MONDAY, OCTOBER 29
Oliver picked up his glasses and pencil for the tenth time in an hour, only to toss them back onto his standing desk. Also for the tenth time in an hour.
It was no use. It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to land the Gabe Green project, he wouldn’t be able to draw so much as a single straight line until he could get a certain red-haired temptress out of his mind.
Not an easy task, considering he now had the memory of her taste and feel to contend with.
Kissing her on Saturday had been . . . a mistake.
No, not a mistake, because he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
It had been a misstep—what he should have done was kissed her and not stopped.
He should have backed her up against the wall, wrapped her legs around his waist, and told her to forget the date. To forget the other guy. To be his.
Instead he’d let her walk away, hoping like hell that his gamble would pay off, that she’d realize that if she was ready to start dating again after Brayden, that the right guy was right here . . .
Oliver dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he realized his train of thought. Was he the right guy? For anyone? There was a reason his fiancée had bailed on him years earlier.
He barely had time to take a shower in between work and Walter obligations, much less make it to the gym. Much less squeeze in a date. Much less have a girlfriend.
Especially a girlfriend like Naomi, who wasn’t exactly the easy, docile, low-maintenance type. The woman was fire and energy, and at the top of her game. He’d done his homework. Her company, that she’d so modestly dismissed as a “start-up,” was valued at close to a billion.
A billion! And yet the woman had zero trace of snobbery. If anything, her dislike of him seemed to be because of his perceived snobbery. Oliver had never been quite so aware of the stigma of being born with money, which he could understand if it was from someone who had none, but Naomi Powell was loaded.
From what he could tell, her life had been one long string of interviews and photo shoots and 30-under-30 features. She was frequently photographed at the newest restaurants, seen dancing at the hottest clubs, often with some beefed-up arm candy by her side.
Oliver didn’t fit into that picture. Old Oliver maybe could have swung it. He’d never been one for late nights and clubbing, but he hadn’t been stodgy, either. He liked to go out, have a few drinks, maybe one too many. He liked the satisfaction of wowing a woman with reservations at some swanky place. Hell, he didn’t even mind the occasional black-tie affair necessitating a penguin suit and small talk.
But that wasn’t his life now. It couldn’t be. He was lucky if he got one night off a week, and those were usually spent catching up on work, trying to maintain the few friendships he still had left, or just getting some damned peace and quiet.
Oliver didn’t know if Naomi had even heard of the concept of peace and quiet.
Though, perhaps that wasn’t fair. This past week and a half she had offered to watch his father, and she’d seemed oddly content to relax in his apartment . . .
Until she’d gotten bored, apparently. Until she’d gone on a date.
“I know that face. You’re chewing on a problem.”
Oliver turned toward the open door of his office to see one of his best contractors and longtime friends stroll through the door.
“Hey, man,” Oliver said with a genuine smile as he went to give Scott Turner a one-armed man hug. “Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Seattle. Just got back last Thursday,” Scott said, helping himself to one of the coffee pods Oliver’s assistant kept on an end table before popping it into the machine on the far side of the room.
“Right,” Oliver said, dropping into the chair at the small table he kept in his office. He liked to stand as he worked, so his actual desk was tall and facing the window. The table was reserved for client meetings, or in this case, catching up with friends. “How’d it go? Worth turning down my project?”
“Your project was a swanky hotel. You know that’s not my thing.”
“And weird museums are?”
“Pretty much,” Scott said, picking up his coffee mug and joining Oliver at the table. “Though, joke was on me. The project was cool on paper, but the client was a diva.”
Scott grunted in confirmation, and Oliver gave a single nod of understanding.
He and Scott Turner had met at Columbia, both setting out to get their masters in architecture. Scott had dropped out after the first year, realizing his passion was building, not design. He’d started his own construction firm, and though he kept it small, he was known as a perfectionist and had his choice of projects.
Oliver always recommended Turner Construction for his projects, knowing that Scott got Oliver’s designs in a way the bigger companies didn’t always see. But Scott was picky. If one of Oliver’s projects didn’t suit his mood, he went for something else.
Seattle, in this case.
“How was it, besides the douche client?” Oliver asked.
“Good. As rainy as they say, but my wardrobe certainly fit in better there.”
Oliver believed it. Though Scott had a loft apartment on the west side, he was no Manhattan yuppie. Come to think of it, Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend wear anything besides jeans and a T-shirt. Even now, in late October, Scott had layered a short-sleeve navy tee over a long-sleeve white T-shirt. There were no signs of the usual aviator glasses, but Oliver was betting they were tucked into the bomber jacket Scott had set over the back of the chair.
“So what’s next?” Oliver asked.
“TBD,” Scott said, taking a sip of the coffee and studying him. “I need a palate cleanser. Something . . . simple. Basic. You ever miss your earliest projects? Back before we knew how to do fancy and just sort of threw our backs into regular stuff?”
“No,” Oliver admitted. “But considering the first thing I ever saw you sketch was a log cabin, I think I know what you mean.”
“Yeah, well.” Scott rolled his shoulders in impatient irritation. “I want something like that. I want to gut something small, then take my time getting the details right.”
He nodded in the direction of Oliver’s desk. “What’re you workin’ on?”
Oliver tipped his chair back, leaning over nearly to the point of tipping over, to grab his sketch pad before dropping it on the table in front of Scott.
Scott picked it up, rubbed a palm absently over his chronic five o’clock shadow, which was really a twenty-four-hour shadow in Scott’s case. “Good old cock and balls. Nice.”
His friend tossed the pad aside—it really was a cock and balls Oliver had doodled on the pad in utter, uninspired boredom—and studied him. “Blocked?”
“No. I’m thinking a building of exactly that design would be perfect next to the High Line. Thoughts?”
“Plenty of people would get a kick out of it,” Scott said, propping a booted foot on his opposite knee. “I also think you’re avoiding my question. How’s Walter?”
“Good,” Oliver said. “I mean he’s not, but . . . no change.”
“Did the Tribeca fancies pick your design for that mixed-use monstrosity downtown?”
“Yeah,” Oliver said distractedly, pulling his pencil from behind his ear and fiddling with it.
“All right, so it’s not family. Not work. Woman.”
Oliver’s gaze flicked up and met Scott’s before moving away again.
“Nailed it,” Scott said, not bothering to hide the gloat. “Who is she? You haven’t taken up with that bitch Bridget again, have you?”
“Tell me how you really feel,” Oliver grumbled.
“I have. Many times. Any woman who’d walk away within a month of your dad’s diagnosis isn’t worth a second more of your thoughts.”
Oliver nearly reminded Scott that he, too, had been engaged. At the same time as Oliver. The two couples had been nearly inseparable at the time, though neither had made it to the altar. As much as Bridget bailing on Oliver had hurt, it had nothing on what Scott had gone through when Meredith cheated on him.
“To her credit, Bridget did stick around through my mom’s illness,” Oliver said. “It wouldn’t have been fair to ask her to deal with another round.”
“Why not? You have to deal with it.”
“Can we not?” Oliver said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “This isn’t about Bridget. I haven’t even talked to her.”
“Ah. Someone new. Good. It’s been too long.”
“Yeah, since you’re a real relationships guy,” Oliver said sarcastically. “You know, other than Meredith, I’ve never even met a woman you were seeing? Random chicks you take home from bars don’t count.”
“Good thing we’re not talkin’ about my love life, then,” Scott said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Talk to old Scotty. Who’s the girl who’s got you drawing this?” He flicked the notepad.
“New neighbor.”
Scott’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Tell me she’s under sixty.”
Oliver laughed. “She’s around our age. No idea why she moved into a building where the mean age is about seventy-four though.”
“You ever ask her?”
“I—” Oliver’s mouth dropped open. Had he? Maybe during the interview process. But as a person? Friend to friend? Interested man to woman?
“Truth be told, I don’t know much about her beyond what I’ve found on Wikipedia.”
“Hell, that sounds like trouble.”
“Not what you think. She’s a businesswoman, started some jewelry empire. Maxcessory?”
Scott shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
Shocker.
“Anyway, Naomi’s my neighbor, and she’s . . .”
“Hot?”
“Hot. Frustrating. A complete pain in my ass.”
“Sounds like a real dream come true. Any good qualities beyond the hot?”
“She’s good with Dad.”
Scott nodded in understanding. A woman being good with his father may not be the sexiest foundation for any relationship, but ever since Bridget had coldly left him when he’d needed her most, Oliver had promised himself he’d never get involved with a woman who couldn’t handle Walter—who didn’t understand that he and his father were a package deal.
“Okay, so she’s hot,” Scott said, holding out a thumb. “She likes Walter, and that’s no easy task . . .” He held out his pointer finger. “She’s built her own empire, so she’s not in it for the money,” he said, ticking off another point.
“So true,” Oliver muttered.
“So what’s the problem?”
“What do you mean?”
Scott shrugged. “Seems to me like a pretty clear-cut situation. You’re attracted to your new neighbor, and she hasn’t gone running off because of your family situation. Neither of those reasons explains why I’m getting major depressed vibes coming off you right now.”
“All right,” Oliver said, deciding to lay it all out there. “How about the fact that from the very second she saw me—literally, the very first second—she decided not to like me.”
Scott made a considering face, waggling his hand. “To be honest, dude, I didn’t like you much the first time I saw you, either.”
Oliver glared at his friend. “What?”
“You’re sort of . . .” Scott narrowed his brown eyes and studied Oliver. “Starchy.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know. Like your mom used to make you dress for the dinner table, and like you don’t own shirts without collars, and you have a cuff link collection that dates back four generations.”
“I do not have a cuff link collection.”
Though his mom had made him change for dinner growing up. And his amount of non-collared shirts wasn’t exactly numerous.
“Question,” Scott said, setting his mug aside and steepling his fingers. “You work for yourself, right?”
“Yes,” Oliver said impatiently. “You know that.”
“So you’re the boss.”
“Point?”
“You don’t have to wear a suit.” Scott looked pointedly at Oliver’s pinstripe suit. “Nobody’s making you.”
“Correct,” Oliver said, smoothing a hand over this gray tie, “I’d just prefer not to look like a . . .”
Scott made a continue gesture with his hand. “Lumberjack? Bohemian? Vagabond? Construction worker?”
“I’m not walking into that trap,” Oliver muttered.
“Look, man, I got over it. Saw that you weren’t actually a prig, you just dressed like one. But it took me a while. People like you don’t generally associate with people like me, and I wasn’t exactly prepared for you to be decent.”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘people like you’?” Oliver asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Where am I from?” Scott asked.
“Ah . . .” Oliver racked his brain, was a little embarrassed to realize he had no idea.
“Exactly. Never told you. Why? Because you were born and raised and still live on Park Avenue. Me? A shitty little town in New Hampshire you’ve never heard of, in a two-bedroom house I shared with my dad and three brothers. Two of my brothers still live there. Hell, I probably would, too, had I not decided to elbow my way the hell out, but it doesn’t mean I’m not braced every damn day for someone to see right through me.”
Oliver stared at his friend. It was a monotone, dispassionate delivery, but his words were . . . telling. It was more than Scott had ever told him. But before he could think of what to say, Scott was pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“Let’s test this out. What’s this girl’s name?”
Oliver told him, and Scott typed it into his phone. “Here we go. ‘Naomi Powell, best known’ blah, blah, blah. Ah. ‘Born and raised in the Bronx, Powell has cited her poor upbringing as a major motivator . . .’ ”
Scott looked at Oliver over the phone. “You haven’t read this?”
“No, I have,” Oliver said, shifting in his chair. “So it’s a rags-to-riches story.”
Scott shook his head and put his phone away, his point made. “Sure, but I bet you anything there’s a part of her that still sees herself in the rags, and meanwhile you’re . . .”
“Starchy,” Oliver said, realizing what his friend was getting at.
Scott spread his hands to the side. “My work here is done.”
Oliver laughed. “Like hell it is. You’ve merely insulted me and given me literally zero advice.”
“You know when I first realized you weren’t a complete ass-wag?” Scott asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Study group, just shortly before I quit. Remember, it was at your place, and there was supposed to be that cute blond girl with the great rack, but she got sick last minute and never showed, so it was just the two of us?”
Oliver shrugged. “Vaguely?”
“Well, I was dreading the hell out of it, fully expecting you to serve cucumber sandwiches off china plates.”
“And?”
“And you answered the door holding an egg roll, wearing Nike joggers and an undershirt with soy sauce down the front.”
“Jesus,” Oliver said with a laugh.
“That was when I knew we could be friends. When I knew you were real. When I knew there was a man beneath the priss,” Scott said, standing and picking up his mug.
“I think it’s going to take a little more than spilled soy sauce to win over Naomi.”
“All right, so evolve your methods,” Scott said matter-of-factly. “But you want a chance, Cunningham, you’ve got to show this woman that there’s a man beneath those pinstripes.”
“I feel like this conversation just turned weird.”
“Says the man doodling penises.”
Oliver picked up the sketch pad, then flipped it around. “Maybe I can just show her this?”
Scott gave him a boyish grin. “If you take my advice, I’d say you’ve got a pretty decent chance of showing her the real thing.”
Aaaand sold.