The Last Boyfriend Page 14

  “A trifle of what? Looks pretty big to me.”

  “It’s a dessert, a double chocolate trifle. Here, you can take this downstairs.”

  He gave it the same suspicious sneer he’d given the trifle. “Kids don’t want carrots and celery and crap. They want chips—and the runt likes salsa. Hotter the better.”

  “They’re having carrots and celery and crap,” Clare told him. “And Murphy’s not having hot salsa and taco chips before dinner.”

  “Neither are you.” Justine didn’t spare him a glance as she checked her ham. “Owen, grab those pot holders and take this out for me. It’s heavy. Clare, the oven’s yours.”

  “How soon do we eat actual food?” Ryder qualified.

  “About an hour and a half.”

  “We’re men. Boxing, skiing, alien-fighting, football-playing, race car–driving men. We need real food now.”

  “Appetizers in thirty,” Avery called out and snagged his attention.

  “You making some of the stuff you make?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay.” He took the tray, his beer, started back downstairs. “Why do they call it trifle when it’s big?”

  “I’ll look that up,” Hope promised.

  “Do that. Come on, Dumbass. This is all we’re going to get.”

  A little mournfully, the dog followed Ryder down where Harry’s latest cheer burst out. “Still number one!”

  “All right, taking five.” Avery pulled off her bib apron, tossed it aside. “Somebody needs a spanking.” After rolling her shoulders, she marched downstairs.

  And marched back up five minutes later with Harry’s catcalls ringing behind her. “He beat the crap out of me.”

  She paused for a moment, scanned the kitchen, the women, the movements, heard her father’s big belly laugh rise up the stairs, and Justine’s and Carolee’s voices from the dining room.

  She slipped out to the living room, still disordered from the morning. Open gifts scattered under the tree shining in the window. Justine’s dog Cus sprawled on his back, feet in the air as he caught a nap in front of the simmering fire.

  The ruckus from the family room rumbled under her feet like a minor earthquake.

  “Something wrong?” Owen asked her, and she turned.

  And she smiled as she crossed to him, slid her arms around him. Laid her head on his chest. “No. Everything’s right. Everything’s exactly right.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON A SUPPLY RUN the week after Christmas, Avery broke down and bought her own Wii. She’d resisted—she was on her feet hours every day already; she didn’t have time to play games.

  And why would she play by herself anyway?

  But facing a second defeat—in the rematch with Harry after Christmas dinner, then tanking in bowling so humiliatingly even Carolee’s four-year-old granddaughter beat her score—changed everything.

  She’d learn. She’d practice. She’d come back and take them all.

  Meanwhile she juggled as fast as she could. Tossing pizzas, making sauces, firing a delivery guy—damn it—redoing the schedule to compensate until she hired a replacement.

  When she could, she helped Hope put some finishing touches on the inn, and—big sacrifice—stayed a night in Westley and Buttercup for a status report.

  She shoehorned in time for projections and plans for her new place, walked through it to take her own measurements, sketch out some basic ideas to pass on to Beckett.

  She barely saw Owen. The brothers’ focus zeroed more truly on the building next door to the inn now, and she really had no excuse—and no time—to poke her nose in there.

  Yet.

  Every night before bed, she took a last look out the window at the building directly across, and imagined MacT’s—imagined hers. And she gave a final good night to the inn.

  Once or twice she thought she saw a woman silhouetted at the rail.

  Waiting for Billy.

  She wondered at the devotion. Most people, to her mind, couldn’t hang on to a relationship in the normal course of events, yet here was someone who held on beyond the impossible.

  Maybe one day—she hoped one day—that faithfulness would be rewarded, at least with answers.

  And every morning, she gazed out again, at what would be hers, and at what could be done.

  Though she waited, too, she never saw that steadfast figure in the light of day.

  Between those two points—the last look at night and the first look in the morning, Christmas week passed in a blur.

  * * *

  AT FOUR ON New Year’s Eve, she closed the restaurant, ran upstairs, ran back down to her car with the pot of meatballs she’d made the night before.

  Raced back upstairs.

  By five she’d showered, fussed with her hair, her face, dressed and packed an overnight bag.

  A different process than the week before, she mused, seeing as she wore sexy underwear and had packed tiny black boxers and a skinny black tank to “sleep” in.

  What would it be like to sleep with Owen?

  Okay, she decided as she zipped the bag, she wasn’t going to think about it, try to imagine it, get bogged down in speculation.

  Better to let it evolve, be surprised.

  She grabbed her bag, texting Hope on her way out.

  Heading over now for wardrobe check.

  She piled in her car, shook back hair she’d rinsed a smoldering red, blew out a breath.

  Hope’s answer came back before she’d turned the key in the ignition.

  I’m here to serve.

  Avery drove across The Square to the inn’s lot, jumped out as Hope opened the door to Reception.

  “I was just organizing my office.”

  “You already organized your office.”

  “I wanted to make some changes. And while I was in there, I checked reservations. Two more in March.”

  “Go team. Okay, be honest.” Pulling off her coat, she tossed it over the high-backed chair in front of the fire, did a quick spin.

  “Slow it down, Speedy.”

  “Right.” Avery took another breath. “I’m a little wired. I had a vicious day, which I’ll tell you about later, then I couldn’t decide on the earrings, and I always know which earrings, which made me realize I’m a little nervous. I’m going to have sex with Owen next year. Which is tomorrow—tonight. After the party.”

  “The earrings are great,” Hope told her, giving a nod to the thin silver wires holding citrine drops. “Great color for you, and for the dress. Now, slow turn.”

  Avery complied, showing off the short, snug dress in shimmery copper. “Love it, love the shoes, the way they pick up the metallic of the dress, but subtly.”

  “You know I’ve bought more shoes since you moved here than I did in the five years prior.”

  “See how good I am for you? What’s under the dress?”

  “The Marguerite and Percy pomegranate body lotion, and the citrony-colored demi-bra and thong you talked me into.”

  “Exceptional choice, all around.”

  “Plus.” Wiggling her eyebrows, Avery pointed at her chest. “The bra hoists and squeezes everything so it looks like I have more than I do.”

  “Which every woman is entitled to, and every man appreciates. But . . .” Considering, Hope walked a circle around Avery. “You need a little something.”

  “I do?”

  “I’ve got just the thing. The bracelet my sister gave me for Christmas.”

  “I can’t wear your new gift.”

  “Sure you can. My sister likes you. It’s fun and comfortable—all these bronze, copper, and dull gold beads. I’ll go up and get it.”

  “Why aren’t you getting dressed?”

  “Clare and Beckett aren’t picking me up till about eight. I’ve got plenty of time. Grab a soda if you want—and there are some muffins. I’m trying out recipes.”

  Avery decided caffeine wasn’t the best idea, and opted for a ginger ale. She was wired enough.

  I
n a good way.

  She loved a good party, and Owen tended to throw good ones. She knew the food would pass, as she’d made or would make most of it.

  And she looked good. Hope would have told her if she hadn’t hit the mark.

  It would be fun. Lots of friends, food, drink, music, gossip. And at the end of it she’d open a new door for the new year with this new . . . connection with Owen.

  “If it doesn’t work, well, no harm, no foul, right?” she murmured, and took a long drink as she wandered toward The Lobby.

  No flowers yet, she mused, but everything gleamed and shone. Hope would make sure it continued to gleam and shine. The air smelled of the T&O scent, Pixie Dust, subtle and sweet.

  She wandered into The Dining Room, studied the building across St. Paul. In a matter of months, she thought, she’d open her new place.

  She hoped she’d be ready.

  She hoped she was ready for the step she intended to take tonight.

  “He was my first boyfriend.”

  The scent of honeysuckle drifted over her, a summer breeze.

  Her heart tripped into her throat, part excitement, part nerves as she turned.

  “I didn’t know you came down here, but I guess you can go where you want. Looks nice in here with the art hung. Actually I was thinking about saving up, buying . . .”

  A still life of sunflowers tipped crooked on the wall, then straightened again.

  “Ha. Yeah, that one. Wow. Nice trick. Anyway . . . Happy New Year,” she added when she heard Hope—assumed she heard Hope—coming back down.

  She walked to the hallway. “I didn’t know your inn-mate—get it—came down to the first floor.”

  “Now and then. Did she?”

  “Yeah. It’s my first solo encounter. How are you dealing with it?”

  “We’re fine.” Cool and casual, Hope moved toward the kitchen. “I spent the night in Elizabeth and Darcy last night.”

  “Seriously? Weren’t you a little . . .” Instead of words, Avery gave an exaggerated shudder.

  “Not really. If I can’t sleep in there, we can’t expect guests to pay to sleep in there. And no problem.” Opening the fridge, she helped herself to a bottle of water. “It’s a beautiful, comfortable room.”

  “And that’s it? No activity from the other side?”

  “Well, I was in bed, working on my laptop, and about midnight, the bedside lamps went off.”

  “Shit! I didn’t hear you scream.”

  “I didn’t. It gave me a moment, I can’t lie, but they came back on when I turned the switch. She turned them off again a few seconds later. I finally got the picture. Lights out, get some sleep.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I turned off my laptop.” Hope laughed, took a long sip of water. “I was half asleep over it anyway. Once I settled down, the oddest thing happened.”

  “Odder than that?”

  “I heard the door across the hall open and shut. It seemed to me like a signal from her. She’d stay over there, and I could have some privacy. I appreciated it.

  “Here, try this.” Hope hooked the bracelet around Avery’s wrist.

  “We should try to find out who Billy is.” The lights flickered on and off, on and off, then seemed to glow just a little brighter. “Ah, I think she likes that idea.”

  “I just haven’t had time. Once we get through the opening, and I find my routine, I can do some research. I will do some.”

  “I’ll say something about it to Owen. Between the two of you, you’ll find something. Pretty.” Avery wiggled her wrist. “Thanks. I should go. I told him I’d try to be there around five thirty to help him prep and set up.”

  “You’re an excellent girlfriend.”

  “Not yet.” But Avery laughed. “But I may be next year.” Still she hesitated as Hope walked her back through Reception. “Are you sure you’re okay being here alone?”

  “Obviously, I’m not alone.” Hope glanced back at the lights glowing behind them. “And I’m okay with it.”

  “Anytime you want me to stay . . .”

  “You just want to wallow in luxury.”

  “It’s a draw, but seriously, Hope. Anytime.”

  “I know.” Hope picked up Avery’s coat. “Go. Be a girlfriend.”

  “I’m going to give it a shot.”

  * * *

  OWEN SCANNED THE party prep list he’d posted in his kitchen, checked off music. He had that set. Ditto for the fire, the shopping, the cleaning. He had the game area dealt with for those who aimed for it, and a couple of outdoor heaters on the deck for any who spilled outside.

  Now all he had to do was put the food together, set up the bar, set up the food, haul the bags of ice he’d stockpiled in the freezer into the tubs for beer and soft drinks and . . . and, and.

  What had he been thinking?

  Oh yeah, he remembered. Avery. He’d been thinking of Avery.

  Now he had to cook—and stir and mix and chop and slice and arrange.

  Better get to it.

  Gearing up, he gathered supplies, kitchen tools, bowls, trays. Even as he turned to his menu list, he heard his front door open. He heard Avery call out hello, and smiled.

  His own personal cavalry, he thought, and headed out to meet her. “Jesus, Avery, let me have that.”

  He grabbed the enormous stainless steel pot she carried. “It weighs as much as you do.”

  “I make popular meatballs, so I made plenty of them. I’ve just got to run out and get my bag out of the car.”

  “I’ll get it. Take off your coat,” he suggested as he set the pot on the stove. “Get a glass of wine.”

  “Okay. Bag’s in the backseat.”

  “Be right back.”

  “The place looks good,” she called out. But then, it always did.

  Neat and tidy, of course, but with a comfortable, open style. Quiet colors, she mused as she headed back. She might have zipped them up a few tones, but they suited him.

  And she loved his kitchen. He may not do a lot of cooking—as far as she knew—but that hadn’t stopped him from building an attractive and efficient space for it.

  Dark cabinets and walls of pale green onion—which she’d have bumped up to green tomato, she decided, for some energy.

  Dark wood trim around generous windows and the atrium doors leading to his patio. Slate gray countertops—uncluttered, naturally—and gleaming white appliances.

  She read his posted lists as she took off her coat, laughed to herself. The idea of the party might’ve been spontaneous, but his planning for it was anything but.

  Knowing better than to toss her coat and scarf onto one of his kitchen stools, she took them into the utility room, hung them on a peg beside his work jacket. Noted his utility room was tidier than her own bedroom.

  She stepped back out, opened his broom closet, and took a bib apron off a hook. With the apron over her arm, she switched the heat on under her pot, cut it down to low.

  “I put your bag upstairs, so if you need . . .”

  As she turned from the stove, the words—and he figured at least half of his IQ—spilled out of his brain.

  “What?” Immediately she looked down at herself. “I didn’t spill anything on me, did I?”

  “Uh-uh. It’s just . . . You look . . . You look,” he managed, and her face cleared in a delighted smile.

  “That’s good?”

  “It’s . . .” Maybe more than half of his IQ. “Yeah. Oh, yeah.”

  “It’s new—the dress. Hope’s been helping me fill in my wardrobe, and thin out my bank account.”

  “It’s worth it. I forgot about your legs.”

  “What?”

  “Not that you had them, but that they’re . . . like that.”

  “I think you just made my year, right at the end of it.” She used the legs to walk to him, and even in the heels had to rise up to her toes a little to mate her mouth to his. “Thanks.”

  “Absolutely anytime.”

  He smel
led great. Tasted great. Looked great.

  As an idea formed, she stayed where she was, linked her hands behind his head. “That’s quite a list you’ve got there, Owen.”

  “List? Oh, the list. Yeah, a lot of work stuff got in the way the last couple days. I didn’t get as much done as I’d planned.”

  “Still a lot. I have this thought. We’ve got a couple of hours, a little more, before people start wandering in. And we’ve put some pressure on ourselves, you and me. Waiting until after the party, whenever that is, to ring in the new, so to speak.”

  His arms wrapped loosely around her waist. “I could put out signs. Party canceled.”

  “Extreme—and half of them would just bang on the door anyway. But what if we took advantage of the time we have now? We could go upstairs, and . . . ring out the old. No pressure at the party that way.”

  “It’s a really good thought. I don’t want to rush it—you. Us.”

  “I think we can work out an acceptable pace. You could even put it on your list.”