Opposites Attract Page 20

  “I—I lost the baby.”

  “I asked about you.”

  She stared without comprehension. No one had asked her that, not even her father. Looking into Ty’s ravaged face, she could only shake her head again.

  “Damn it, Asher, did you have a concussion, did you break any bones? You said you almost died.”

  “The baby died,” she repeated numbly.

  Crossing to her, he grabbed her shoulders. “You!” he shouted. “Don’t you know that you’re the most important thing to me? We can have a dozen babies if you want. I need to know what happened to you.”

  “I don’t remember very much. I was sedated. There were transfusions . . .” The full impact of his words penetrated slowly. The anguish in his eyes was for her. “Ty.” Burying her face against his chest, she clung. “All that’s over.”

  “I should have been with you.” He drew her closer. “We should have gone through that together.”

  “Just tell me you love me. Say the words.”

  “You know that I do.” He cupped her chin to force her head back. “I love you.” He saw the first tear fall and kissed it away. “Don’t,” he pleaded. “No more tears, Face. No more grieving.”

  She held him close again until the fullness left her chest. “No more grieving,” she repeated, and lifted her face.

  He touched it gently, fingertips only. “I hurt you.”

  “We let other people hurt us,” she contradicted. “Never again.”

  “How could we be stupid enough to almost lose it all twice?” he wondered aloud. “No more secrets, Asher.”

  She shook her head. “No more secrets. A third chance, Ty?”

  “I work best under pressure.” He brushed his lips over her temple. “Double break point, Face, I’m on a winning streak.”

  “You should be celebrating.”

  “I did my share.”

  “Not with me.” She gave him a light kiss full of promise. “We could go to my place. Pick up a bottle of champagne on the way.”

  “We could stay here,” he countered. “And worry about the champagne tomorrow.”

  “It is tomorrow,” she reminded him.

  “Then we’ve got all day.” He began to pull her toward the bedroom.

  “Wait a minute.” Snatching her hand away, she stepped back. “I’d like to hear that conventional proposal now.”

  “Come on, Asher.” He made another grab for her hand, but she eluded him.

  “I mean it.”

  Flustered, he stuck his hands into his pockets. “You know I want you to marry me.”

  “That’s not a conventional proposal.” She folded her arms and waited. “Well,” she began when he remained silent, “should I write you a cheat sheet? You say something like, Asher—”

  “I know what I’m supposed to say,” he muttered. “I’d rather try the kidnapping.”

  Laughing, she walked over and twined her arms around his neck. “Ask me,” she whispered, letting her lips hover an inch from his.

  “Will you marry me, Asher?” The lips held tantalizingly near his curved, but she remained silent. His eyes dropped to them, lingered, then rose to hers. “Well?”

  “I’m thinking it over,” she told him. “I was hoping for something a bit more flowery, maybe some poetry or—” The wind was knocked out of her as he hefted her over his shoulder. “Yes, that’s good too,” she decided. “I should be able to let you know in a few days.”

  From the height he dropped her, she bounced twice before she settled on the bed.

  “Or sooner,” she decided as he began unbuttoning her blouse.

  “Shut up.”

  She cocked a brow. “Don’t you want to hear my answer?”

  “We’ll get the license tomorrow.”

  “I haven’t said—”

  “And the blood tests.”

  “I haven’t agreed—”

  His mouth silenced her in a long, lingering kiss as his body fit unerringly to hers.

  “Of course,” Asher sighed, “I could probably be persuaded.”

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  the third book in the Inn BoonsBoro trilogy

  by Nora Roberts

  THE PERFECT HOPE

  Available November 2012 from Berkley Books

  With a few groans and sighs, the old building settled down for the night. Under the star-washed sky its stone walls glowed, rising up over Boonsboro’s Square as they had for more than two centuries. Even the crossroads held quiet now, stretching out in pools of shadows and light. All the windows and storefronts along Main Street seemed to sleep, content to doze away in the balm of the summer night.

  She should do the same, Hope thought. Settle down, stretch out. Sleep.

  That would be the sensible thing to do, and she considered herself a sensible woman. But the long day left her restless and, she reminded herself, Carolee would arrive bright and early to start breakfast.

  The innkeeper could sleep in.

  In any case, it was barely midnight. When she’d lived and worked in Georgetown, she’d rarely managed to settle in for the night this early. Of course, then she’d been managing The Wickham, and if she hadn’t been dealing with some small crisis or handling a guest request, she’d been enjoying the nightlife.

  The town of Boonsboro, tucked into the foothills of Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains, might have a rich and storied history, and it certainly had its charms—among which she counted the revitalized inn she now managed—but it wasn’t famed for its nightlife.

  That would change a bit when her friend Avery opened her restaurant and tap house. And wouldn’t it be fun to see what the energetic Avery MacTavish did with her new enterprise right next door—and just across The Square from Avery’s pizzeria.

  Before summer ended, Avery would juggle the running of two restaurants, Hope thought.

  And people called her Hope an overachiever.

  She looked around the kitchen—clean, shiny, warm and welcoming. She’d already sliced fruit, checked the supplies, restocked the refrigerator. So everything sat ready for Carolee to prepare breakfast for the guests currently tucked in their rooms.

  She’d finished her paperwork, checked all the doors, and made her rounds checking for dishes—or anything else—out of place. Duties done, she told herself, and still she wasn’t ready to tuck her own self in her third-floor apartment.

  Instead she poured an indulgent glass of wine and did a last circle through The Lobby, switching off the chandelier over the central table with its showy summer flowers.

  She moved through the arch, gave the front door one last check before she turned toward the stairs. Her fingers trailed lightly over the iron banister.

  She’d already checked The Library, but she checked again. It wasn’t anal, she told herself. A guest might have slipped in for a glass of Irish or a book. But the room was quiet, settled like the rest.

  She glanced back. She had guests on this floor. Mr. and Mrs. Vargas—Donna and Max—married twenty-seven years. The night at the inn, in Nick and Nora, had been a birthday gift for Donna from their daughter. And wasn’t that sweet?

  Her other guests, a floor up in Wesley and Buttercup, chose the inn for their wedding night. She liked to think the newlyweds, April and Troy, would take lovely, lasting memories with them.

  She checked the door to the second-level porch, then on impulse unlocked it and stepped out into the night.

  With her wine, she crossed the wide wood deck, leaned on the rail. Across The Square, the apartment above Vesta sat dark—and empty now that Avery had moved in with Owen Montgomery. Hope could admit—to herself anyway—that she missed looking over and knowing her friend was right there, just across Main.

  But Avery was exactly where she belonged, Hope decided, with Owen, her first and, as it turned out, her last boyfriend.

  Talk about sweet.

  And she’d help plan a wedding—May bride, May flowers—right there in The Courtyard, just as Clare’s had been this pa
st spring.

  Thinking of it, Hope looked down Main toward the bookstore. Clare’s Turn The Page had been a risk for a young widow with two children and another on the way. But she’d made it work. Clare had a knack for making things work. Now she was Clare Montgomery, Beckett’s wife. And when winter came, they’d welcome a new baby to the mix.

  Odd, wasn’t it, that her two friends had lived right in Boonsboro for so long, and she’d relocated only the year—not even a full year yet—before. The new kid in town.

  Now, of the three of them, she was the only one still right here, right in the heart of town.

  Silly to miss them when she saw them nearly every day, but on restless nights she could wish, just a little, they were still close.

  So much had changed, for all of them, in this past year.

  She’d been perfectly content in Georgetown, with her home, her work, her routine. With Jonathan, the cheating bastard.

  She’d had good, solid plans, no rush, no hurry, but solid plans. The Wickham had been her place. She’d known its rhythm, its tones, its needs. And she’d done a hell of a job for the Wickhams and their cheating bastard son, Jonathan.

  She’d planned to marry him. No, there’d been no formal engagement, no concrete promises, but marriage and future had been on the table.

  She wasn’t a moron.

  And all the time—or at least in the last several months—they’d been together, with him sharing her bed, or her sharing his, he’d been seeing someone else. Someone from his more elevated social strata, you could say, Hope mused with lingering bitterness. Someone who wouldn’t work ten- and twelve-hour days—and often more—to manage the exclusive hotel, but who’d stay there—in its most elaborate suite, of course.

  No, she wasn’t a moron, but she’d been far too trusting and humiliatingly shocked when Jonathan told her he would be announcing his engagement—to someone else—the next day.

  Humiliatingly shocked, she thought again, particularly as they’d been naked and in her bed at the time.

  Then again, he’d been shocked, too, when she’d ordered him to get the hell out. He genuinely hadn’t understood why anything between them should change.

  That single moment ushered in a lot of change.

  Now she was Inn BoonsBoro’s innkeeper, living in a small town in Western Maryland, a good clip from the bright lights of the big city.

  She didn’t spend what free time she had planning clever little dinner parties, or shopping in boutiques for the perfect shoes for the perfect dress for the next event.

  Did she miss all that? Her go-to boutique, her favorite lunch spot, the lovely high ceilings and flower-framed little patio of her own town house? Or the pressure and excitement of preparing the hotel for visits from dignitaries, celebrities, business moguls?

  Sometimes, she admitted. But not as often as she’d expected to, and not as much as she’d assumed she would.

  Because she had been content in her personal life, challenged in her professional one, and the Wickham had been her place. But she’d discovered something in the last few months. Here, she wasn’t just content, but happy. The inn wasn’t just her place, it was home.

  She had her friends to thank for that, and the Montgomery brothers along with their mother. Justine Montgomery had hired her on the spot. At the time Hope hadn’t known Justine well enough to be surprised by her quick offer. But she did know herself, and continued to be surprised at her own fast, impulsive acceptance.

  Zero to sixty? More like zero to ninety and still going.

  She didn’t regret the impulse, the decision, the move.

  Fresh starts hadn’t been in the plan, but she was good at adjusting plans. Thanks to the Montgomerys, the lovingly—and effortfully—restored inn was now her home and her career.

  She wandered the porch, checking the hanging planters, adjusting—minutely—the angle of a bistro chair.

  “And I love every square inch of it,” she murmured.

  One of the porch doors leading out from Elizabeth and Darcy opened. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the night air.

  Someone else was restless, Hope thought. Then again, she didn’t know if ghosts slept. She doubted if the spirit Beckett had named Elizabeth for the room she favored would tell her if she asked. Thus far Lizzy hadn’t deigned to speak to her inn-mate.

  Hope smiled at the term, sipped her wine.

  “Lovely night. I was just thinking how different my life is now, and all things considered, how glad I am it is.” She spoke in an easy, friendly way. After all, the research she and Owen had done—so far—on their permanent guest had proven Lizzy—or Eliza Ford, when she’d been alive—was one of Hope’s ancestors.

  Family, to Hope’s mind, ought to be easy and friendly.

  “We have newlyweds in W&B. They look so happy, so fresh and new somehow. The couple in N&N are here celebrating her fifty-eighth birthday. They don’t look new, but they do look happy, and so nice and comfortable. I like giving them a special place to stay, a special experience. It’s what I’m good at.”

  Silence held, but Hope could feel the presence. Companionable, she realized. Oddly companionable. Just a couple of women up late, looking out at the night.

  “Carolee will be here early. She’s doing breakfast tomorrow, and I have the morning off. So.” She lifted her glass. “Some wine, some introspection, some feeling sorry for myself circling around to realizing I have nothing to feel sorry for myself about.” With a smile, Hope sipped again. “So, a good glass of wine.

  “Now that I’ve accomplished all that, I should get to bed.”

  Still she lingered a little longer in the quiet summer night, with the scent of honeysuckle drifting around her.

  * * *

  When Hope came down in the morning, the scent was fresh coffee, grilled bacon and, if her nose didn’t deceive her, Carolee’s apple cinnamon pancakes. She heard easy conversation in The Dining Room. Donna and Max, talking about poking around town before driving home.

  Hope went down the hall, circled to the kitchen to see if Carolee needed a hand. Justine’s sister had her bright blond hair clipped short for summer, with the addition of flirty bangs over her cheerful hazel eyes. They beamed at Hope even as she wagged a finger.

  “What are you doing down here, young lady?”

  “It’s nearly ten.”

  “And your morning off.”

  “Which I spent—so far—sleeping until eight, doing yoga, and putzing.” She helped herself to a mug of coffee, closed her own deep brown eyes as she sipped. “My first cup of the day. Why is it always the best?”

  “I wish I knew. I’m still trying to switch to tea. My Darla’s on a health kick and doing her best to drag me along.” Carolee spoke of her daughter with affection laced with exasperation. “I really like our Titania and Oberon blend. But . . . it’s not coffee.”

  “Nothing is except coffee.”

  “You said it. She can’t wait for the new gym to open. She says if I don’t sign up for yoga classes, she’s signing me up and carting me over there.”

  “You’ll love yoga.” Hope laughed at the doubt—and anxiety—on Carolee’s face. “Honest.”

  “Hmmm.” Carolee lifted the dishcloth again, went back to polishing the granite countertop. “The Vargases loved the room, and as usual the bathroom—starring the magic toilet—got raves. I haven’t heard a peep out of the newlyweds yet.”

  “I’d be disappointed in them if you had.” Hope brushed at her hair. Unlike Carolee, she was experimenting with letting it grow out of the short, sharp wedge she’d sported the last two years. The dark, glossy ends hit her jaw now, just in between enough to be annoying.

  “I’m going to go check on Donna and Max, see if they want anything.”

  “Let me do it,” Hope said. “I want to say good morning anyway,