FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

Oblivious to Naomi’s turmoil, Dylan grinned at the sight of the two women hovering in the office doorway. “No meetings scheduled, huh? I’m wounded. Come on in, ladies, I was just leaving.”

Audrey smiled. “No, it’s our mistake. Claire and I thought it would be fun to surprise—”

“You thought,” Claire muttered. “I thought we should call first.”

Audrey waved this aside. “Champagne needs no appointment. We thought some bubbly might make packing go a little easier.”

“And cupcakes,” Claire said, holding up the box. “I was going to make muffins, but Audrey made me buy cupcakes.”

“Noooo, I made you buy muffins with frosting on them,” Audrey argued.

Dylan looked at Naomi. “Damn. Champagne and cupcakes. Two things no man will ever be able to compete with. I’ll take off, but I’m holding you to that dinner date.”

Naomi saw Claire and Audrey perk up, and her friends give Dylan a closer look. Curious on Audrey’s side, skeptical on Claire’s.

She let out the slightest sigh at Dylan’s use of the word date, but manners dictated that she give a perfunctory introduction. “Dylan Day, this is Audrey Tate and Claire Hayes. Ladies, Dylan.”

“You’re in the accessory business?” Claire asked politely.

Dylan shook his head. “Nope. I’m a TV producer, trying to woo your girl here into letting me take her from semi-famous to super-famous.”

“Huh.” Claire looked unimpressed.

“How do you two know Naomi?” Dylan asked. “Maybe there’s room for your story in the movie. A guy can hope, anyway.”

“Yeah, no. Big no. My friends are off-limits,” Naomi said before Claire or Audrey could reply. She stepped forward and gestured pointedly toward the door.

He took his dismissal gracefully. “Until our date.”

“Our business meeting,” Naomi corrected.

“Sure,” Dylan said with a wink.

“Ladies.” He nodded farewell at Audrey and Claire.

Her friends managed to hold their tongues until she’d closed the office door. Audrey’s brown eyes were wide with curiosity, Claire’s hazel ones narrowed in suspicion.

“That was the big-time television producer you’ve been avoiding?” Audrey said.

“Yup.” Naomi pulled her hair into a messy bun. “I thought he’d given up, but he’s more persistent than I expected.”

“He was super flirty,” Audrey said.

“He was, wasn’t he?” Naomi mused thoughtfully, glancing through the glass walls at Dylan’s retreating back.

“You can’t be serious,” Claire said.

“Why not? He’s cute,” Naomi said, reaching out and pulling the box of cupcakes from Claire’s hands and taking it to the desk, where she rummaged through the mess and pulled out a stack of napkins.

“What. You don’t think he was cute?” She paused in the process of peeling the wrapper off the cupcake.”

“He was,” Audrey said hesitantly. “But . . .” She looked at Claire for help.

Claire didn’t mince her words. “He’s a Brayden.”

“Nope.” Naomi shook her head and wiped frosting off her lip. “He’s not married. I asked.”

“Yeah, because guys like that always tell the truth.”

“Guys like what?” Naomi asked with just the slightest edge in her voice. “You met him for seven seconds.”

“And you met him for what, ten? And you’ve got a date set up.”

Exasperated, Naomi looked toward Audrey for an ally. “Dylan did not give off Brayden vibes. Did he?”

Audrey hesitated. “It’s hard to know. I mean, he seemed nice, but so did Brayden . . .”

“Why are we even talking about this?” Naomi said, shoving the rest of her cupcake in her mouth. “He’s just some guy.”

“Maybe,” Claire said, her tone gentler than before. “But let’s not forget how we first met—why we first became friends. I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t tell you that guy wants to jump your bones. Which I would have no problem with if he weren’t also trying to get you to sign a contract to turn your life story into a TV show.”

“She’s right, sweetie,” Audrey said with a sympathetic smile. “Maybe he’s a super-nice guy, but we’re just saying be careful, okay? Make sure he’s not using all that yummy charm to get what he wants.”

Naomi sighed. They weren’t wrong. If there was a line between professional and smarmy, Dylan Day walked it.

“I’ll be careful,” she said dutifully.

“Good,” Audrey said with a nod. “And now, I have to say, Naomi, your office is exactly how I imagined it.”

“What, a hot mess?” Naomi asked, debating another cupcake but deciding against it.

“No, I mean it’s so what a New York fashion entrepreneur’s office should be,” Audrey proclaimed. “You look like you belong here.”

Naomi supposed she knew exactly what Audrey meant, because the moving clutter aside, it was exactly what Naomi herself had envisioned the space to be. It had gloriously beat-up wood floors and exterior brick walls that looked like they’d been around for centuries. The only modern thing about the place was the Wi-Fi and glass walls, which she’d selected mainly to ensure that those employees working in the bull pen at the center of the office could still enjoy the same natural light as the offices around the edges.

“You two fit right in,” Naomi said.

“She does,” Claire said, nodding at Audrey in a forest green turtleneck sweater, wide black belt, and over-the-knee boots.

“And you,” Naomi insisted. Claire’s wardrobe adhered more to classic than trendy, but the woman knew the basic rules of style and, even more important to Naomi’s critical eye, knew her way around accessories.

Naomi was a big believer that the only crime worse than no accessories were too many, and Claire’s gold necklace with a tiny diamond pendant and matching stud earrings were the perfect choices for her outfit. Anything more would have overwhelmed the white silk blouse and gray slacks.

“So I was going to come in here claiming that I forgot to put in earrings this morning,” Audrey said, unabashedly poking through some of the merchandise on the table, “but I may have kind of, sort of forgotten on purpose on the off chance your selection was better than mine, which it so is.”

“Help yourself,” Naomi said, waving her hand. “Those are free samples. I haven’t really had a chance to dig through them yet, so I’d love your thoughts.”

“Oooh, rose gold,” Audrey said with a delighted clap. “It’s so in.”

As Audrey browsed through the earrings, Naomi turned her attention to Claire, giving the woman a careful study. She’d known the woman only two months, but true to her premonition in the park that day, their friendship had been on the fast track. They’d already had countless brunches, happy hours, and most telling of all, that late-night, soul-sharing kind of texting that left you feeling like you knew the other person.

Maybe it was these texts, maybe it was their shared history with Brayden, or maybe theirs was just one of those friendships that was meant to be. Whatever the reason, Naomi knew she had a pretty good read on both Claire and Audrey despite their short acquaintance, and she knew that neither woman was doing quite as well as they wanted people to think.

Claire still had the same shadows under her eyes she’d had the day of the funeral, though she had decent skill with concealer and disguised the worst of it from a casual observer.

“So, when do you have to be packed?” Claire asked, looking around at the mess as though itching to help.

“Oh no,” Naomi said, popping the cork. “You’re not one of those neat freaks who actually like to clean, are you?”

“Clean? No. I’d skip scrubbing the toilets any day, but tidying up . . . I do like to organize things.” She rubbed her hands together.

“That’s disturbing,” Audrey said, coming back to Naomi and holding up two pairs of earrings, one a cluster of gray faux pearls, the other a dangling rose-gold flower charm. “Which?”

“Pearls,” Naomi said automatically, digging through a box where she was pretty sure she had some plastic cups.

“You didn’t even look.”

“I saw the second you picked them up.” Naomi found the cups and turned to face Audrey. “You’ve got big eyes, but the rest of your features are petite. The long earrings will overwhelm you.”

Audrey looked at the earrings, then shrugged and began to put in the pearls.

“What about Claire?” Audrey chirped. “She needs something new and pretty, too.”

Naomi glanced over at Claire as she poured the champagne. “Help yourself. I’ve got some new clutches and scarves around here if jewelry’s not your thing.”

“No, I’m good,” Claire said, absently fiddling with her watch. The Cartier watch Brayden had given her. The same one he’d given Naomi and Audrey. To Naomi’s thinking, that had been Brayden Hayes’s worst crime—thinking that the same watch could possibly be the right choice for three very different women.

Claire seemed to realize what she was doing and glanced down at the gold band and froze.

Naomi and Audrey exchanged a look.

“You’re still wearing it?” Naomi asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice. She’d taken a hammer to hers. Wasteful? Yes. But necessary.

Claire was still looking at the watch, fiddling with the clasp once more. “I know. I know. It’s just . . .” She looked up. “He was my husband. And he’s gone. And . . .”

She pressed her hands to her lips and didn’t finish the sentence.

Naomi racked her brain for the right thing to say and came up with nothing. She was good at a lot of things. Comforting and reassuring words weren’t among them.

Luckily, Audrey was better at it. She took Claire’s hands in hers. “What can we do?”

Claire sighed, then looked up. “Pour me some of that champagne?”

Naomi smiled, relieved to be of use. “On it.”

She poured them three cups, then a fourth for Deena, who had reappeared at her desk and was barking into the phone. Naomi took a cup out to the main reception desk and handed it to her assistant, who gave her a grateful smile as she argued with who Naomi assumed were the movers on the phone.

Naomi went back into her office and noticed that though Claire was smiling at whatever Audrey was saying, her hand shook the slightest bit as she lifted the champagne to her lips.

Naomi’s gaze caught once again on the glint of gold at Claire’s left wrist.

That damn watch.

Inspiration struck. Naomi went to the cabinets that lined one side of her office. She’d had them custom built the same year she moved into the space and realized that conventional storage units weren’t conducive to the accessory business. Accessories, by nature, were small, and Naomi had needed dozens of tiny spaces to store products, not a couple of big spaces. As a result, the wall was nearly covered in itty-bitty drawers, each labeled with a number that corresponded to a spreadsheet cataloging the vendor, the item, and whether or not Naomi wanted it ordered for the monthly accessory boxes.

After a few wrong guesses, she found the drawer she was looking for. She pulled out the blush-pink velvet pouch with the gold monogram logo. She’d gotten the sample last year, and she’d loved everything about the company, the packaging, their goal of designing watches with classic silhouettes and modern flair.

Naomi hadn’t ordered from them—yet. The price was just a bit too high. But their product stuck out in her memory among hundreds, if not thousands, of pieces, and she kept them on her radar.

She handed the pouch to a confused-looking Claire.

“Open it,” she urged.

Claire tugged at the ribbon and slid the watch into her palm.

“Oooh,” Audrey breathed.

Naomi smiled at Audrey. “You’re really a sucker for rose gold, huh?”

“Shiny and pink?” Audrey said reverently. “Somebody hold me back. But this . . . this one is all Claire.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Claire said. “Is it too . . . young for me?”

Naomi rolled her eyes. “I’d say we’ve got a few years before we need to start decorating your walker with rhinestones. But if you don’t like it . . .”

“No, it’s beautiful,” Claire said quickly, holding up the watch for a closer look.

It was beautiful. The slim rose-gold links of the band were just the right amount of bling without being over-the-top.

“The slightly larger watch face is in right now,” Naomi explained. “It used to be that women thought the smaller the better, since, you know, we’re supposed to be dainty and all. But I actually think the slightly larger size accentuates women’s smaller wrists.”

But the band and the size of the watch face weren’t the highlights. The tiny champagne flute at the five o’clock position was.

“The champagne really should be at noon,” Audrey said, tilting her head to steady it. “That’s my appropriate champagne hour.”

“Cheers to that,” Naomi said before shifting her attention back to Claire. “What do you think?”

Claire took a deep breath, and then opened the clasp of her current watch. “I think that I don’t want to see this watch from Brayden for a while.”

Naomi deliberately didn’t glance at the piece as she tossed it on the desk. The watch deserved better treatment. But a gift from Brayden Hayes did not. She noted that Claire’s eyes tracked the discarded watch, and realized the other woman wasn’t ready to say goodbye entirely yet. But she put the new watch on. Progress.

“Oh, Claire,” Audrey announced, looking at Claire’s wrist. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s not set to the right time,” Claire pointed out.

“The actual minute’s not important right now,” Naomi insisted. “It’s about the moment.”

Audrey nodded. “Absolutely. It marks phase two of our fresh start.”

“What was phase one?” Claire asked with a smile.

“Us figuring out if we could be friends,” Audrey said as though this were obvious.

She had a point. After that day in Central Park with these ladies, Naomi had wondered if maybe it was a fluke. A strange little bubble of reality fueled by grief and anger and the need to best the man who’d bested them.

No, not bested. Fooled.

But in the past couple of months, Naomi had realized that as different as the three of them were, they had something in common other than having slept with Brayden. They were strong. Resilient. Most important of all, they liked one another. Naomi had never made much time for female friends. Sure, she counted Deena as a friend. She was close with a bunch of her senior team. But for Naomi, work had always come first. Above romance, and above friendship. But these women gave her hope . . . gave her the sense that maybe she could be something more than a girl boss and ballbuster.

“So what’s phase two?” Claire asked, still looking slightly skeptical.

“Moving on. Naomi’s got a head start. Her office is moving. She’s moving. She’s got a date—”

“Business meeting,” Naomi corrected with exasperation.

“Whatever. You’re moving forward.”

Am I?

Naomi’s thoughts flicked back to 517 Park Avenue, to Oliver Cunningham’s glacier-blue eyes. To people who didn’t care how much money you had but how old it was. People who, even now, Naomi was letting make her feel inferior. Less.

And then, as though Fate was looking down on her and reading her very thoughts, Deena knocked on the door and popped her head in. “Sorry to interrupt. Ms. Gromwell from that Park Avenue building is on line one. Says it’s a pressing matter. Her words.”

Huh. Well, at least they wanted to give her the news over the phone instead of reject her over email. It was more than she was expecting.

“Give me one sec,” she told her friends, leaning over her desk and picking up her phone. “Naomi Powell.”

“Ms. Powell? This is Victoria Gromwell, from 517 Park Avenue. I’m calling to check on your availability next week. We know it’s last-minute, but the board is hoping to make a decision by the following weekend.”

It took Naomi a moment to register the woman’s words, and when she did, her response wasn’t exactly eloquent. “What?”

There was a long moment of silence, and Naomi heard it loud and clear as disapproval, but she didn’t care.

“You were approved for the second round of interviews,” Ms. Gromwell said stiffly, as though she herself couldn’t imagine why. “There are only three remaining contenders for the apartment, and you’re among them.”

“Oh, well . . .” Naomi tried to sort this out in her head, but it didn’t make sense. The only person to interview her in the first round had been Oliver Cunningham, and there was no way he’d have put her through to the final round, except . . . apparently, he had.

Naomi opened her mouth to explain the misunderstanding, that she already had a place to live.

But Audrey’s words came back to her.

You’re moving forward.

She was trying. She wanted to. But if her reaction to Oliver Cunningham this week had taught her anything, it was that maybe one couldn’t fully move on until they’d faced the past.

For her mom’s sake. And her own.

“I can make any time next week work,” Naomi said without bothering to check her calendar. Whatever meetings she had could be rescheduled.

Because Naomi was on the cusp of achieving something her mom had spent her entire life wishing for:

An apology from Walter Cunningham—Oliver’s womanizing, heartless father who made even Brayden Hayes look like one of the good ones.