Chapter 3
Claire
"Just a little more paprika," I mutter, sprinkling the deviled eggs for the third time.
They need to be perfect. Not because I care about impressing Aunt Lottie's new neighbors, but because focusing on precise garnish placement keeps me from thinking about Dr. Stuart Miller and that stupid business card.
I woke up alone this morning in the hotel room with nothing but an impersonal note and his contact information like I was a potential referral source.
Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands on my skin, hear the way he moaned my name, remember how he looked at me like I was something precious. Until he didn't.
"Claire, darling, stop fussing with those eggs!" Lottie calls from the bar where she's mixing her legendary martinis. "They're perfect. Everything's perfect. You've been cleaning and cooking ever since you got home from work."
She's right. I've been channeling my frustration into domestic productivity all day.
The house gleams, appetizers cover every available surface in the kitchen, and I've changed my outfit twice.
Not that it matters. These are just random neighbors, probably some boring suburban couple who'll make small talk about property values and the HOA.
"I just want everything to be nice for you," I tell her, arranging crackers into a perfect fan pattern.
"Everything is nice. You're here, aren't you?" She abandons the martini pitcher to wrap me in a hug that smells like Chanel No. 5 and gin. "Best thing that's happened to me in years, having you move in. That ex-boyfriend of yours is an idiot."
"Aunt Lottie—"
"Don't 'Aunt Lottie' me. Chad was a controlling, manipulative piece of shit who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as you, let alone marry you."
The doorbell chimes before I can respond, saving me from another rant about Chad's shortcomings. Lottie's been on a campaign to rebuild my self-esteem since I showed up on her doorstep with two suitcases and a bruised heart.
"Get the door, would you, darling?" She returns to her martinis. "I need to achieve the perfect amount of vermouth. It's all about the ratio."
I smooth down my sweater—a soft cashmere Lottie insisted on buying me—and head for the door. Through the frosted glass, I can make out three tall figures. Three men. What are the odds?
I open the door and the world tilts sideways.
Stuart stands there in dark slacks and a navy sweater, looking like every fantasy I've had for the past twenty-four hours.
His gray eyes widen with shock that mirrors my own, his carefully maintained composure cracking like ice in spring.
Behind him, Jonathan and Dane look equally stunned, though Jonathan recovers first, his face splitting into a delighted grin.
"Claire," Stuart breathes, and hearing my name in that deep voice again makes my knees weak.
"Stuart." It comes out as barely a whisper.
We stare at each other, frozen, while the October wind whips leaves around the doorstep. His gaze travels over me like he's memorizing every detail, and I see his hands clench at his sides.
"Well, this is interesting," Jonathan says, clearly enjoying the drama. "Fancy seeing you here, Claire."
"You know each other?" Lottie appears behind me, martini in hand, looking between us with bright curiosity. "How wonderful! Come in, come in, you're letting all the heat out."
The men file in, Stuart careful to keep distance between us as he passes me. But I catch his scent—that expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him—and my body remembers everything. Every touch, every kiss, every moment of last night.
"It’s so nice to see you again." My aunt extends her hand to Stuart, who takes it automatically, his surgeon's training in politeness overriding his shock.
"You too, Lottie. And you remember Jonathan Hayes and Dane DiMarco, right?"
"The doctor, the fitness guru, and the writer!" Lottie claps her hands. "I've done my research on my new neighbors. Very impressive résumés, gentlemen. And you already know my Claire?"
"We've... met," Stuart says carefully, his voice giving nothing away. "Recently."
"How lovely! Where did you meet? Claire's only been in town a few weeks."
"At a restaurant," Jonathan supplies helpfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Claire was having dinner."
"Oh, were you out with those chiropractor friends from the clinic?" Lottie asks me.
"Something like that," I manage, my face burning.
"Well, come in, come in! Drinks are ready, and Claire's made enough food for an army."
She leads them to the living room, chattering about the house and the neighborhood. I follow, hyperaware of Stuart's presence, the way he keeps glancing at me when he thinks no one's looking.
The moment we enter the living room, Geoffrey makes his appearance. My aunt's massive tabby Maine Coon—named after ex-husband number three—takes one look at the three men and makes a beeline for Dane.
"Oh no," Dane says, taking a step back. "I don't—"
Too late. Geoffrey launches himself at Dane with the determination of a heat-seeking missile, landing squarely in his lap the moment he sits down.
"He likes you!" Lottie exclaims. "How wonderful. Geoffrey's very particular about people."
"I can see that," Dane says weakly, holding himself rigid as Geoffrey kneads his thighs with enthusiasm. "I'm actually allergic—"
Geoffrey purrs louder, rubbing his face against Dane's sweater, leaving brown fur everywhere.
"Just push him off," Jonathan suggests, clearly trying not to laugh.
Dane attempts to gently relocate Geoffrey, who immediately jumps back onto his lap, this time settling in like he's found his permanent home.
"I think you've been chosen," I tell Dane, grateful for the comic relief. "Geoffrey doesn't take no for an answer. Much like Aunt Lottie."
"I heard that," Lottie says, distributing martinis. "And it's true. Now, Stuart, tell me about your work. Brain surgery must be fascinating."
Stuart launches into a careful description of his practice, his voice taking on that professional tone I remember from the restaurant.
But his eyes keep finding me, dark with something that makes my pulse race.
When I hand him an appetizer plate, our fingers brush, and I swear I see his breath catch.
"Claire's quite accomplished herself," Lottie announces after Stuart finishes. "She’s a chiropractor, specializing in sports injuries. She was treating professional athletes before that disaster of a boyfriend derailed everything."
"Aunt Lottie," I warn.
"What? It's true. You were brilliant. Are brilliant. That man just made you forget it for a while."
"Professional athletes?" Jonathan perks up. "Which sports?"
"Mostly basketball and tennis," I admit. "I had a practice in Manhattan before—" I stop, not wanting to get into the Chad saga.
"Before her ex-boyfriend convinced her to give it up," Lottie finishes for me, clearly several martinis in. "Said he wanted to take care of her. What he wanted was to control her. Make her dependent."
"Lottie, please—"
"I'm just saying, you're single now. Free to pursue your career again. Free to pursue other things too." She gives Stuart a meaningful look that makes me want to die. "You're single too, aren't you, Stuart?"
"I... yes."
"Excellent! A successful, handsome doctor and my beautiful, brilliant niece. Both single. What are the odds?"
"Astronomical," Dane mutters, still trapped under Geoffrey.
"Claire's an excellent cook too," Lottie continues, clearly on a matchmaking mission. "Though, I can't say she's professionally trained. She learned all of it on her own. You boys must get tired of takeout, working so much."
"We manage," Stuart says stiffly.
"Barely," Jonathan corrects. "Stuart lives on protein bars and coffee. I can only make eggs and smoothies. And Dane forgets to eat unless someone puts food in front of him."
"That's terrible!" Lottie looks genuinely appalled. "Claire, you should cook for them."
I speak up immediately, shooting the idea down before she can take it too far. "No, that's what Factor and Green Chef is for, Aunt Lottie. I’m sure our neighbors don’t need me cooking for them.”
"Come on now, Claire. You need something to do while you get your new practice up and going. And the boys need proper meals.”
"Starting my practice back up is plenty to keep me busy."
Geoffrey chooses this moment to climb up Dane's chest, putting his face directly in Dane's, purring like a diesel engine.
"Help," Dane says weakly.
I rescue him, scooping Geoffrey up despite his protests. "Come on, you terrorist. Leave the poor man alone."
"Thank you," Dane breathes, immediately brushing at the fur covering his entire front.
"You'll be covered again in five minutes," I warn. "Geoffrey's very persistent."
As if to prove my point, Geoffrey squirms free and makes another attempt at Dane's lap.
"He knows you don't like cats," Lottie says cheerfully. "Geoffrey loves a challenge. Rather like my Claire."
"I don't love challenges," I protest.
"No? Then why did you spend an hour this afternoon researching neurosurgery?"
I freeze. "How did you—"
"Your browser history was open on the iPad, darling. Minimally invasive spine procedures make for interesting reading?"
Stuart's eyebrows rise slightly, and I want to disappear. Of all the things for Lottie to bring up…
"I was just curious about medical advances," I mumble. "Professional interest in spine-related treatments, given my work."
"Of course," Stuart says, and there's something in his tone that makes me look at him. Is that amusement in his eyes?
"Well, I think curiosity is wonderful," Lottie declares. "Speaking of which, I'm curious about your latest book, Dane."
Just at that moment, Geoffrey attempts to jump on Dane's lap once more, causing him to lean back in alarm.
"I really am allergic," Dane protests weakly as Geoffrey stares at him with those huge green eyes.
"He'll give up eventually," I lie, knowing Geoffrey's persistence is legendary.
The evening continues with Lottie practically holding court, asking the men question upon question about their lives and careers.
She eventually starts telling increasingly outrageous stories about her travels, her ex-husbands, and her various adventures.
The men are polite, engaged, though I notice Stuart checking his watch more and more as the hours pass.
"We should probably head back," he finally says during a brief pause in Lottie's stories. "Early surgery tomorrow."
"Of course," Lottie says graciously. "But you must come again. Perhaps for dinner next week? Claire makes an excellent roast."
"We couldn't impose—" Stuart starts.
"Nonsense! Tuesday, let's say. Seven o'clock."
"We'll check our schedules," Stuart says diplomatically.
As they prepare to leave, I catch Stuart looking at me with an expression I can't read.
"It was nice seeing you again," he says formally.
"Likewise," I manage, equally stiff.
Jonathan and Dane say their goodbyes, Geoffrey making one last attempt to climb Dane’s trousers before I shoo him away.
When they're gone, Lottie turns to me with a speculative look. "Well, that was interesting."
"What do you mean?"
"Three handsome, successful men, and enough tension to cut with a knife. Want to tell me what's really going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Mmm-hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Well, whatever’s happening, that Stuart is wound tighter than a spring. Man needs to learn how to relax."
"Some people just aren't built for relaxation."
"They just need the right motivation." She heads toward her bedroom, Geoffrey following behind her. "Good night, darling. Sweet dreams about handsome surgeons."
I clean up the glasses and plates, trying not to think about Stuart's face when Lottie mentioned my research. He knew exactly what I'd been looking up. Just like I knew he'd lied about having surgery tomorrow. There’s no way he would have been drinking martinis.
God, this is terrible. What kind of luck do I have that the only man I've ever had a one-night stand with lives right next door? Shit luck, that's what.