Love on Lexington Avenue Read online

  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  The woodwork was too dark and the outdated furniture too light, resulting in a mismatch of styles.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 months, she welcomed it. She couldn’t wait for hammering and drilling and muttered swearing. Sure, it was turmoil, but Claire needed it. Craved it.

  And yet . . .

  She narrowed her eyes at the samples she’d chosen for the kitchen. Cherrywood cabinets and floor to match. Contrasting white granite countertops. Stainless-steel sink. A muted eggshell paint color for the walls. Just a couple of days ago, Claire had been thrilled with the choices. They’d seemed timeless. Elegant without being stuffy. Modern without being trendy.

  But now, through the lens of that damn cupcake, all she could see was . . . vanilla. Every single sample, every color, every texture was precisely what was expected.

  Slowly, Claire began shuffling through her color selections and textile samples for the other rooms of the house. Her motions became increasingly more frantic as her brain registered what her eyes were seeing.

  White. Off-white. Soft white. Snow white. Simply white. Ultra white. Warm white. Paper white. Cream. Beige. Eggshell. Ecru. Cream. Ivory. Oatmeal. Powder. Coconut. Snow. Bone. Linen. Lace. Porcelain. Dove.

  For the love of God, one was actually called vanilla.

  The worst part wasn’t the blandness, though that wasn’t great. The worst part was the gut-level knowledge that this pile of blah was exactly what everyone expected of her. It’s what she expected of herself.

  Claire had always thought of herself as steady. Had prided herself in her reliability, but what if there was a dark underbelly to that constancy.

  What if instead she’d fallen into a pit of boring? And worse? What if she didn’t have the foggiest clue how to climb back out again?

  Panicked now, Claire snatched her cell phone off the counter.

  “Claire?” Audrey’s voice sounded puzzled when she picked up. “Are you okay?”

  Translation: Why are you calling instead of texting like usual?

  Claire took a deep breath. “I bought a cupcake today. Guess what flavor it is?”

  “Oh, it’s a cupcake emergency,” Audrey said with such understanding that Claire knew she’d called the right person. Naomi would have rolled with the direction of the conversation, too, but Claire knew that Naomi’s nights were spent cuddled up with her sexy boyfriend, and cupcake phone calls might be slightly less welcome.

  “Hmm, okay, you bought it for yourself?” Audrey was musing. “Then it’s definitely vanilla.”

  Claire’s heart sank. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a vanilla cupcake.”

  “I’m confused,” Audrey said slowly. “I feel like I both passed and failed a quiz at the same time.”

  “No, it’s not you,” Claire said rubbing her forehead. “Out of curiosity, what is the zaniest cupcake flavor you can think of?”

  “Well . . . Magnolia has this absolutely decadent flourless chocolate cupcake that’s—”

  “Not chocolate,” Claire interrupted. “I mean, it can have chocolate in it. But I don’t want the standard flavors. I’m talking about a cupcake that breaks all the rules.”

  “Do cupcakes even have rules? Are you at a bakery having a decision crisis, or is something else going on here?”

  Something else.

  Though she didn’t blame her friend for the confusion. Claire wasn’t the type of person to call at nine at night with a dessert-related emergency.

  For that matter, Claire wasn’t the type to have any emergency. She was a problem solver. She was the one other people called when they needed help, advice, or just a listening ear. The friend who could tell you how to get red wine out of silk or who would gently but firmly tell you that no, a bob wouldn’t really suit your face shape.

  In her marriage, she’d been the rock, the one who’d made Brayden a drink at the end of the day and then patiently listened as he unloaded about his brainless coworkers, his small-minded boss, the barista who’d gotten his order wrong.

  The roles had rarely reversed, and Claire had never minded—or even noticed, really. Not until Brayden had died. Not until, on the heels of that death, Claire had learned that the stable foundation upon which she’d built her entire life hadn’t been nearly as steady as she’d imagined.

  Because Brayden hadn’t just died. He’d left the world naked and drunk and falling off a boat while a twenty-year-old college student waited for him on the dock so they could do exactly what it was that cheating men and carefree twenty-something girls did together.

  His autopsy had revealed that he’d hit his head and was unconscious when he went into the water, unaware that he was drowning. Unaware that his quietly dedicated wife once again would be tasked with cleaning up the mess and picking up the pieces.

  And she had. She’d gone through all the stages of grief. She’d shed her tears, vented her anger, talked through her confusion.

  She’d put her life back together, damn it.

  So why did she feel so flat?

  “Claire?” Audrey said tentatively.

  Claire’s attention snapped back to her friend. “It’s my birthday today.”

  “What?” Audrey’s voice was borderline outraged. “How could you not—”

  “I wanted to celebrate alone,” Claire said quickly. At least she’d thought she had. “It’s just that . . . well, I was sitting here, feeling a little sorry for myself, and thinking about how eight new wrinkles popped up last night. And I was looking down at this little plain vanilla cupcake. And the thing is, Audrey, I picked that flavor. I went to the bakery with the intention of buying myself a birthday treat, and out of all the options, that’s what I selected. I think it’s the only
one I saw. And now, I don’t know. I’m just wondering . . . am I boring, Audrey?”

  Am I boring, and is that why Brayden went to find someone not boring? Someone like you?

  She didn’t say it out loud, but she suspected Audrey heard the unspoken words, because her friend was quiet for a long time.

  “Strawberry lemonade,” Audrey said.

  “What?”

  “Molly’s Cupcakes on Bleeker. They’ve got a bunch of fun flavors, but I was there last week, and strawberry lemonade is one of their summer features. It’s not wild. It’s a traditional flavor pairing, but it’s unexpected for cupcakes and it totally works. It’s sweet and tart and it sticks with you. It’s memorable.”

  “Strawberry lemonade,” Claire said thoughtfully. “I like strawberries. And lemonade.”

  “See! You’re not boring! You’re strawberry lemonade! Do you want to head down there right now? I can come over, we’ll grab a cab . . .”

  Claire laughed. “I love the enthusiasm, but I think my days of going down to the Village on a Tuesday night are behind me. Especially considering I have a contractor coming by at seven tomorrow morning to give me a quote for the renovation.”

  Audrey let out a tiny sigh of resignation. “Yeah, okay. This weekend maybe?”

  Ordinarily, Claire would have nodded in agreement, relieved that her friend didn’t push. But hearing the complete lack of surprise in Audrey’s voice at Claire’s refusal affirmed Claire’s worst fears.

  She wasn’t just boring. She was predictably boring.

  Claire’s gaze flitted over the pile of generic birthday cards. The pale, lonely cupcake. The pile of uninspired swatches and neutral samples that indicated even her house renovation, a process that by its very nature signaled change, would somehow end up . . . the same. Her house would be more modern, yes, but if she stayed the course of white and off-white, it would be what everyone expected of her. Vanilla.

  An urge washed over Claire, strong and unfamiliar, and as a lifelong rule follower, it took her a moment to register what she was feeling: rebellion.

  She wanted to surprise people. She wanted to surprise herself.

  “Actually, Aud?” She told her friend. “About that cupcake date. Let’s do it.”

  “Now?” Audrey asked in surprise.

  “I’ll be at your place in twenty. We can share a cab.”

  “Yes! You’re sure though?”

  “Absolutely,” Claire said. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  Claire started to head toward the stairs to change her clothes but backtracked to the kitchen.

  And tossed the vanilla cupcake in the trash.

  Chapter Two

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7

  At exactly six fifty-eight the following morning, Scott Turner slammed the door of his pickup closed, not really caring if he woke up any of the residents who lived on Seventy-Third Street. In fact, rather perversely, he hoped he did wake them up.

  It wasn’t that he hated Upper East Siders. He just hated all people until he got his morning coffee. He hated especially that his rancid mood was his own damn fault. He’d been the one to agree to consider this job. He’d been the one who’d suggested the early morning meeting.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. To get anything done in August in New York City, early mornings were crucial unless you wanted to sweat your way through the day. Hell, it was already sticky, and they hadn’t even rounded the bend on 7:00 a.m.

  But when Scott made the appointment with Claire Hayes, he hadn’t been factoring in a delayed flight from Seattle the night before, which had then prohibited him from restocking coffee.

  To say that Scott was having regrets about doing his friend Oliver a favor was an understatement, but if this Claire Hayes woman had air-conditioning and coffee, all would be forgiven. Mostly.

  As expected, Claire Hayes’s brownstone looked like every other house on the block, and he supposed that was meant to be the charm of it. In Manhattan, where the sheer number of bodies on a relatively small strip of land forced real estate to go up, literally, high-rise apartment buildings and condominiums were a dime a dozen. It was these stately brownstones in fancy historic neighborhoods that the city’s elite creamed their pants over.

  In almost any other part of the country, these unassuming town houses served as starter homes for new couples and families. The training wheels of home ownership until one could afford the actual house, with a proper yard, a garage, room for the kids, etc. Not so on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where skinny structures went for eight figures, easily. Even the outdated ones got seven-figure offers just for the property value and bragging rights.

  Scott wasn’t sure which category he was dealing with. Oliver had just said this Claire woman wanted a major reno. For all he knew, that meant replacing last year’s kitchen counters. In his experience, wealthy housewives weren’t known for perspective. Their emergency was someone else’s average weekday.

  Scott jogged up the steps, egged on as much by the hope of coffee as he was by the desire to get this damn assessment over with so he could politely turn her down and move on to a project that lit his fire.

  As with the early morning, it was his own damn fault that he was in this position in the first place. Scott had told Oliver he’d wanted a break from the corporate stuff, though he’d neglected to mention that changing a snobby widow’s towel rack from silver to copper wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.

  He wanted a true fixer-upper, not a glorified decorating gig for a rich woman who would probably want to replace original hardwood with some bamboo nonsense. But Oliver was on the short list of people that Scott would do just about anything for, and so he’d agreed to at least see Claire Hayes’s project before turning her down.

  Even as he had no intention of agreeing to the project, Scott’s trained eye took in the details of the front porch as he knocked. Dilapidated would be a nice word for it. And he didn’t even bother with the fussy brass knocker that looked like a good door slam would send it to its death.

  Instead, he rapped his knuckles against the wood, as much to test its solidity as to actually knock. Old, he realized. Really old. In fact, the front door was in the same condition as the knocker. Tired. Fading paint, warped wood, ugly, outdated frosted glass panes. Even the doorknobs were bad.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, running a finger over some fugly shape carved into the wood at waist level. “Are these supposed to be leaves?”

  The door opened, leaving his hand extended awkwardly, finger now pointing at . . . well, the woman’s crotch. Unembarrassed, Scott’s hand dropped back to his side as his eyes traveled back up the woman’s body. Boring gray slacks, boring blue blouse . . .

  His eyes slammed into hers, and he was abruptly jolted out of his boredom. Not because her face was particularly interesting. All her features were right where they were supposed to be. Small nose, full mouth, angular jaw.

  The eyes though. They were worth a second look.

  He supposed hazel was the official label, but they were a hell of a lot more interesting than that. Green at the centers, gold at the outer edges. Scott had always been fascinated by things that changed the more you looked at them. Prisms. Sunsets. Clouds. The night sky.

  He mentally added Claire Hayes’s eyes to the list.

  Too bad the rest of her was so Stepford Wife.

  “You must be Scott,” she said with a smile that did nothing to light those magnificent eyes, her hand extending to his.

  “Must be.” He shook her hand, pleasantly surprised by the strong handshake, even as he looked beyond her to the inside of the brownstone, wanting to move this along.

  Claire seemed to sense it, because she forwent any more small talk, moving aside to let him in. Scott stepped into the foyer and immediately felt it. The rush. That feeling he got when he’d stepped into a space that was so far from reaching its potential, it was almost physically painful.

  He whistled as he did a cursory scan of his immediate area. He
took in the dark foyer, the cramped sitting area just off the front door, the staircase that was as narrow as it was ugly. Even without moving his feet, he could tell that this project was no minor face-lift.

  “That bad?” Claire said, watching his face.

  “It’s a phoenix,” he muttered, proceeding farther into the home without being invited.

  “A what?” She followed him as he ran a finger along the ugly metallic wallpaper in the hallway.

  “A phoenix. It’s what I call a space that’s so damned ugly, the only way to fix it is to burn it to the ground and rebuild. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmured politely.

  Scott stepped into the kitchen. “God.”

  “Yeah. It’s my least favorite part,” she said.

  “Seventy-four,” he said, taking in the Formica everything, the chipped tile floor, the impractically shallow sink.

  “What?”

  “Nineteen seventy-four. That’s the last time this place was updated, though the building’s much older than that.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s about right,” she said, after a pause. “How’d you know?”

  “My job to know.” He started to back out of the kitchen to explore the rest of the downstairs, then came back into the kitchen, pointing at the coffeepot. “That work?”

  She followed his point, then looked back at him, giving him a bland look. “You think I keep a broken coffeepot on my counter?”

  “How’m I supposed to know? Your knocker’s a summer storm away from blowing off.”

  “My . . .”

  “Front door knocker,” he clarified, doing what he thought was a damn admirable job of not letting his gaze drop to her breasts. “Not knocker knockers.”

  He expected her to blush or at least look flustered. He perversely hoped for it, for which he blamed the lack of coffee. He didn’t get a blush. Hell, he didn’t get any sort of reaction. Claire Hayes merely gave him another of those bland, unruffled looks, before going to the god-awful cabinet and pulling out two mugs. “Cream? Sugar? Vanilla coffee creamer?”