Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,26
at the glass. “I don’t know that I’d buy it for myself, but it’s not as bad as I was expecting.”
“Most people expect rosé to be sickly sweet, but it doesn’t have to be. This one reminds me of strawberries and lemon.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Strawberry lemonade.”
“Right! I didn’t think of that.” Her spontaneous laugh thawed something deep inside him, but he immediately put that shit on lockdown and scowled.
It was a wasted frown. She was looking at the stove. “Hmm, now that I think about it, the wine doesn’t at all go with the chili. But I suppose after the day I’ve had, I’ll take any alcohol in lieu of a proper pairing.”
“What was wrong with your day?” He winced as soon as he asked it, belatedly remembering the reason he was here in the first place, with his pink wine peace offering.
She scoffed and picked up the wooden spoon, giving the sauce a stir. “Did you not see me awkwardly try to seduce a married man half my age?”
“Not half your age,” he amended. “And that was seduction?”
“Hey,” she snapped, though there was a good-natured joking to it. “I was married for years and have been widowed for one. Give me a break.”
“It’ll come back to you,” he said. “Plus, bonus, it’s easier for women.”
“How’s that?”
He took a sip of wine. “Breasts.”
Claire snorted. “That may be true of twenty-year-old boobs. Thirty-five-year-old boobs, not so much.”
I can assure you, your thirty-five-year-old boobs are fine.
More than fine. Claire’s body was neither skinny nor particularly generous, just appealingly feminine.
“Trust me, it’s just a matter of putting yourself out there,” Scott said, clearing his throat. “You know, just maybe not with one of my guys. Especially not the married ones.”
She flinched. “I’m horrified. Knowing how much it hurt to find out my husband had been with other women, I can’t believe I even tried to make a move on a married guy.”
Shit. He felt even worse now for not telling her. It hadn’t just been embarrassment for Claire, it had been a reminder of what she’d been through.
He should have brought two bottles of wine.
“So how do you do it?” she asked, washing her hands. Scott noted the way the flimsy faucet sprayed every which way. He made a mental note that the whole sink had to go; the thing was ancient and awful.
“Do what?”
“You’re all about the casual sex, right? How do you find your partners?”
“Well, for starters, I don’t call them partners,” he said with a slight smile.
“Okay, this is good. Tell me more.”
“Isn’t this a conversation to have with your friends?” he asked skeptically, taking another sip of wine. “Not a contractor you’ve known for three days?”
“Maybe. But it’s like I said earlier, your stance is . . . refreshing. I can’t imagine having this conversation with some of my girlfriends.”
“What about Naomi, and who was your husband’s other side piece? Aubrey?”
“Audrey. And I love those women to death, but I’m not entirely sure how supportive they’d be of my most recent . . . endeavor.”
“What endeavor is that, exactly? I confess I don’t speak fluent woman and only have half a clue what you were yelling at me about earlier.”
“I wasn’t yelling. But to answer your question, I guess I’m after . . . casual sex. Or at least the possibility of casual sex?”
“With a married wannabe model?”
“I didn’t know he was married, because someone forgot to mention it.”
He grinned. “I didn’t forget.”
“I knew it,” she grumbled. “You did do it on purpose.”
“I did,” he admitted. “And I’m not proud of it.” He took a deep breath and released it. “And I’m sorry. For the thing with Dean, and for the things I said about Brayden earlier. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with your husband’s stuff. Or when.”
She was silent for a long moment before looking up and meeting his eyes. “Thank you. And, forgiven.”
He tilted his head, surprised. “Just like that?” In his experience, women liked to hold on to their mad for at least an hour.
She sipped her wine. “Well, I mean, don’t do it again. But if I survived my husband cheating on me many times, I can certainly ignore your acting like a boar.”
“Well, thanks,” he said, still feeling ill at ease. “Believe it or not, I don’t get off on watching women feel embarrassed.”
“What do you get off on?”
Scott choked on his wine. “Jesus.”
“Oh, calm down,” she said practically. “I’m not acting as an interested party. But Oliver