claire contemplated reaching for her wine for a sip of liquid courage. But the strength she needed wouldn’t come from a glass. And what she craved wouldn’t come from wine. This was the moment she’d been waiting for—the man she needed to help pull her out of the shadows.

  She took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen the master bedroom yet. Show me?”

  Chapter Twenty

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

  Claire woke up to the wonderfully familiar smell of coffee. Not one of those people to quickly shake off the fog of sleep, she opened one eye, then the other, her gaze immediately searching for the source of the coffee smell, even as she registered that she was in an unfamiliar place. Her sleep fog disappeared very quickly when she saw Scott standing beside her bed. No, his bed.

  Claire’s reality screeched to a halt.

  She was in Scott Turner’s bed.

  And she was naked.

  And she liked it.

  “That’s a hell of a smile,” Scott said as he handed her the steaming mug. His mugs were plain white and a little boring, but as long as it was a suitable vessel for caffeine, she didn’t care.

  She glanced down, noted the color was exactly how she liked it. A quick sip confirmed it. “You nailed the amount of coffee creamer.”

  “I’ve been watching your morning routine for a few weeks now. I had a good sense of the right amount of slugs of that sweet crap.” She smiled, and Scott shook his head. “Again with that smile.”

  “They’re different smiles,” she clarified. “That last one was for the perfection of the coffee.”

  “What was the first one for?”

  She looked up at him, and her expression must have said it all, because he grinned. “Ah. I see. I’ve had a few of those smiles myself this morning.”

  “A few? How long have you been awake?” she asked, belatedly noticing he was already dressed and ready for work. She felt a wave of embarrassment as she realized she’d been lounging in his bed while he’d been up making her coffee, preparing to go to work on her house.

  “You were pretty out. I let you sleep.”

  “Please tell me snoring wasn’t involved.”

  This time it was Scott’s turn for a secret smile, but she didn’t press him for an answer she didn’t really want.

  “I’m up,” she said, already starting to move toward the side of the bed. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Stay,” he said, putting a hand on her calf, sitting on the edge of the bed to block her path. “There’s a reason I kicked you out of your house. Today and tomorrow will be the messiest, most intrusive of the entire renovation.”

  “Worse than not having a kitchen?” she fake grumbled.

  “Ah, but you have my kitchen,” he countered. “You can cook to your heart’s content. I’d make something for you, but I’ve got to meet the guys I have coming over to help with the floors.”

  “Right. Of course. Um, thanks again for . . .”

  Letting me stay here? The mind-blowing orgasms, plural?

  “The coffee,” she finished.

  Scott winked as he gave her leg a quick squeeze, letting her know he knew exactly what she’d been too chicken to say.

  “Make yourself at home.” He stood. “Bob’s staying with you; I don’t want her underfoot today. I already took her out this morning, but she’ll probably need to go out again before I get home tonight.”

  “Home—you’re coming back here?”

  He stilled for a moment, looking atypically unsure of himself. “I don’t have to. I can go to my place in Brooklyn or—”

  Grateful that she wasn’t the only one who didn’t exactly know what came next, she reached out and grabbed his hand, planting an impulsive kiss against his knuckles. “Come back here.” He gave a relieved smile and bent down. Claire made a halt noise when she realized he was coming in for a kiss. She pointed at her mouth. “Not happening. Morning breath.”

  He made a little grunt of ascent, kissing her forehead instead, and that was almost as good. She was learning she really liked Scott Turner forehead kisses.

  Claire took another sip of coffee, smiling as she heard him say goodbye to Bob. She laughed out loud when Bob came careening into the bedroom, leaping onto the bed the second the front door closed.

  “Why do I get the impression you’re not allowed up here normally?” she said as Bob nudged her hand in a blatant demand for an ear rub. Claire didn’t have the heart to kick the dog off, so they compromised—she let Bob stay on the bed until her coffee cup was empty and she needed a refill.

  Claire set the mug on the nightstand, immediately bending to make the bed, then straightened, wondering if that was weird. What did one do after casual sex? She’d only had a handful of boyfriends before Brayden, and they’d always come over to her house, slept in her bed. This was new to her.

  She debated for a few more seconds. Making someone else’s bed seemed strangely personal and presumptuous somehow. But then she decided not making it was just plain sloppy and inconsiderate. It’s not like she was dashing out and buying a feminine throw for the bed and squirting her perfume on the pillows.

  “It was casual sex,” she told Bob. “Not a big deal.”

  We’ll figure it out later.

  The plan to deal with the repercussions later had seemed like a great idea last night, but it felt different in the light of day. When was later anyway? And what exactly was it, in this case? Not a relationship. Definitely not love. Was it a one-time thing? The start of a fling?

  “What are we dealing with here, Bob?” She looked at the dog. “How does this work?”

  Bob wagged her tail.

  “You’re useless.”

  Claire scrambled a couple of eggs, had another cup of coffee, and showered and primped for the day. It was only after she was dressed and applying her makeup that she realized . . .

  She didn’t have anything to do. Not one damn thing.

  It was not a pleasant feeling.

  Claire knew for plenty of people having nothing on the agenda would be a blessing. There was no boss watching the clock for her arrival, no employees counting on her. No responsibilities, obligations, or demands on her time. Claire was well aware that not having to work, first because of Brayden’s salary, then from the life insurance money, was a luxury.

  It just wasn’t a luxury she was sure she wanted.

  For the first couple of years of her marriage with Brayden, Claire had worked as a brand specialist for a boutique design company. She’d enjoyed the work, but ultimately the drama of office politics had started to weigh on her. Since they hadn’t needed her income, she and Brayden had agreed she’d take some time off to figure out what she wanted to do instead.

  She’d initially been thinking weeks. Just a few weeks to figure out what excited her. Weeks had turned into months. But it had been easier to keep busy when Brayden had been alive, or at least to feel busy. She’d taken pride in keeping their home clean herself, rather than hiring a housekeeper like most of her friends and neighbors. She’d shopped for groceries, ensuring their fridge always had olives for her beloved, that there was always yogurt and eggs for breakfast and food for dinner on nights they didn’t eat out or order in. Her social life had also been busier back then. She’d belonged to two book clubs, volunteered at charities, attended regular lunches and happy hours with friends.

  Save for the charities and getting together with Audrey and Naomi when their schedules allowed for it, she had none of that now. Following Brayden’s death, she’d had her renovation to keep her occupied. Planning out her vision for her house had been a way to fill the void in those endless, torturous months after the funeral. She’d spent hours each day planning, brainstorming, furniture shopping . . .

  Now, even that was coming to a close. She’d have her dream house, and then . . .

  What?

  She had no job, no hobbies, few friends, minimal skills.

&nb
sp; Claire pictured her life in a couple of months: The renovations would be done, the redecorating close to complete. Scott would be long gone. Audrey and Naomi would still be up for the spontaneous lunch or coffee, and Claire was realizing it was probably long past time to patch up some of her other friendships.

  But she didn’t want to go back to being a socialite. She wanted to find something that excited her, maybe even something that could bring in a little money. She’d inherited plenty from Brayden, and up until this point she hadn’t felt bad in the least living off of it.

  If she were going to move on—really move on—shouldn’t she start by doing something with her life? But what? She didn’t have Naomi’s business sense, wasn’t the least bit interested in whatever the heck Audrey did on Instagram. Her bachelor’s degree was in marketing, which felt vague to her even then, and more than a decade later she didn’t have the foggiest clue what to do with it. Or if she even wanted to. Not to mention, the thought of reentering the workforce at age thirty-five with what was basically an intern-level skill set was as daunting as it was unappealing.

  Claire picked up her phone and started a group text to Naomi and Audrey, then remembering Naomi was in Houston for some jewelry trade show, she limited the text to just Audrey.

  Claire agreed, having learned by now that part of being friends with Audrey meant playing amateur photographer for Audrey’s Instagram feed.

  An hour and a half later, she and Audrey sat side by side on a bench in Central Park, sipping pumpkin spice lattes and devouring the doughnuts Claire had picked up on her way across town.

  “I half expected you to get a strawberry doughnut,” Audrey said, licking the chocolate from her own doughnut off her thumb.

  “They didn’t have one,” Claire said, biting into her maple bar flecked with little bits of bacon. “Besides, I think I’m backing off the strawberry lemonade revolution just a little.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Claire nodded thoughtfully. “It was good to break out of my vanilla rut, but I don’t want to move from one rut to another. I’m just trying to be more . . . open, I guess.” She held up her doughnut. “Case in point, maple bar with bacon instead of the usual glazed.” She picked up her coffee cup. “Pumpkin spice instead of vanilla chai.”