FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12
Despite her poorer-than-poor upbringing, in the wake of Maxcessory’s success, Naomi had seen her fair share of Manhattan wealth, from black-tie fund-raisers to fancy museum cocktail parties to overpriced dinners with potential investors. She’d thought she’d finally wrapped her head around what life was like for the 1 percent.
But walking into Audrey’s apartment? She realized there was a whole other level.
She’d been invited to Audrey’s once before for a Sex and the City night, but she’d had to bow out at the last minute to deal with an inventory crisis in the San Francisco office. So she was fully not prepared for the fact that she was about to attend a dinner party in what was surely the most expensive building in New York City.
The lobby, with its soaring ceilings, marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling fish tank that looked bigger than Naomi’s apartment, should have prepared her. The fact that the formal, suit-wearing concierge at the reception desk directed her to a private elevator to the penthouse really should have prepared her.
And yet somehow, she still let out a gasp of shock when she stepped off the elevator into the private entryway of Audrey’s apartment, complete with gold damask wallpaper and an enormous chandelier.
This is where her friend lived? To say it was a far cry from the string of one-room apartments and motel rooms Naomi had grown up in was an understatement. Naomi shook her head in disbelief that this was her life now. That she was friends with people who lived like this.
Dylan Day seemed equally impressed by his surroundings. He was openly gawking as Naomi rang the discreet doorbell beside the front door. Audrey greeted them in a black halter dress, strappy sandals, and a wide, welcoming smile.
“You came!”
“Of course we did,” Naomi said with a laugh. “Though you might have mentioned that you live in a high-rise palace.”
“I know, right? Family money, lots of it. My parents bought this apartment, then decided to move to Hollywood to be near my sister and her producer boyfriend a month later. They gave the place to me, and if I had any sort of pride, I’d have said no, but—”
“If you had any sort of brains, you’d say yes,” Naomi finished for her. “Audrey, you remember Dylan?”
“Sure, of course, we met that day in your office,” Audrey said. Her tone was welcoming, but Naomi caught the way her friend’s smile turned just a little bit fake when she turned it toward Dylan.
“Thanks for having me,” he said politely as Audrey motioned for them to hand over both their coats.
“Of course,” Audrey said brightly. “Manhattan social groups can get so small so fast, I’m always trying to bring new people into the fold.”
Dylan laughed. “Well then, I’m glad you thought of me.”
Naomi looked away, not wanting to tell him that he’d been the second man she’d thought of, and only because they’d already committed to plans on Friday. She didn’t want to admit even to herself that the first person she’d thought of had been her stuffy, unexpectedly charming neighbor.
“Dylan, the kitchen’s right through there. Help yourself to a drink. Can I steal Naomi here for a second? Girl talk.”
“Sure thing,” he said, heading in the direction she’d indicated.
Audrey waited until Dylan was out of earshot before turning an accusing look on Naomi.
“Him?”
“Don’t start,” Naomi said, lifting her finger. “You said bring a date. He’s a date.”
“He’s a guy trying to get in your pants so you’ll agree to do his TV show.”
“Which wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Naomi pointed out. “The TV show’s a great opportunity, and as far as him getting in my pants, let’s just say I have needs that haven’t been taken care of in . . . a while.”
“No pickles in your sandwich since Brayden?” Audrey asked.
“Nope. You?”
“Not even close, but to be honest I haven’t really thought about it. Having my boyfriend of over a year die messed with my heart. Knowing he was married messed with my head. Sex has been the last thing on my mind lately.”
“Huh.” Naomi couldn’t say the same. In the past few days alone it had been on her mind more than she cared to admit. For reasons she was worried had nothing to do with Dylan Day.
“Okay, well, if you like him . . .”
“Like who?”
Audrey rolled her eyes. “Dylan? Your date?”
Right. Right.
“Okay, so can I have a glass of wine, or . . . ?”
Audrey gestured toward the sound of voices, and Naomi had taken only a few steps when she skidded to a halt at a familiar masculine chuckle. What the . . . ?
Wordlessly, Naomi grabbed Audrey’s hand and pulled her friend none too gently through a door to their right, which turned out to be a powder room.
“Seriously?” Naomi hissed, shutting the door. “You invited Oliver?”
“Not explicitly. Claire brought him as her date!”
Naomi’s head snapped back slightly at that. The thought of Claire and Oliver was . . . well, right, on an intellectual level. They both had that sort of old-world classiness to them. Claire had gone to Smith, so they both looked like the alumni section of a prep school brochure. And though she wanted desperately to think of Oliver as a real pain in the ass, she couldn’t deny that maybe, just maybe, a little sliver of him was a good guy who brought expensive champagne to new neighbors and took care of his sick father.
And as for Claire, nobody deserved a nice guy more than she did, and yet . . . and yet . . . Her brain sputtered, trying to wrangle the almost stifling jealousy. While some part of Naomi knew Oliver and Claire were perfect together, another part of her felt decidedly panicked at the thought that there could be romantic interest there.
“Is Claire interested in him?” Is he interested in her?
Audrey shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, she wasn’t like wearing his ring or anything, but if she brought him to a casual get-together, she must be carrying his baby—”
“What is the big deal? Why do you hate him so much?”
She took a deep breath. “Remember my story about my mom and the affair with her employer that ended up with her fired?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, remember the little boy who lied to protect his father?”
“Yeah . . .” Audrey’s eyes went wide in realization. “No.”
“Yup.”
“Oliver was that boy?” she hissed.
“Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Audrey, I’m pretty sure. Also, he has a girlfriend and yet he still came tonight with Claire,” Naomi said, still preoccupied with the thought of Claire and Oliver together.
Audrey’s nose wrinkled. “He doesn’t seem like the two-timing type.”
“Right, because we’re all so good at spotting those,” Naomi said.
“Shoot. You’re right. Still, he seems so nice . . .”
“He is not nice.”
“Well, maybe he wasn’t when he was ten,” Audrey said in exasperation. “But he’s a perfectly polite adult. And I’m glad she brought him. When we met him that first day, he seemed a little . . . lonely.”
Naomi tugged gently on her gold hoop earring, hating the little twist in her stomach at the thought of Oliver Cunningham being lonely. Hated, almost as much, that Audrey had taken enough interest to notice.
“I’m truly sorry, Naomi,” Audrey said, her tone contrite. “If I could get him out of here without being unbearably rude, I would.”
“No, don’t do that,” Naomi said, letting her hands drop and giving her arms a quick shake, trying to gather herself. “I’m a grown-up. I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Audrey said emphatically, reaching out and smoothing a flyaway on Naomi’s hair like a calming mother. At least Naomi assumed that’s what a soothing mother would do. She didn’t have much experience with that sort of maternal figure.
“Let’s do this,” Naomi said, opening the bathroom door.
Naomi followed Audrey into the kitchen area, her attention no longer on her friend’s stunning apartment but on the nemesis she knew awaited her.
“So sorry, everyone,” Audrey said as they joined the small group gathered around her kitchen counter. “This is Naomi Powell, the entrepreneur superstar I was telling you about. It was her first time over here. I just had to give her the grand tour.”
Naomi’s gaze sought and immediately found Oliver. She’d only ever seen him in suits, and tonight was no different, though he’d forgone the tie and left his light blue shirt open at the collar. She was annoyed to realize he pulled off the slightly more casual look every bit as well as he did the full formal attire.
Naomi waited for his shock of surprise at seeing her, but he merely raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment of her presence. Her gaze flicked to Dylan, standing next to Oliver, but her date seemed more interested in checking out Audrey’s apartment, a vaguely assessing look on his face. Irritably, she wondered if Dylan was ever present in the moment, or if he was always looking for this next win, whether it be a woman or a new production idea.
Naomi glanced distractedly at the other man in the room, then did an immediate double take. He was absurdly good-looking. Like George Clooney, Hugh Jackman level of wow. Dark hair, golden-brown eyes, and twin dimples on either side of a rather fantastic smile.
“Dree must not have given you the full tour,” said the World’s Hottest Man. “In this mausoleum, that’s a two-hour venture.”
“Dree?” Naomi repeated, her brain finally catching up to his words, even as she gaped at his perfect face.
“Audrey. She loves the nickname,” he explained with a grin. Naomi’s ovaries fainted dead away.
“Really?” Audrey said dryly as she poured a glass of champagne and handed it to Naomi. “Because I could have sworn I’ve spent the past twenty-something years begging you to quit using it.”
“Twenty-something years,” Naomi said in surprise. Audrey was only twenty-seven. “You’re a . . . brother?”
“Might as well be,” the man replied, extending his hand. “Clarke West. Dree’s oldest and favorite friend.”
“I’ll give you the first one,” Audrey said. “But the persistent use of the nickname puts you on thin ice on the latter.”
Naomi’s gaze flicked between them, searching for any sign that the just-friends routine was a euphemism for complicated, but to her surprise, they both seemed completely easy around each other and, well, friends.
Clarke gave her a quick wink as though reading her thoughts, and Naomi was appalled to feel herself blushing.
“Ugh, Clarke, put that away,” Audrey said with a dismissive wave.
“Put what away?”
“You know exactly what. My friends are off-limits for your dubious charms.”
“I’ll try to keep my appeal under lock and key.”
Good luck with that.
Naomi gave Audrey’s friend another smile before looking over at Claire and smiling in greeting.
Claire’s purple sweater should have perfectly complemented her hazel eyes, but Naomi was dismayed to realize that the shadows under the gorgeous eyes were even darker than the last time she’d seen her.
“I guess you know everyone else,” Audrey said to Naomi. “Not quite the meet-new-people dinner party I expected, but at least we can skip some of the small talk.”
Dylan’s attention finally snapped back to the conversation, and he looked at Naomi in surprise. “You’ve met Owen?”
“Oliver,” Audrey corrected quickly.
Oliver, for his part, ignored Dylan completely, still watching Naomi.
“Hello,” he said softly when she met his eyes.
“Hi.” She tore her gaze away to look at Dylan. “Oliver and I are neighbors.”
Dylan snapped his fingers. “That’s why you look familiar. Didn’t we see you the other night? You were with another . . .”
He looked at Claire, then back at Oliver, and though he stopped short of pointing out that Oliver had been with a different woman that night, his silence was just as damning. At least, it would have been, had Claire seemed to care even a little bit that Oliver had been on a date with someone else. Instead, she seemed far more interested in the bubbles in her champagne flute.
Still, Naomi inwardly cringed that her date didn’t seem embarrassed, much less regretful about the awkward moment he’d caused. In fact, a little part of her wondered if he’d done it on purpose to make Oliver look bad.
“Oh dear,” Audrey muttered just quietly enough for Naomi’s ears but nobody else’s. Then she slipped right back into hostess mode, moving toward the refrigerator. “You guys must be starving. I’ve got a lovely bruschetta that I’ll just pop together real fast. Clarke, be useful for once and come give me a hand?”
Audrey handed a baguette to her friend, who took it and used it to point at the small TV mounted discreetly onto one of the kitchen cabinets. No, it had been built into the cabinet, Naomi realized. A whole other level of fancy.
“I’ll cut this if I can turn that on,” Clarke said, waving the baguette like a weapon.
“Nope. No TV. It’s a dinner party.”
“It’s the Yankees,” Clarke countered.
“Clarke.”
“Audrey.”
Audrey’s eyes narrowed in warning, and Clarke gave her a smile that Naomi suspected would have made most women weak in the knees. Audrey merely raised the large kitchen knife in her hand in warning.
Clarke turned back toward the group. “Let’s take a vote. Yankees game in the background? On mute,” he added, when Audrey made a low growling noise.
Dylan’s hand immediately went up. “Sorry, Audrey. Yanks playing Atlanta, and as a Braves fan I’ve got a good feeling about their win . . .”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Clarke said before pointing his baguette at Oliver. “Can I count on your vote?”
“You can’t say it like that,” Audrey protested. “He’ll feel like he’ll have to turn in his man card if he says no.”
“Perfect. Peer pressure for the win. What’s it to be, Cunningham, man card or Yankees?” Clarke asked.
Naomi already knew what Oliver was going to do. Even without the man card threat, as a kid, he’d been obsessed with all things Yankees. Apparently the man was, too, because he raised his hand in a vote for the game, though he gave Audrey an apologetic wink as he did so that did something unpleasant to Naomi’s stomach.
He was here as Claire’s date, was flirting with Audrey . . . it was like freaking fertilizer on the seed of jealousy that had been planted last weekend when she’d seen him with Lilah.
Naomi frowned. Where was Lilah?
“That’s three for the game,” Clarke said, turning his baguette to Naomi and Claire. “Ladies?”
Audrey gasped in outrage as Claire reluctantly raised her hand in favor of the Yankees. “Claire Hayes!”
“Sorry,” Claire said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m kind of a baseball nut.”
Audrey shot Naomi a pleading look. “You’re on my side, right?”
“I don’t think it matters, babe,” Naomi said with a smile. “It’s already four to two.” Plus, Clarke had already gone straight for the drawer that held the TV remote and turned it on.
“Fiiiiine,” Audrey said with an exasperated sigh as she glared at Clarke. “But I want that baguette sliced on the bias.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” Clarke said, one eye on the game as he unceremoniously plopped the baguette on the cutting board and began making rough cuts at the bread.
Audrey accepted her defeat graciously as she pulled an apron over her head and began slicing tomatoes alongside her friend. Even losing the TV battle, she looked suspiciously happy, and Naomi’s eyes narrowed slightly on her friend’s back. The little sneak. She’d set up a couples’ dinner party but had ensured that she had the plastic safety of her BFF, while she and Claire had put themselves out there and brought an actual date.
Except that wasn’t exactly going to plan, either. Dylan had joined Claire in front of the TV, and though Claire still looked a little skeptical of the guy, she really was a baseball nut, from the way they were talking RBIs and Golden Gloves and a bunch of other crap Naomi didn’t really care about.
Which left her with . . . Oliver.
Naomi glanced over, found him watching her. She picked up her champagne flute, moving closer to stand beside him.
“Out of curiosity, what would your vote have been?” he asked, nodding toward the TV.
She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t have a strong preference either way, but I will say it serves Audrey right.”
“For?”
Naomi pointed the base of her flute toward Clarke and Audrey. “She made me and Claire bring a date. Part of our whole move-on-from-Brayden thing, and she goes and brings her oldest friend. Chicken.”
“So, you and Dylan with a Y. Still a thing?” He kept his voice low to match hers.
Naomi shrugged, not about to tell him that her agreement to going out with Dylan in the first place had only been a knee-jerk reaction to seeing him with Lilah. And she definitely wasn’t about to tell him that she’d specifically used tonight to fulfill that date obligation because a dinner party felt preferable to spending one-on-one time with Dylan.
“TBD,” she answered noncommittally. “What about you and Claire?”
His eyes dragged to the blonde. “She got my number through a friend. Said she needed a no-strings companion to get a matchmaking friend off her back. I didn’t realize she meant Audrey until we got here.”
“How’d Lilah feel about that?” Naomi asked casually, reaching forward and picking up a carrot off Audrey’s elaborate crudités platter.
He said nothing until she forced herself to meet his gaze.
“Lilah and I didn’t work out.”
Naomi’s heart did something stupid, and she mentally shut down the idiotic organ. Remember who he is. Remember that he made your life miserable. Remember that he lied to save his dad and ruined your mom’s life.
But it was getting harder to reconcile this man who seemed to reel her in with every encounter with the little boy who’d been a jerk. Plus, hadn’t Naomi known for years that her mother had made it her life’s mission to blame other people for her situation? If it hadn’t been the Cunninghams, it would have been someone else.
“Did Audrey know you were bringing Dylan?”
“Yeah, of course. Why?”
He nodded back at the dining table behind them. She saw immediately what he meant. “Oh, Audrey.”
He laughed. “Yeah.”
Audrey had placed herself and Clarke at either end of the table—Naomi would bet that it wasn’t the first time Clarke had played her platonic plus-one in a game of setup. The name cards facing Naomi and Oliver read Claire and Dylan, which meant that Naomi and Oliver were seated on the opposite side of the table.
Side by side.
Naomi was going to kill Audrey.
“We could switch them,” he said, looking at Naomi out of the corner of his eye. “Really mess with her plan.”
“Tempting, but I’d never hear the end of it.”
“True, and my mother would roll over in her grave. The woman used to spend hours planning her dinner table.”
Naomi flinched at the mention of Margaret Cunningham, but Oliver was sipping his champagne and missed it.
“Did Claire mention me in the invite?” Naomi asked curiously.
He glanced down at her, his blue eyes landing on her mouth for a second too long before meeting her eyes. “She did.”
“And you still came?”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “What dude doesn’t want to spend Saturday night sitting next to a woman who hates his guts?”
Oliver glanced down with a wry smile when she didn’t reply. “No denial, I see.”
“Sorry.” She looked away from where she’d been staring absently at the table. “Was just wondering how we’re going to manage the wine with dinner. No mugs.”
“Ah, now see?” Oliver said lightly. “We do have a thing.”
“Quit making it weird.”
“It’s hard for you, huh?” he said with faux sympathy.
“What?”
“Dealing with your attraction to me.”
“Yes. Yes, very much. Which is why when Audrey asked me to bring a date tonight, I called Dylan instead of you.”
“Yes, you seem very into him,” Oliver said with a deliberate look toward Dylan on the other side of the room.
“And you into Claire.”
“I never said I was into Claire.”
Naomi’s heart tumbled in her chest, but just when she hoped he’d say more, Audrey came toward them. “Okay, here we are!” she announced proudly, bringing a platter of bruschetta to the counter. “I present my gorgeous tomatoes, as well as Clarke’s hack-job bread.”
“It’s bread. It’s supposed to taste good, not look pretty,” Clarke protested.
“It can do both.”
Clarke shook his head and picked up a piece of the bread, taking an enormous bite and facing the group. “This is my bad, guys. I got her a cooking class for Christmas, and she’s been insufferable ever since.”
Conversation turned briefly back to the Yankees, then some exhibit at the Met that Naomi could not have cared less about, and then, as the group began to loosen up with the wine flowing a bit more freely, onto more interesting topics. Most embarrassing TSA story (Claire had won, with an anecdote of her fourteen-year-old self enduring a male TSA agent rifling through her backpack stuffed mostly with maxi pads), and then back to the topic of museums, at which point everyone confessed they didn’t give a rat’s ass about the new exhibit.
By the time Audrey pulled a butternut squash lasagna out of the oven and put Claire and Dylan to work taking food to the table, Naomi was just the tiniest bit tipsy, a little bit relaxed, and having the best time she could remember in ages.
She jumped at the brush of fingers against the nape of her neck, snapping her head up to give Oliver a startled look.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I was just going to fix your dress. The tag’s sticking out.”
“Great. Very classy, Naomi,” she muttered to herself. Honestly, this was the second time in a week this man had had to fix her clothes.
She started to lift her hand, but his hand was already there, slipping beneath her hair once again, his fingers lightly brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck as he gently adjusted the tag. And lingered.
Naomi’s breath caught at the contact, just as it had the other night. When Dylan’s touch had done zilch, and when Oliver’s touch had kept her up half the night.
She’d convinced herself it’d been a fluke.
It wasn’t.
She looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but Dylan and Claire had paused to watch a full-count pitch on the TV, and Clarke and Audrey were bantering about whether or not squash counted as a vegetable.
The only person paying any attention to Naomi was . . . Oliver. And she saw that he knew. He knew exactly what his touch did to her. And yet there was no gloating in his gaze, no triumph, just awareness. Of her. Of them.
He slowly pulled his hand out from under her hair. “There,” he said quietly. “All better.”
No. No, it was not all better. Her pulse was all jumpy, her breath was a little staccato, and she didn’t even recognize herself.
Naomi was always the seductress, never the seduced, and yet here she was, feeling distinctly fluttery about the one man she was determined to despise.
“Okay,” Audrey said, “Dinnertime. TV off. My house, my rules.”
“Yes, Mom,” Claire said, dutifully turning off the television.
The group took their places at the table, and Naomi realized maybe she’d been wrong about Audrey’s placement of the name tags. Maybe she hadn’t been placed next to Oliver, so much as across from Dylan, making it easier to talk to her date.
She knew this, not because she was actually talking to her date, but because Oliver was talking to his. Regardless of why Claire had asked Oliver tonight, or why he’d agreed, it was hard not to see that they got along marvelously. Apparently, they’d both gone to the same leadership camp back in the day, and Claire, a couple of years older, had been his group leader. Apparently, they had a mutual friend who’d recently been arrested for growing pot at her Hamptons home. Apparently, they both loved spy movies.
The rest of the group laughed at the trip down memory lane. And just as Naomi was pep-talking herself that she wasn’t jealous, that she didn’t care that he didn’t even seem to be aware of her, Oliver glanced over and caught her eye. And winked.
And she knew, with that one should-have-been-cheesy-but-was-unbearably-sexy wink, that he was right.
She was attracted. They did have a thing.
And she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.