Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,66

he knew that what he was seeing on his dining table wasn’t run-of-the-mill cursive. There was obviously some skill involved, and Claire had it.

“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I didn’t even ask,” she said, turning toward him. “How was work?”

Scott rolled his shoulders, her question giving him the same sense of unease as her welcome had.

Welcome home! How was work? Next it would be, What do you want for dinner?

All domestic questions signaled a lifestyle he didn’t want. He liked Claire, a lot. But the last thing he wanted was for her to think this would become some sort of routine.

Needing to remind her—and himself—that he was not that kind of guy, his response was deliberately terse. “It was fine.”

“Oh. Well. Good,” she said, clearly taken aback at his shortness. “Are you hungry? I can clear the table.”

The hurt in her voice rubbed him wrong, even as he knew his behavior was irrational. He’d asked about her day; she was just being polite and returning the favor. And yet he hated that there was a part of him that wished tonight wasn’t just a one-time thing. That a part of him wished sharing a drink and talking about his day with someone he cared about could be something he could count on.

But that wasn’t his life. Next month he’d be God knew where, and then what? She’d have found some other guy to talk to about her new business. Some other man would be the one to take her to bed at night.

Some other man already had.

That, he realized, was what was bothering him more than anything. The fear that this—all of it, the companionship, even the sex—wasn’t about Scott. That he was a stand-in for a husband she hadn’t expected to lose.

“I didn’t make it to the grocery store,” she was saying as she stacked up the assorted cards and papers on the table. “I’m sorry. I can run out real quick or—”

Scott’s temper snapped. “Don’t.”

She flinched at the sound of his bottle clinking firmly as he set it on the counter, and that made him even more pissed. “Don’t apologize. I don’t expect some cozy little domestic scene when I get home; I don’t expect dinner on the table.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not him, Claire!”

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even realized it had been on his mind. And he regretted it the second the words echoed in the kitchen like a bullet. Her face went pale as she straightened, before she slowly—too slowly, as though she were fighting for control.

He expected anger, dreaded seeing hurt, but he saw something far worse. Flatness. As though all that life that she’d been radiating just minutes before had been sucked from her. By him.

“You’re not who, Scott?” she asked coldly.

He didn’t answer. They both knew who he’d meant.

It was a dick move, throwing her dead husband in her face, but damned if it hadn’t clawed at him to think that he’d stepped into the man’s shadow, even for a moment. First with the couple routine, a glimpse into a lifestyle he didn’t want, then with her apology, which had rolled off her tongue far easier than he would have liked.

Claire might like to think her marriage had been fine—even happy—aside from Brayden’s infidelity, but Scott was putting together a different picture of a man who’d taken advantage of her kindness and strength. He’d bet anything Brayden had used Claire to lever himself up, not caring that he’d pushed her down in the process.

Even the dog sensed the tension in the room, and Bob slunk away as though she’d been scolded, even though it was Scott who deserved the reprimand.

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t move. She just stared at him with cool hazel eyes.

“I just . . .” Scott scratched his cheek, feeling atypically uncomfortable. He didn’t do this; he didn’t get flustered. And yet now that Brayden’s presence was in the room, Scott realized there was something he needed to say. Realized why the thought of her upstairs bedrooms made him tense up every time.

“I’m nearly done with the downstairs,” he said. “I mean, there’s still all the finishing. But the old floors, the old shelves, all the ugly is gone. I’ll be starting on the upstairs soon. You’re still good to move back in tomorrow night, but assuming you still want that overhaul of the master bed and bath, you’ll have to sleep in whichever room we’re not working on, and I’ll need a temporary place