Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,79

19

Is this really necessary?” Claire asked, fumbling along the hall with her right hand as Scott held her left. “I could have looked at the kitchen a million times before now.”

“But you haven’t,” Scott replied.

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

Had her eyes not been forced to stay closed with one of her winter scarves that Scott had commandeered as a blindfold, she’d have rolled them. Still, she was glad there was a hint of playfulness in him. He’d been downright brooding all morning.

Claire understood. She’d been feeling a little surly herself, exceedingly aware that the clock was ticking down, even as she didn’t fully know why it felt that way.

They’d slept together a handful of times since that spontaneous moment in her bedroom. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other, really. And though she’d relished every minute, she was also aware that for all her talk about wanting to have no-strings-attached sex, she apparently wasn’t cut out for that. Because there were strings now. And Claire was all tangled up in them.

“All right,” he murmured, halting her and moving in front of her. His fingers slid beneath the scarf, lifting it gently. Scott balled it into one fist, but his other hand lingered near her face, his fingertips drifting lightly over her cheek.

Claire’s heart flickered in surprise at the tender touch, and she searched his face, looking for explanation, but the guarded look in his eyes was at direct odds with the sweetness of his action.

His hand dropped, and he smiled slightly, the moment over. “You ready?”

“What if I hate it?” she teased.

“Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”

Claire gave him a knowing look. “Bullshit. How do you really feel?”

His grin widened, amused at being called out. “If you hate it, then you have none of the taste I thought you have, and I’ll wish I’d given you laminate cabinets and linoleum counters. Beige.”

She mock gasped. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Never.” His kiss caught her off guard; it was a little firmer than usual, a touch desperate. As though he were nervous.

Then he stepped back, and Claire got her first glance at her new kitchen.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. When she finally forced her feet forward, it was only a couple of steps before she stopped and stared again.

The cabinets were dark brown, nearly black, with modern silver handles. The counter was enormous, made of stunning black marble. The appliances were a dark graphite she hadn’t seen before in all her Pinterest stalking, and they were perfect. None of that’s what had her feeling a little breathless.

It was the backsplash behind the six-burner stove, the pillar she’d joked about painting magenta, the walls of the kitchen . . .

They were all green.

A gorgeous, rich shade of sage green that managed to be vivid without being loud.

She walked slowly around the kitchen, taking it all in before coming back to his side, realizing that he’d been looking at her the entire time she’d been looking at the kitchen.

“It’s green,” she whispered. “You made my kitchen my favorite color.”

“Do you like it?” The touch of vulnerability in his voice squeezed her heart, hard. It also told her that this was no coincidence. He’d listened to what she’d wanted. Not to what she thought she’d wanted. There was no pink. But he’d listened when she’d told him her favorite color. That she’d mentioned it in passing and he remembered, felt . . . it felt like something.

Her eyes watered as she nodded. “Like it” was an understatement. She didn’t like it. She loved it.

She loved him.

She bit back the sob, tried to cover it with enthusiasm over the finished kitchen.

“It is perfect. I never thought—I didn’t expect,” she babbled. “Why?”

He stared at the newly installed refrigerator, avoiding her eyes. “You might have mentioned earlier that pink wasn’t actually your favorite color, you know. I had to redo the damn thing, but I’m glad I did. You said you wanted the pink because you wanted to be reminded that your life was yours, to remember that he couldn’t tell you what to do anymore. I didn’t want to build you the anti-Brayden kitchen. I wanted to build you the Claire kitchen. It makes no sense, now that I’m saying it out loud.”

Her heart squeezed again, harder this time. “No, it does.”

He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. “I want you to be happy. I guess . . . that matters to me.”

“Ah. Always leave the client satisfied,” she said lightly.

He didn’t move his head, but his eyes