THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
Whoa. You do know it’s just the three of us, right?” Audrey asked as she opened her front door to Naomi and took in the copious amount of wine bottles Naomi was holding.
“It was cheaper to buy six,” Naomi replied, handing over the bottles and shrugging out of her jacket. “Also, trust me, I need at least half of that to myself.”
“Uh-oh. What happened?” Audrey asked, leading Naomi into the kitchen.
“Let’s wait until Claire gets here so I only have to explain the nightmare once.”
“Here,” Claire announced, holding up her arm from where she sat on Audrey’s couch.
Naomi craned to look at what she was watching on the TV. “Dang, you really are a baseball nut.”
“Yup. But for you, I will turn it off.” She reached for the remote, then paused, watching something on the field that had the announcers shouting. “Correction. For you, I will mute.”
“If Brayden hadn’t jabbed his chopstick into our dumplings, would you have turned it off for us?” Audrey asked.
Claire wrinkled her nose, and Naomi gave Audrey a look and shook her head.
“Damn,” Audrey said. “I’ve been working on that one. Okay, what are we eating?”
“Not Chinese,” Claire muttered, joining them in the kitchen and checking the labels on the various bottles Naomi had brought. “Naomi can pick.”
“You don’t want me to pick. My favorite food used to be Chef Boyardee. The off-brand kind.”
“No, pick!” Audrey protested. “Except maybe not Chef Boy-are-whatever you just said.”
“You’re missing out, but I’ll start you off easy. How about pizza?”
“Done,” Audrey said, pulling out her phone. “There’s a place around the corner that does this classic Neapolitan crust, with homemade smoked mozzarella and—”
“No, not fancy pizza,” Naomi interrupted. “Homemade cheese? Are you kidding me?”
“Well, where do you get your pizza?”
“Let’s just say it’s not the kind of place that has an online ordering system,” Naomi said, already dialing a number from the Favorites menu of her phone.
“Hey, Claudio,” she said the moment an almost unintelligible rumble of Italian sounded in her ear.
“Naomi! Mia Bella. The regular?”
She grinned at the familiar greeting. “The regular times three. I’m about to introduce two friends to the best meal of their life. Grab a pen though, ’kay? I need Jorge to come to my friend’s house.”
A minute later she set her phone back on the counter. “Done. They should be here in an hour. Or so.”
“An hour? It’s Thursday night. My guys’ smoked mozzarella could get made from scratch faster than that!”
Claire handed Audrey a glass of red wine. “Probably not. The mozzarella, yes, that can be done in thirty minutes. The smoked part would take longer.”
“Are you making this up?”
“Nope.” Claire sipped her own wine. “Brayden and I took a cheese-making class once. Back before I knew he was, you know. Dipping into other fondue pots.”
“Nice.” Naomi lifted her hand and Claire gave her a high five, while Audrey pouted.
“How is that better than my chopstick one!” she protested.
“Well, for starters, nobody sticks a chopstick into a dumpling. Second of all, the word dumpling is just . . . no. Keep working on it.”
“Fine,” Audrey muttered. “But for real, Naomi, is your pizza coming from Italy?”
“Nope. Belmont.”
“Oh God, is someone trying to create some new Manhattan neighborhood where there isn’t one again?” Claire asked.
“Nope. Belmont is in the northwest Bronx.”
Audrey’s eyes bugged out. “You order pizza from the Bronx?”
“And they deliver?” Claire added.
“They do when I pay them an extra fifty bucks, plus extra for the delivery guy.”
“An extra fifty bucks for a pizza. It must be amazing.”
“Not really,” Naomi said. “But when I was in seventh grade, my mom went through a rare patch of being able to keep not only one job, but two. Claudio fed me dinner pretty much every day that year while she worked back-to-back shifts. This is my way of paying him back.”
“Well then, I can’t wait to try it,” Audrey said with an approving nod as they all went into the living room and sat on the couch. “Now, how about you tell us why your wineglass is filled to the brim. Bad day?”
“Not really,” Naomi said, swirling her wine. “It’s just been . . . weird.”
“How so?”
“I’m kind of sort of helping take care of Walter Cunningham.”
“Who? Wait. Oliver’s father? The one who slept with your mom and then threw her out?” Claire asked incredulously.
Naomi made a face. “Sort of?”
“Why? What do you mean you’re taking care of him?”
“He has Alzheimer’s, and as far as the why, I don’t really know. It’s like one moment I was reminding myself that I moved into the building to show them that the girl they kicked to the streets could buy the entire building they live in and then some. And the next . . . they’re not the same. I mean, Walter, obviously not, because of the dementia. But Oliver, too. And before I knew it, I had this weird urge to help an old man who’s sick, even knowing he’s a jerk. Used to be a jerk. Whatever. And now you think I’m crazy.”
“Not crazy,” Claire said slowly. “But are you doing it for Walter? Or for his son?”
Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
Claire swirled her wine. “Meaning that we saw the way Oliver Cunningham looks at you like he doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss you or shove you against the wall, or shove you against the wall to kiss you . . .”
“Please stop,” Audrey said, dabbing her brow dramatically. “I haven’t been pushed against the wall ever. But seriously. What is going on with you two? You guys looked mighty friendly leaving my party last weekend.”
“Did we?” Naomi said sarcastically. “Or did we maybe look that way because you two conspired to set us up.”
“Claire’s the one who brought him.”
“You’re the one who made sure Naomi sat next to him,” Claire countered.
“And you both all but shoved Dylan in a cab so that Oliver would have to walk me home.”
“We didn’t want Dylan to be late to the airport,” Claire said innocently.
Audrey nodded in solemn agreement. “His job is very important. Super demanding. Did he not tell you once or a thousand times?”
Naomi conceded with a laugh. “Okay, I’ll grant that Dylan was a little . . .”
“Conceited? Invasive? Full of himself?” Claire said.
“He’s a good producer,” Naomi pointed out.
“That I’ll believe. He certainly was determined to get the dirt on you.”
Naomi winced. Dylan had been a little obvious in his attempt to get information about her from her friends that night. But he’d called later to apologize, and Naomi could cop to being a little pushy when she wanted something.
“Any regrets on signing the contract for the TV show?”
“Oddly, no. I mean, things are moving fast, but so far I haven’t had to do much,” Naomi said, taking a sip of her wine. They were right, she had given herself a plus-size pour.
It wasn’t the most responsible way to deal with the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about Oliver Cunningham, but it was effective.
“Tell ya what,” Naomi said, looking back to Audrey to change the subject. “I’ll give you the full rundown on Oliver if you fill me in on Clarke.”
Audrey blinked in surprise, then laughed. “Clarke? Clarke West? As in . . . Clarke?”
Naomi laughed. “Yes, as in Clarke. The Clarke. What’s the story there? Gay?”
“Definitely not.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve had a straight best guy friend who looks like that for twenty years? How does that work?”
“What she said,” Naomi said, pointing at Claire. “Wait, no, let me guess. You guys hooked up and had no chemistry but decided to be friends rather than exes. Ooh, or you’re secretly in love but aren’t ready to admit it to yourself?”
Audrey raised her eyebrows. “Those are my only two options?”
“Pretty much.”
“Says who?” Audrey demanded.
Naomi shrugged. “Movies?”
“Every teen TV show ever written,” Claire chimed in.
“Well, that’s true,” Audrey admitted. “But I hate to break it to you ladies, Clarke and I don’t fit into either of those categories.”
“He’s not gay. And not an ex? And you’re not secretly in love?” Naomi asked skeptically.
Audrey smiled. “No to all of the above. We really are just friends. When I was in first grade, a mean third-grade girl stole the locket my grandma had given me for my birthday. He made her give it back, then played hopscotch with me until I stopped crying.”
“How did you not fall in love then and there?” Claire asked a little dreamily. “That’s so romantic.”
“I was six, so not so much,” Audrey said. “I idolized him, but more in the big brother kind of way, since my actual big brother was much older.”
“Okay, but what about after you developed hormones,” Naomi asked. “Surely then you realized your best friend was ridiculously cute.”
“Yeah, but he’s a couple years older, so he got hormones first. By the time I figured out the whole boy-girl thing, he was already a ladies’ man, and I was smart enough to recognize a heartbreaker, even if he was my best friend.”
“Wait, he was a heartbreaker, at what, twelve?”
Audrey gave Claire a look over their wineglasses. “You’ve seen him.”
“I have. Which is why I can’t believe there hasn’t been something. A drunken fling? Secret crush? Give me something. He’s too hot for there not to be a story there.”
“No story,” Audrey said firmly. “Your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“You know what. Oliver Cunningham.”
“Well, as you ladies now know, Oliver was not my childhood hero. Quite the opposite. He makes that bitch who stole your locket sound like a sweetie pie,” she said to Audrey. “End of story.”
“Um, not end of story. You’re neighbors with some seriously delicious animosity. Have you told him who you are yet?”
Naomi shook her head.
“Naomi. You’ve got to tell him,” Claire said.
“What good would that do?”
“Well, the woman he’s seriously crushing on wouldn’t be lying to him, for starters.”
“He’s not crushing.”
Claire and Audrey exchanged a look.
“He’s not! He’s just . . . intrigued.”
Like she was by him.
“Trust me, I am not Oliver Cunningham’s type.”
“What’s his type?”
“You two,” she said, pointing between them.
“Well, obviously you have something in common with us. Brayden certainly liked all three of us,” Claire said, her tone just a bit caustic.
“He married you,” Naomi retorted. “And he at least let Audrey think he was going to marry her someday. He never made any such promises to me. Brayden saw me for what I am. The real me. Just like Dylan sees me.”
“What’s that mean? The real you?”
“You know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “A little brash. Fun. The one you do tequila shots with on Friday night, not the one you take home to Mom.”
“Well, you lucked out there. Brayden’s mother was a nightmare,” Claire said.
“Still. You know what I mean.”
“Actually, not at all,” Audrey protested. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re . . .”
“Trash?” Naomi said for her.
“Stop it,” Claire said sharply. “You want to know who really sees you, it’s me and Audrey. And like it or not, it’s Oliver, too, if you could see past your childhood grudge to give him a chance.”
“Hey!” Naomi said, a little stung. “For the record, we had dinner together.”
Audrey clapped. “That is so cute.”
“Cuter than Clarke playing hopscotch with you? And it was just dinner.”
“What kind of dinner?” Claire demanded.
“Foie gras and caviar, what else? We had spaghetti, Claire. What does it matter? I fed him really bad pasta.”
“You fed him? Oh my gosh. You like him.”
“I don’t.” Naomi was increasingly feeling wildly out of her depth. “Or I don’t know if I do. What I do know is that I’ve had dinner with a guy in the past week, and you haven’t. We’ve already established that Clarke doesn’t count,” Naomi said, lifting a finger in warning to Audrey, who was about to protest. “I may be confused, but at least I’m trying.”
“Hmm, I need more wine,” Audrey mused, starting to stand.
“You get more wine after you agree to go on a date. Any date,” Naomi said.
“I haven’t met anyone I want to go on a date with,” Audrey said primly.
“Me neither,” Clare said, more emphatically.
“Well, that’s too damn bad,” Naomi said. “We agreed to help each other avoid Manhattan’s crappy men, not avoid all men.”
“Is there such a thing as a man who’s not crappy?” Claire tapped her chin.
“Oh, stop. I’m not saying you need to commit to an entree. Just sample the buffet,” Naomi said. “It’s only going to get harder the longer you wait.”
Audrey slumped back against the couch. “I hate that she’s right. I swear, every day, I wake up with another bitterness wrinkle.”
“A what?”
“Here,” Audrey said, pointing to the corner of her eyes. “Bitterness.”
“She could be onto something,” Naomi said. “My mom fed on bitterness, and she had whopper crow’s-feet.”
Claire’s hand lifted to her face. “So what are you suggesting?”
“Just that we all agree to go on a date. Just one. Painless.”
“Says the woman who has two men panting after her.”
Naomi didn’t dignify that with a response.
“All right,” Audrey said after a moment. “I’m in. I’ll even let you guys pick the guy, since I confess it was lame of me to bring Clarke to the dinner party when I insisted you guys bring an actual date.”
“And I’ll let you pick someone for me, too,” Claire said. “Since the date I brought was actually for Naomi.”
“Whom Naomi didn’t want.”
“You sure about that?” Audrey waggled her eyebrows. “Who are you going on a date with?”
“Dylan. Obviously.”
“You sure?”
Naomi opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Damn it. She wasn’t sure.