The Last Boyfriend Read online

  Nodding, she laid her head on his chest again. Old foundations, she thought, new phases. Who knew what you could build?

  “I need to make dough.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  With a smile, she tipped up her head. “I need to make pizza dough so I can make the other kind and pay my landlord.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’m going to make some calls in the quiet.”

  He gave her a last squeeze. “About these.” He gestured to the blueprints. “It’s going to take a while. Making the changes, getting the mechanicals, then the permits. And we’re centered on the other building right now.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long it takes.” She thought of him, of them, the lifetime already shared. “It’s how long it lasts.”

  * * *

  JUST AFTER OPENING, Hope dashed in the door.

  Avery added pepperoni to a large. “Hey. How’s it going in Hollywood?”

  “It’s good. Pretty smooth so far. They’re doing some interviews and videos with the Montgomerys right now. I’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Have a seat.” Avery slid the large in the oven.

  “I thought I should run over and tell you rather than text. A lot of the crews asked about lunch, so we’ve been hyping Vesta.”

  “Your hype’s appreciated. Good thing I made that extra dough.”

  “The thing is, a couple of them got the idea to do some video and interviews around and about. Here to start. With you.”

  “Me?”

  “And maybe some photos.”

  “Of me? I can’t do that. Look at me. I have sauce on my apron. I didn’t wash my hair this morning. I have naked face.”

  “Sauce works, it’s the job. Hair’s fine. I’ve got nine minutes now. I can do makeup in six. Let’s go.”

  “But orders—shit. Chad. Two large in the oven for delivery. Deal with it. Back in five.”

  “Six,” Hope corrected.

  “Six,” Avery called as she ran for the door.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me this could happen? I wouldn’t have naked face.”

  “Six minutes, maybe less. The gods gifted you with gorgeous skin. We’ll just pump up the eyes, give you more color, less shine.”

  “I’m shiny!” Desperate, Avery shoved open her apartment door, raced to the bathroom. “I’m wearing an old shirt.”

  “The apron covers it.” Focused, Hope yanked open the drawer of the vanity.

  “The saucy apron.”

  “I’m telling you the sauce is good. It’s like a prop. Sit,” she ordered. “This is simple. It’s not a screen test for a major motion picture. It’s a few seconds on the evening news.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Quiet. Why can’t you organize your makeup into groups? Eyes, lips, cheeks?”

  “Don’t start on me when I’m having a nervous breakdown. Why did I use this color on my hair?”

  “Why do you use any color on your hair when you have gorgeous hair to begin with?”

  “It was because of the rut. It was the rut, but now it’s like an addiction. Help me.”

  “Shut up and close your eyes.”

  Hope swiped on shadow, blended, drew on liner, smudged. “Didn’t I tell you to buy an eyelash curler.”

  Wary, Avery opened one eye. “I fear them.”

  “Get over it. Look here.” She leveled a finger, then brushed on mascara.

  “Why do you always look so perfect?” Avery complained. “Why are you beautiful? I hate you.”

  “I can give you clown cheeks.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You have skin like porcelain. I hate you.” Deft and quick, Hope feathered on blush. “And for God’s sake buy an eyelash curler. And a lip liner. Relax your jaw.” She chose a lipstick from the two dozen jumbled in the drawer, dusted on translucent powder, blotted.

  “Done, and in four.”

  “My pizzas.”

  “Chad’s got them. Take a look.”

  Avery rose, studied the results in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes looked bigger, bluer, her cheeks more defined, her lips rosy. “You’re a genius.”

  “I am.”

  “But my hair.”

  “Leave it. Twenty seconds.” Hope tugged here, smoothed there. Nodded. “Unstudied, casual, and just a little sexy.”

  “The shirt—”

  “Is fine. Different earrings. Thirty seconds.”

  Hope made the dash, pulled open the earring drawer. A quick scan, eyes narrowed. “These. A little sparkle, a little dangle, and they’re from Gifts. Symbiotic.”

  She did one ear while Avery did the other.

  “Shouldn’t I—”

  “Done,” Hope declared, and grabbed Avery’s hand. “Switch focus. You want the reporters to mention the excellent food and fast, friendly service in a cheerful atmosphere, right?”

  “Right, right. Jesus, stupid. It doesn’t matter how I look. Of course it does, but I need to warn the staff. I should call Franny in.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. Gotta go.”

  “Thanks for the face. Really.”

  * * *

  BY ONE SHE was too busy to worry about her shirt, the sauce on her apron, or if she’d chewed her lipstick off. She focused on pizzas, making pie after pie, and thanked God for Franny, who’d come in at her call and dealt with pasta orders, salads.

  She worked her way through it; in fact did two quick interviews while she stood at her work counter. Even tossed dough on request for a camera.

  And she thought of the lovely perk of having her place on a D.C. station for even two or three seconds.

  At three, with the madness over, Avery took her first break by collapsing in the empty back dining room with a bottle of Gatorade.

  She waved weakly when Clare came in. “I think I used up all my electrolytes. Did they come to your place?”

  Clare held up the go-cup from her bookstore. “Skinny latte with a double shot of espresso.”

  “That answers that.”

  “It was good though. Good for Turn The Page, for the inn, for the town, I think.”

  “I bet Hope didn’t have to rush down to TTP and do your makeup.”

  “No, but I don’t work in a hot kitchen all day.”

  “Good answer.”

  “The reporter from Hagerstown Magazine wants to pitch a follow-up, or a related story to her editor. You, me, Hope.”

  “Us? What kind of story?”

  “Three women, three friends. One who runs a bookstore, one who runs a restaurant—soon two—and one who runs the B&B.”

  “I don’t want to wear a saucy apron.”

  “Saucy as in sauce, or saucy as in French maid?”

  “Guess.” Smirking, Avery pointed at her stained apron. “We’d have more warning, right? Not have a four-minute-from-naked-face-to-camera-face deal again.”

  “Much more. If it flies, we’d coordinate the day and time. It’d be good promotion for all of us. Still, I don’t know how Hope does it. She walked one of the reporters down to the bookstore. She looked—”

  “Perfect.”

  “Perfect. And relaxed. I can’t wait to see how the whole thing comes out on the news tonight, then in the paper. Beckett’s picking up the kids from school—or has by now. He said they needed some man time.”

  Everything in Avery went soft. “You struck gold there, Clare.”

  “A mountain of it. I was also ordered to pick up Vesta spaghetti and meatballs. Manly portions.”

  “We can help you with that.”

  “I’m going to need help with more soon. After the opening, I’ll only have two months before the wedding. I know we’re not doing a huge bash, but . . .”

  “Everything has to be wonderful.”

  “Starting with the dresses. Mine, yours, and Hope’s.”

  “We’ll take a day. Name it. I’ll make it work.”

  “Thursdays are best right now—as soon after the opening as possible. I need to check with Hope. I could shift some thing
s and do a Wednesday if that’s better.”

  “Either way I can make it work.”

  “I’ve talked with Carol at Mountainside about the flowers. That’s pretty much set. I haven’t talked to you about food.”

  “Why don’t you leave that to me? I’ll put something together, then you can adjust, change, eliminate, or add. I can give you the launch pad.”

  “That takes a weight off. Thanks.” Leaning forward, smile brilliant, Clare took her friend’s hands. “I’m getting married, Avery.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Everything’s moving so fast. Do you remember when they first started work on the inn? It seemed like forever. Now it’s finished, about to open. I’m getting married, Beckett’s finishing the house. I’m looking at tile and faucets and lighting fixtures.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No, not nervous. A little overwhelmed here and there. Marriage, a new home, and if things go as we hope, a new baby on the way in a few months.”

  “It all looks really good on you.”

  “It all feels really good. Are you nervous?”

  “About what?”

  “You and Owen.”

  “No. No, not exactly nervous. But maybe, yeah, maybe a little overwhelmed here and there, too. One minute I think, sure, of course. Then the next it’s, what? Where did this come from, and what do I do with it?”

  She propped her chin on her fist. “Then it’s back to of course. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and now we’re looking at each other in a new way. That’s a little overwhelming. But maybe that’s good. Otherwise, maybe it would be too easy for that ‘of course’ to turn into ‘so what?’”

  Before she sat back again, Clare gave Avery’s hand a quick squeeze. “You think you’re careless with people. I don’t know where that comes from. I’ve known you a long time, and you’ve never been careless with people. We were friendly in high school. We ran in different crowds even though we co-captained the cheerleading squad.”

  “Go Warriors.”

  “Go Warriors. But when I came back home after Clint was killed, you were right there for me. Right there, Avery. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I still don’t.”

  This time Avery took Clare’s hand. “You’ll never have to find out.”

  “The same to you. You’re not the so what type, Avery. Not with people. I’ve got to get back. I’ll run up for the spaghetti and manly meatballs around five.”

  “I’ll send it down, save you a trip.”

  Avery sat alone for another moment. She’d had enough of a break, all around, she decided. And enough worrying about what might be later rather than enjoying what was now.

  She pulled out her phone, texted Owen.

  Off in an hour. Want to come over, share a bottle of wine and a large pie upstairs?

  She finished off her drink, rolled her tired shoulders. Then smiled when he texted back.

  Knocking off shortly, having a beer with Ry at your place. I’ll walk you home.

  “Yeah, you walk me home, Owen. That’s what a good boyfriend does.”

  She got up, did a little dance in place, then went back to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FROM THE BITTERLY cold morning of the opening of Inn BoonsBoro to the teeth-chattering afternoon, Avery calculated she had run twenty miles just dashing back and forth across Main Street.

  She wouldn’t have missed a single yard.

  Throughout the day Hope and Carolee polished and primped the inn until every inch gleamed. Each time Avery ran over, more flowers graced the tables, the mantels, even the deep windowsills in The Dining Room. Tables and chairs stood in The Courtyard and on the porches, while indoors, fires simmered in hearths.

  At one point, Avery ran through with trays of food while Hope—in jeans and a sweatshirt—signed for delivery of the rental dishes and glassware.

  “I’ll be back,” Avery told her. “One of my crew will bring the rest, then more as we need it.”

  “We’re right on schedule. Carolee just went home to change.”

  “I’m going to do that, but I’ll be back—an hour tops.”

  “Take your time,” Hope assured her in her ready-steady way. “We’re good.”

  “Why am I nervous? It’s not my inn.” On a dash, Avery streaked out and back across the street.

  In fifty-five minutes, overnight bag in hand, feeling smug at her early readiness, she found Hope setting up a bar. And wearing a killer red dress.

  “You’re dressed! You look amazing. It’s not fair. I hate you again.”

  “I timed it out. I didn’t want to have to run up and finish putting myself together once the Montgomerys got here. Which is any minute.”

  “I was supposed to be ready first. It’s annoying.”

  “Live with it.” Eyebrows arched under spiky black bangs, Hope gestured. “I might point out you’re wearing two different shoes.”

  “Which ones do I go with?” Testing, Avery heel-toed it, did quick pivots. “I can’t decide. Plus the dress is wrong, isn’t it? It’s gray.”

  “It’s not gray. It’s moondust. I love the sparkle on the bodice. Where did you get those sapphire shoes? I want them.”

  “I bought them last year in a weak moment. I haven’t worn them yet. I wasn’t sure if—”

  “Yes, you are. I’ll tell you what’s annoying. Your feet are a full size smaller than mine. Otherwise, I’d take you down for those shoes. I still might.”

  “Blue shoes it is. Can I put this stuff, including the rejected black pumps, in your place?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll be right down, give you a hand.”

  She slipped out of both shoes, ran upstairs in her bare feet. She left the bag, the shoes inside Hope’s door, put the blue ones back on.

  Since the door to The Penthouse stood open, she wandered into its rarified air. Flowers spread under the windows in the parlor, stood on the floating counter in the bath, with more in the bedroom. Everything shimmered and gleamed.

  She couldn’t imagine what the Montgomerys felt, not when she felt such pride and satisfaction, and she’d only watched it evolve. And added a little elbow grease.

  She walked down, letting her hand trail on the iron banister.

  Wanting more, she walked down to Nick and Nora. She’d stay here tonight, she thought, with Owen. In that beautiful bed, with the scent of flowers, the sparkle of crystal.

  They’d make love here, in the crystal dark, the first ones to reach for each other in this room. She thought it a kind of magic.

  She turned at the sound of footsteps, smiled at Owen.

  “I was just thinking about you, and there you are. And handsome, too.” So handsome in his dark suit, with a tie—that magic again—almost the same color as her dress.

  “You keep surprising me, Avery.”

  Her smile warmed. “Tonight calls for some style, and we’re definitely stylish. I was thinking how you and your family must feel. It must be amazing because I feel so proud and happy, and I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You hauled, fed, cleaned. You helped us get Hope.”

  “You’re right; I did. And I put that sparkly floor lamp together solo.” She gave one of its drops a light flick. Her eyes sparkled nearly as brightly. “Pretty major.”

  “I think so. I have something for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Something to thank you for everything you did to help us get here tonight.”

  “A present?” On a sound of surprise she stepped toward him. “I didn’t do anything for presents—even considering lamp assembly—but I do love presents. So I’ll take it. Hand it over.”

  He pulled a little box out of his pocket—then took the wrapping she ripped off, balled it up while she lifted the lid.

  “Oh. Oh, God, it’s beautiful.”

  The little platinum key hung on a thin chain fired with tiny diamonds.

  “I saw it, and thought, that’s it. It�
��s symbolic. The key to Inn BoonsBoro. Anytime you want to use it.”

  “That’s beautiful, too, the thought of that. Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated, leaning in for a kiss. “I love it. My first diamonds.”

  “Really? They’re pretty puny.”

  “No diamond is puny. I want to wear it now.”

  “I’ll help you out.” He moved behind her, working on the clasp. She reached a hand up to the little key, studying them both in the silver-framed cheval glass.

  Then lifted a hand to the one he laid on her shoulder.

  She couldn’t find words, not when she saw the way they looked together, reflected in the mirror.

  The flutter came again when his gaze met hers. Then something new, a slow steady beat that spread out, spread through her until she felt it even in the soles of her feet.

  “Owen.” Whatever she might have said, could have said, slipped away when she saw the shadow in the glass. “Owen,” she repeated.