Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,2

on a bench in Central Park.

Ironically, it had been that day, in that spot, as she’d sat both hating and missing Brayden, that she’d met Audrey and Naomi. It had been there that the three women had made a pact not to fall for another man like Brayden.

But what Claire hadn’t said that day—what she still hadn’t told them—was that she had no intention of falling for another man. Period. She’d done the big white wedding. She’d promised to love and cherish. And damn it, she’d honored those vows. No one had told her that it would be one-sided. Nobody told her that lurking beneath the veneer of a relationship, hiding under the label of “love,” was a whole steaming pile of crap.

Did that make her bitter? Ab.So.Lutely.

And she was just fine with bitter.

Claire swiped her finger along the side of the cupcake, scooping up some of the frosting that the wax hadn’t gotten to. The familiar flavor of vanilla rolled over her tongue. She scowled. Of course it was vanilla. It had long been her favorite flavor. Of cake, ice cream, coffee.

Vanilla frosting, vanilla cupcake . . .

Vanilla life.

She narrowed her eyes at the cupcake, irrationally angry at the baked good for not being exciting. She could have gone with Naomi’s favorite: red velvet with cream cheese frosting, flecked with spicy little flecks of cinnamon. Or Audrey’s: double-chocolate everything, all the time, the richer, the better.

Claire gave a rueful smile when she realized that the trio’s respective favorite cupcakes paralleled their looks. Naomi’s red velvet matched her vibrant red hair. Audrey’s chocolate fetish perfectly matched her silky dark hair.

And Claire . . . vanilla.

She lifted a hand to her shoulder-length blond hair. Not platinum; not really gold, either; just a flat, WASP-pale yellow. Shoving the plate aside in annoyance, Claire stood, and desperate for something to distract her, she went to the kitchen counter, determined to lose herself in her latest obsession:

Her house renovation.

For three years, Claire had been itching to overhaul her New York City home. Location-wise, she was living the dream. A three-bedroom brownstone on Seventy-Third and Lexington Avenue was about as elite a Manhattan address as you could get. She and Brayden had inherited the property from Brayden’s grandmother.

The problem was, it looked like Brayden’s grandmother still lived here.

And while Claire and Brayden never truly felt the pinch of money pains, they hadn’t had an unlimited bank account in the way of a lot of their peers. Brayden had been more preoccupied with looking like they had money than actually having it. Most of his salary had gone to extravagant gifts, designer labels, expensive dinners at the trendiest restaurants, whatever it took to play the part of upper-crust New York.

He’d encouraged Claire to do the same; to buy the Givenchy and Chanel, to sip the most expensive champagne when out with her friends, but never to invite those same friends back home.

Brayden’s income had been generous by most people’s standards, but they weren’t rich rich. Not enough to live the high life when out and about, and have money to put back into their house.

As a result, Claire’s home looked old. Not in the distinguished Vanderbilt way, but in the tired way, I wonder if there’s a lava lamp upstairs sort of way. There wasn’t. But Claire was betting the carpet was the same as when lava lamps had been in vogue.

It was the kitchen she hated most. Small and cramped, more of a hallway than an actual room, with awful beige laminate cabinets, a Formica counter, and a stove far older than Claire. The rest of the house wasn’t quite as bad, but it needed some work. For starters, Claire would like to have words with whoever had decided to put dark yellow carpet throughout the entire downstairs. And she was pretty sure whoever had picked the dark redand-green floral wallpaper had been color-blind, if not all the way blind.

The woodwork was too dark and the outdated furniture too light, resulting in a mismatch of styles. The modern white sofa that belonged in a trendy Swedish nightclub was horribly out of place in a room that looked like it should be in a Gothic horror movie.

But not anymore, Claire thought, as she began shifting through her pile of paint swatches, tiles, and wood samples. After months of planning and allocating funds from Brayden’s life insurance, tomorrow kicked off her official plunge into renovation.

Even though she knew her home would be a work zone for several