SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 4

Naomi woke up slowly, registering first that the window had moved. She was lying on her right side, as she usually did, but the window wasn’t where it was supposed to be. She was looking at a bare wall.

And the pillow was different, too. It was warm, and . . . moving.

She froze as Oliver shifted beneath her.

Oliver.

She’d slept with Oliver Cunningham.

Naomi squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the wave of self-loathing, bracing for the onslaught of guilt. What would her mother think?

But . . . nothing came.

For the first time in a long time, Naomi’s primary thoughts weren’t of the past, but of the present. Present Oliver. And Present Oliver, or at least, Last Night Oliver had been . . .

Perfect.

She tilted her head up slightly, wanting to run a finger along the scruff on that sharp jawline but not wanting to wake him up. She liked him with a little bit of facial hair. Liked him without it, too. Liked him in sweats, liked him in suits. Just . . . liked him.

He spoke without opening his eyes. “Why are you watching me?”

She laughed. “That obvious?”

Oliver glanced down, blue eyes soft and a little sleepy. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she said softly.

His arm came more fully around her, and she burrowed closer. She’d never been much of a cuddler, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to get close enough. Maybe because she knew this was likely to be short-lived, because once he found out who she was . . . that she’d been lying.

Claire was right. She had to tell him.

“Hey,” she said softly, dragging her finger in lazy patterns on his chest. “So—”

Oliver groaned just slightly. “Naomi, something you should know about me—I’m no good for talking before coffee.”

A reprieve.

She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Noted,” she said, lifting up slightly so he could slide out of bed. “Never stand between a caffeine addict and his coffee.”

“You don’t drink it.”

“No, I do,” she said, flopping back down on the pillow. “As long as it’s like, half coffee, half sweet creamer stuff.”

He winced as he pulled sweatpants out of a dresser drawer. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Where’s your key?”

“Hmm?”

“Your apartment key. I don’t think I even have milk, but if you have the makings to bastardize coffee in your place, I can go grab it.”

“Back pocket of my jeans,” she said, sitting up and pulling the sheet under her armpits. “Which are . . .”

Oliver picked them up from the doorway, where they’d been dropped. Flung? Hmm.

“I’ll go,” she said as he held up the key.

“You’ll stay. I find I’m really liking the looks of you in my bed.”

“Good, because I’m pretty damn happy to be here.”

Naomi flopped back on the pillows as he disappeared.

Several minutes later, he reappeared with two steaming mugs and her trusty Coffee-mate tucked under his arm.

“Okay, I added some,” he said, setting one of the mugs on the nightstand and handing her the other. “I was assuming you didn’t literally mean half-and-half, but . . .”

“No, I meant it,” she said, waggling her fingers for the bottle of vanilla creamer.

“I don’t think I can watch this,” he muttered, handing her the bottle and pulling a spoon out of his pocket.

She added a generous dollop more and stirred. “You know it’s right when it’s mostly white with just a little hint of brown.”

He stared at her, horrified. “I think I want to break up.”

Naomi popped the spoon in her mouth, sucked it clean.

Oliver blinked. “Or not.”

“Break up. Seems to me in order to break up, we’d first have to be . . . together?” she asked, taking a sip of the perfectly sweetened coffee.

Oliver sat on the edge of the bed. “Seems like it.”

Are we? she wanted to ask.

She didn’t. Because she couldn’t, in good conscience, ask him to think of her like a girlfriend when he didn’t even know her. Didn’t know their history.

Damn it, she’d done that thing.

That thing where you wait too long to tell someone something important, and what would have been merely an awkward conversation now felt monumental.

“Oliver—”

“Naomi.” His voice was steady. Calm. Because he was steady and calm. He was a rock. For his mother when she was sick, for his father now. He was that guy. The one people could count on. The one who stuck around when shit got difficult.

She studied him, trying to remember the monstrous little boy he’d been and . . . couldn’t. Adult Oliver had replaced all memories of crappy, brat Oliver. The boy she’d hated had become a man she—

“Do you want to go to brunch?” she blurted out. “There’s this great little place in the Village with the most amazing French toast and eggs Benedict. It’s impossible to get into without reservations, but one of my employees is dating the owner, so I could probably get us a spot at the bar . . .”

Even as she babbled, she saw the light go out of his eyes, watched as he shut down.

“You don’t like brunch?”

Never before had she seen someone dim so much at the mention of French toast.

“No, I do.” He rubbed a hand over his hair, looking suddenly exhausted. “It’s just—it’s not really a luxury I’ve been able to indulge in the past couple years.”

Ah. “Walter.”

He looked at her, eyes tired. Apologetic. “Janice does brunch and church with her sister’s family every Sunday. I’m on Walter duty. If I know in advance, I can sometimes make it work, but—”

“No, of course,” Naomi interrupted, holding up her hand. “I should have realized . . . I know you’re usually with him on weekends. And evenings.”

“Rethinking that together thing?” he asked, his eyes bleak as he looked at her.

Yes, but not for the reason you think.

“Maybe you’re right,” Naomi said quietly. “This whole thing is complicated. It’s happened fast. If we could just slow down for a second—”

“Naomi. I get it,” he said. “It’s like I told you the other day, I don’t hold it against anyone who wants no part of this, but this is also my life. You’re young, gorgeous, successful. You deserve the brunches and the fancy happy hours and the late-night dinners. But that’s never going to be with me. Not anytime soon.”

She nodded because it was easier to let him think that was the reason she was walking away than the real reason.

Naomi took another sip of coffee before handing him the mug. “I’ll get dressed.”

He stayed still for a minute, looking at her with undisguised regret before he stood and took both mugs into the kitchen. Naomi got out of the bed, finding her underwear and jeans, then wincing when she realized her bra and shirt were still in the living room.

Deciding that borrowing a T-shirt without asking was decidedly less embarrassing than leaving the bedroom topless, she helped herself to a Columbia University shirt she found in a drawer.

Oliver did a double take when she came out of the bedroom wearing it but said nothing as she picked up her bra and shirt as calmly as possible, wrapping the bra inside the shirt in case she ran into any other neighbors on the way back to her apartment.

“So.” She turned and faced him. “Um.”

He smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I just meant you don’t have to say anything,” he said, setting his mug aside and coming toward her. “I’m not boyfriend material. Not right now.”

He stopped, setting a hand to her cheek. “No regrets about last night. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she whispered, turning her cheek into his hand and closing her eyes, relishing his scent. His warmth.

He kissed her softly, before stepping back. “See you around, Naomi.”

She swallowed, a little puzzled to realize there was a lump in her throat. “See you.”

Naomi left his apartment and walked woodenly down the hall. Blindly, she climbed into the shower, hoping the warm water would wash away the sense that this was all wrong. That she was being an idiot.

And that maybe he was, too, for not having the courage to ask someone to stick with him. To tell him he was worth the sacrifices that came with his situation.

When she realized she was being an idiot, Naomi hurriedly shut off the water. She dried her hair in record time, tugged on yoga pants, and pulled on Oliver’s college T-shirt once more.

Two minutes later, she was out the door, five minutes after that, she was at the grocery store, then back to her apartment to pick up the bottle of cheap champagne she kept in the fridge.

It was just before ten when she knocked on Walter’s door with the toe of her sneaker, since her arms were full of grocery bags and a bouquet of confetti roses she’d bought on a whim.

Oliver opened the door, his expression nonplussed. “Naomi? What are you doing here?” Automatically he reached out to take one of the bags. “What’s all this stuff?”

“Eggs. Hash browns. Bacon. Some sort of cinnamon bread that looked too delicious to pass up. Orange juice and bubbly, because what’s a brunch without mimosas,” she said, pushing past the stunned man.

She went on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You couldn’t go to brunch, so I brought brunch to you. And Walter. Good morning, Walter,” she said, turning and seeing him in his favorite easy chair by the TV.

He glanced over, lifted his hand in greeting. “Naomi.”

She smiled at Oliver. “See? Off to a good start. Okay, how are your scrambled eggs skills? Mine are mediocre, but I’m really good with bacon—”

Oliver hauled her toward him, cutting off her bacon bragging with a searing kiss.

It was long and hard, and loaded with emotion. They were both breathing hard when he pulled back, resting his forehead on hers. “Thank you.”

She brushed her mouth over his softly. “You’re welcome. Now feed me?”

He grinned in response, off-loading the rest of the bags as she went to search for a vase for the flowers. “Walter, how do you like your bacon? You a crispy kind of guy?”

“Sausage. You got any sausage?”

“Work with me here, Walter,” she said, giving the man an exasperated look.

He looked over and smiled, and Naomi was surprised to feel herself smile back.

This wasn’t even remotely close to how Naomi had envisioned her relationship with the Cunningham men.

And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so . . . happy.