Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,18
had combed over every inch of the house during his assessment, and though Claire was fairly neat and minimal, one of the upstairs bedrooms was a noticeable exception. It looked like a hoarder’s haven, filled nearly floor to ceiling with haphazardly packed moving boxes, stacks of books, skis, luggage. Even if he hadn’t noted that the assortment of stuff was distinctly masculine, the fact that the door was kept closed—always—told him exactly whose stuff it was.
“You ever think of getting rid of it?”
“What?” she snapped, her gaze coming around to his.
He nodded in the general direction of the stairs. “It’s not like he’s coming back for it.”
Her hazel gaze flickered with an emotion, but it was gone before he could identify it. Pain? Anger? Denial? Still, he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty for his remark. The woman was too darn interesting to be hung up on a ghost. Especially one who, from what he’d heard, had been the world’s worst husband.
“I know he’s not coming back,” she said testily. “I’ve been through all my stages of grief.”
“Then why the hell do you have a veritable museum devoted to the guy up there?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize when I hired you that you were also available for unsolicited advice on my life.”
Scott held up his hands. “Fair enough. I’ll add the painting to the shrine.”
Her expression twisted angrily, but instead of replying, she lifted her chin and walked past him, the click of her heels muted by the ugly carpet that covered most of the damn house. The muffled click of her heels grew louder again as she walked past once more, this time toward the front door, purse over her shoulder.
“Where you going?” He shouldn’t be curious. But he was.
She halted and turned, giving him an icy look. “None of your business. And neither,” she said, pointing emphatically up the stairs in the direction of the Brayden Hayes memorial, “is that.”
Scott winced as she punctuated her point with a slam of the front door, and looked down at the dog who gave him a baleful look. “She’s right. It’s definitely not our business. She’s not our business.”
But damn. He was intrigued all the same.
Chapter Six
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
When Claire’s anger hadn’t abated after several blocks of an attempted “cooldown” walk, she blamed it on the sweltering ninety-degree weather and ducked into a Starbucks near Park Avenue, as much for the AC as for the beverage.
She was still seething as she waited in line. What the hell did a man who, best she could tell, had the emotional sensitivity of a piece of cardboard think he was doing giving her advice on how to adjust to life as a widow? On an intellectual level, she’d known that Scott would see the room where she’d stuffed all of Brayden’s belongings in the days following the funeral. She’d even acknowledged that he’d be able to figure out to whom the stuff belonged.
She hadn’t, however, thought it through emotionally. She hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel to know that someone else knew what she could barely admit to herself.
That some stupid part of her, probably the young, naive girl that had fallen in love with Brayden all those years ago, wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
It’s not like he’s coming back.
“Oh really?” she muttered snidely under her breath. “He’s not?”
She knew Brayden was gone. She knew he wasn’t the man she’d thought she’d married. In all honesty, Claire wasn’t even sure she was sad anymore. And she was not mad, either.
So why couldn’t she get rid of his stuff?
“Ma’am?”
Claire realized she’d zoned out, and the barista was ready to take her order. She stepped forward and ordered her favorite guilty pleasure on hot days. “Grande vanilla Frappuccino, please.”
“Wait,” she blurted out, realizing what she’d just done. Again with the vanilla. “Not that, I don’t want that.” I am not vanilla.
The barista gave her an impatient look.
“I’ll have . . .” She scanned the menu above his head. “A strawberry Frappuccino. Is that good?”
“Yeah.” He scribbled the revised order on the cup with a Sharpie.
“What about strawberry lemonade? Is that a Frappuccino flavor?” she asked hopefully.
“Nope,” the barista said, clearly having no time for Claire’s existential crisis. “You want any food?”
“No. Thanks.” Claire paid for the drink and made her way toward the mob of people waiting for their orders. Her anger had eased slightly, if nothing else because it pleased her to picture Scott’s face when she walked in the door with