Love on Lexington Avenue - Lauren Layne Page 0,84
Then another to Audrey, thanking her for the twelve—yes, twelve—pictures of Bob.
Then . . .
Then, she had nothing planned other than to roam and, hopefully, acquaint herself with the city. Armed with her purse and an umbrella, Claire left the hotel to begin exploring.
She got why the city was so beloved almost immediately. Not in a way her early-twenty-something self had grasped. She’d liked it well enough then, but as she’d told Scott, that had been more about checking sights off a list.
Claire saw Paris through a different lens now. Saw the way the city had both elegance and grit, noise and quiet, crowds and solitude. She caught a whiff of fresh bread, saw a bakery line out the door, and made a mental note to stop by tomorrow for what she’d been calling her “Eiffel Tower Day.”
She was determined to do it right, as she had promised Scott she would. Wine, bread, the blanket, the picnic basket. And yes, she’d be bringing the fresh flowers he’d vetoed since he wouldn’t be around to know one way or the other.
For now though, she just wandered, not taking pictures, not walking anywhere in particular, and yet somehow she ended up at the Eiffel Tower anyway. She stood for a long time, staring up at it, trying to see it through Scott’s eyes.
She imagined he saw a whole boatload of stuff she didn’t see. The engineering, the metal, the geometry of it. Even to her untrained eye, she had to admit it was pretty fantastic.
So fantastic that even without her picnic supplies, she scanned the grass area for a place to sit, comforted to see that she wasn’t the only person alone. There were plenty of couples, a handful of families, but there was also an older lady in a yellow dress. A guy with his sketchbook. A teen on her cell phone. A man in flannel . . .
Claire’s gaze had already flitted on to the next person, but slowly, as though in a dream, she dragged her eyes back to the guy wearing flannel. His back had been to her before, but he’d turned his head. And was now looking right at her.
Scott.
No, it couldn’t be.
She looked closer. It was him. Heart pounding, she started walking toward him.
His gaze was unreadable, even when she stood directly in front of him, looking down at his face, half-terrified he’d disappear if she said a word.
He spoke first, looking pointedly at both her empty hands. “Was I not clear in the proper way to do this?”
“What?” Her voice was breathy, nothing like how she was used to hearing it.
“I distinctly remembering mentioning wine. Baguette. A blanket. Flowers.”
“You nixed the flowers,” Claire interjected.
He smiled slightly, reaching to his left and holding up a bouquet of mixed flowers in shades of pink and yellow. “I decided you were right.”
Slowly coming out of her daze, Claire took it all in. The flowers. The wine. Two glasses. The baguette poking out of the picnic basket.
The fact that he was here.
He shifted to the side in silent invitation, and Claire slowly lowered beside him, mostly because her legs were shaky and she still wasn’t sure this was real. She looked back at him, found his gaze moving hungrily over her face as though relearning her every feature and committing them to memory.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
He nodded toward the tower. “Best view in the house from right here.”
“No, I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Scott took a deep breath, and she realized that he wasn’t quite as calm and unaffected as he wanted to seem. “Ask me how Shanghai is,” he said.
“Um, okay,” Claire said slowly. “How’s Shanghai?”
“Fascinating.”
Wonderful.
“Ask me how the job is,” he said.
“I already know how the job is; I just talked to you—”
“Ask me, Claire.”
The urgency in his voice gave her pause. “All right. How’s the job?”
“As interesting as promised.”
“Good, I’m glad—”
“Ask me again why I’m here.” He was closer now, his eyes intent on hers.
“Well, it’s hard when you keep interrupting me.”
He didn’t look away. “Ask me.”
“Why are you here?”
Scott lifted a hand, pressing the backs of his fingers to her cheek, then cupped her face. “I’m here because apparently an interesting city and a fascinating job don’t do it for me anymore. So I quit.”
Claire shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. “You can’t quit. That’s your life.”
“No, Claire.” He moved closer. “You’re my life. You, Bob. New York.”
“But you left,” she said, unable to keep the accusation out