The Perfect Hope ib-3 Read online

  “Where? When?”

  “Online. This morning when I was poking around before coming in.”

  “Online? But—”

  “I know, I know, but with the new place moving so fast, and Vesta busy, Clare starting to waddle—don’t tell her I said that—and you tied up here, there’s not a lot of chances to hit the shops. And, well, I was just poking, trying to get an idea of the style I might want, what I thought would work, and there it was.”

  Hope held up a hand. She did plenty of shopping online, primarily for the inn, and respected the convenience. But there were limits. “You ordered your wedding dress online?”

  “Not yet! What do you take me for? I wouldn’t order a wedding cracker—if I wanted one—without showing you and Clare first. I just went down to TTP and showed Clare.” She waved the iPad she carried. “Now I want to show you. I couldn’t send links, because I want firsthand—honest—reaction.”

  “Okay. Hit me.”

  “I’ve got it bookmarked on my iPad.”

  “Let’s go sit.”

  “You can tell me if you don’t like it,” Avery began as they walked into the kitchen.

  “What did Clare say?”

  “Uh-uh. You’re going into this without prejudice.” Avery sat, sucked in a breath, and brought the image up on her tablet.

  In silence, Hope took a long, careful study. “Well, it’s beautiful.”

  “Beautiful’s not hard in a wedding dress. Your eyes could bleed from beauty when you’re scrolling through them online. It’s the lines and details that pulled me toward this. I’ve got a small build, so I can’t carry the big princess dress, which is sad for me. But I’ve got good arms and shoulders, so I can carry strapless. But the ruching on the bodice helps with the fact I don’t have much boobage.”

  “Your boobage is lovely.”

  “Aw, thanks. But there’s not a lot of it. And see it’s more Empire style, which should help me look taller, and the detailing, the beading …” Avery enlarged the beadwork on the flow of skirt. “It’s all small scale.”

  “Like you.”

  “Yeah. The skirt’s got some flare and flow, but no poof.” She sighed a little. “I’d love the poof. If you can’t have poof on your wedding day, when? I asked myself that, and concluded, for me, never. And I’m too white to wear white so the ivory will warm me up. I’m going to skip the veil, just go for a sparkly tiara type deal. That’s my princess thing. I want something princessy.”

  “You’ll look like one in this,” Hope decided, taking the tablet to move, shift, enlarge, shrink the image for her own judgment. “A fairy princess. You’re right to go with flow instead of poof, the higher waistline, the smaller, more delicate details. I think you’ll look gorgeous.”

  “You’ve got a ‘but’ buried in there.”

  “It’s just if you order it this way, you can’t try it on, compare it with others, feel the material.”

  “I can try it on when it gets here, feel the material. And if it doesn’t make the grade, I can send it back.”

  Hope thought of the thrill, the one-time excitement, of surrounding yourself with wedding gowns, the silk, the tulle, the subtle shades of white.

  And realized that was her thrill much more than Avery’s.

  “That’s all true.”

  “I’ll model it for you and Clare. And Justine. There’s plenty of time if it doesn’t work to look for another.”

  After one last study—of the dress and her friend—Hope handed the tablet back. “You love it.”

  “I love the picture. I want to see if I love it when I’m wearing it.”

  “Then you should order it.”

  “Good, because I’ve got it holding in the shopping cart, with everything filled out. All I have to do is …” Avery tapped, swiped, gulped, and pressed Order Now. “Oh God, I just bought a wedding dress. Hope.”

  With a laugh, and damp eyes, Hope leaned over and into the bouncing hug.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Scary, and good. And exciting to order something that doesn’t cook, freeze, or flush, which is what I’ve been spending money on lately.”

  “I want to know the minute it comes in.”

  “Promise. I guess it’s a little too soon to check the tracking.” Avery grinned, brought the image back up just to look at it. “Which I’ll be doing every hour on the hour until it gets here.”

  “Shoes. You need absolutely fabulous shoes.”

  “I want mile-high shoes,” Avery declared. “Sexy, gorgeous, mile-high shoes. I can change into a lower pair when the dancing gets serious, but I want to feel tall. Sparkly, I think, like the tiara, so I’ve got sparkle head and foot.”

  “Excellent idea.” Hope narrowed her eyes. “You’ve got those bookmarked, too.”

  “Actually, I have three pairs bookmarked.”

  Hope tapped the tablet. “Let’s have a look.”

  They spent the next ten minutes debating pumps, strappy sandals, and peep-toes. Hope nixed the pumps—beautiful but too refined, and on her advice, Avery ordered both other pairs, to have that comparison when she tried on the dress.

  “I knew I could count on you for the best shoe advice.” Avery laid her fingers on the dress one last time, then set the tablet aside. “So, things with you and Ry? All smoothed out?”

  “There’s nothing between me and Ryder, apparently. I haven’t spoken to him since the day before yesterday.”

  “God. If I had to choose which one of you is more stubborn, I’d judge it a dead heat.”

  “I’m not being stubborn. I’m right here if he wants to talk to me.”

  “And he’s right there if you want to talk to him.” With a roll of her eyes, Avery jabbed a finger toward the door. “Don’t you even want to know what he said to Jonathan’s father, and vice versa?”

  “It’s not relevant.” Even if it did drive her a little crazy. “Besides, you know. He’d have told Owen by now.”

  Avery hissed out a breath. “So instead of having an actual conversation with Ryder, you want to circle around to what he told Owen to what Owen told me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not stubborn,” Avery added.

  “Are you going to tell me Ryder had a right to go down there and confront Baxter Wickham without talking to me first?”

  Heaving out a breath, Avery rose, got a soda from the fridge. This would take longer than she’d planned, and might be thirsty work. “You grew up with a sister and a mom as well as a brother and a dad. Me? It was mostly me and my dad, and the surrogate family of the Montgomerys, which was three guys. I have more of a guy perspective about some stuff.”

  “Which means?”

  “I think Ry did exactly what Ry’s instincts told him to do—or his secondary instinct, because the first would’ve been to hunt Jonathan down and turn him into pulp. I like his first instinct, but you wouldn’t. His second was civilized.”

  “Civilized?”

  At Hope’s appalled tone, Avery lifted her shoulders, spread her hands. “Sorry, that’s my take. He drove all the way to D.C., and you should know he hates going down there. Ryder would consider the 270 corridor the seventh circle of Hell. Plus, he would’ve been pissed at losing a half a day’s work. But he did that because nobody was going to screw with you that way and get away with it.”

  “But—”

  “Relationships aren’t always rational and balanced, Hope. They’re human. And you’re in a relationship with a guy who’s wired to act rather than talk about it—discuss, debate, weigh alternative options. Harder for you because you’re the talk and discuss and weigh-it type. You’re not wrong, either of you. You’re just dealing with different wiring.”

  Understanding her closest friend stood on the other side of that line, or at least straddled it, made for a tough swallow. But honesty meant more than lip service.

  Usually.

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re too different.”

  “So are Owen and I. In fact, he�
��s more like you; I’m more like Ry. But I’m not in love with Ryder. I’m not going to marry Ryder in the dress I just bought. I’m messy and impulsive and fly off quicker than most. But Owen doesn’t try to change me.”

  “I’m not trying to change Ryder. That’s not what I want to do,” she amended when Avery just winged up her eyebrows. “It’s my mess, Avery.”

  “Bullshit. I tied myself up over my mother with the same narrow logic. I was wrong.”

  “You think I’m wrong now.”

  “I think you and Ryder need to have a damn conversation instead of sulking. And yes, you are, too.”

  Despite herself, Hope laughed. “I like to think of it as being thoughtful. Well, damn it, tell me what Ryder said to Baxter Wickham and what Baxter said to Ryder.”

  “No.” Avery rose, nodded firmly. “Ask Ryder.”

  Disagreement might be a tough swallow, but dissension lodged sticky in the throat. “Avery!”

  “No. And I’m leaving now before I cave in. I love you, so I’m not going to help you evade something we both know you need to deal with for yourself. Maybe things won’t work with you and Ryder, but the two of you should give each other the courtesy of some damn words.”

  Sincerely stunned, Hope stared after Avery as her friend snatched up her iPad, marched to the door, flipped the lock and sailed out.

  “Well, damn it,” she repeated.

  Now she had to know what had been said or it would drive her crazy. And maybe Avery had a point, a half a point anyway. Still, she could hardly go to Ryder and ask. And she couldn’t—wouldn’t—apologize for having feelings and a point of view.

  She might think about the situation as it stood, consider various solutions. But she wasn’t just going to cave.

  And that wasn’t being stubborn or sulky.

  “And so what if it is,” she mumbled.

  Restless and annoyed, she pulled out the bag of kitchen trash to take out to the shed. Once out, she pulled a few weeds, deadheaded her roses. And yes, she looked over toward Fit to see what was going on.

  She didn’t spot Ryder, which she told herself was just as well. She’d think about the best route out of this stalemate they were in.

  Walking back, she started to let herself in The Lobby door, found it closed and locked when she knew she’d left it cracked open for easy reentry. With a shrug, she took her key out of her pocket. It slid in, refused to turn.

  “Stop this,” she muttered. “Let me back in.”

  The lever wouldn’t budge.

  Nor would it budge on the other door, or the second-floor access door.

  “For God’s sake! You’re being ridiculous.”

  Hope stormed down the steps again. Fine, she’d just go get Avery’s key. And if that failed, she’d call Carolee and ask her to come in early.

  With a full head of steam, she started down the sidewalk beside the building, and stopped short a foot from Ryder as he came in her direction.

  He took one long look at her face. “Problem?”

  “No. Yes, damn it. She’s locked me out.”

  “Carolee?”

  “No, not Carolee. My key won’t work on any of the doors back here.”

  He simply held out a hand for it, and taking it, walked around to the first door.

  The key slid in, turned.

  “Works now.”

  “I can see that.”

  “What did you do to piss her off?”

  “I didn’t do anything.” She snatched her key out, started to step inside.

  The fireplace came on with a whoosh of flame. Every light began to flash and blink. From where she stood, Hope heard the refrigerator door slam repeatedly.

  “Looks like pissed off to me.” Ryder nudged Hope aside.

  The minute he stepped inside, all the activity stopped.

  “Did this just start up?”

  “Yes, just this minute. I don’t know why she’s upset. I’ve put a solid five hours in on the search over the last couple of nights.”

  “She’s settled down now.” He started to turn back to the door, and it started again.

  He picked up the remote and again switched off the fire. “Cut it out!”

  The answer was an audible click of the lock on the door.

  “Maybe she’s upset you haven’t been around the last couple of days,” Hope suggested.

  Ryder set the remote down. “I got the impression the innkeeper didn’t want me around.”

  “You got the wrong impression. I didn’t like you doing something that involved me without talking to me.”

  “I didn’t like seeing you get slapped.” He shrugged. “You can’t like everything.”

  “I’m not wrong to want you to talk to me.”

  “I’m not wrong to stand up for you.”

  She started to argue, realized she couldn’t. And didn’t want to. “Tell me I’m not wrong about wanting you to talk to me, and I’ll tell you you’re not wrong to stand up for me.”

  “Okay. You first.”

  Her laugh snuck through about the same time as his quick, cocky grin. “All right. You’re not wrong.”

  “Neither are you. Are we finished with it?”

  “No, we’re not. I need to know you’ll consider how I feel.”

  Frustration flashed back on his face. “Hope, I considered nothing but. I considered your hurt and your embarrassment. I wasn’t going to let it slide.”

  “If you’d just talked to me first—”

  “You wouldn’t have talked me out of it. We’d’ve had the fight sooner than we had it, but I’d’ve still gone and said what I had to say.”

  “I wouldn’t have talked you out of it,” she agreed. “I would have tried, at first. Then I’d have gone with you.”

  He stopped, frowned. “You’d have gone down there?”

  “Yes. In fact, before I knew you had, I’d calmed down enough to think it through. I was going to handle it by letter—a letter listing the details—to Baxter Wickham. Because I realized I couldn’t, and shouldn’t, let it slide either.”

  “Face-to-face is better. But I didn’t consider that part—the part where you’d have wanted to go. You were crying.”

  “I stopped. I needed to cry, then I stopped, and I started to think. There were things I needed to say, and I intended to write them down. I admit I would have done several drafts, taken a few days to perfect the tone and language.”

  “I bet.”

  “But if you’d told me, and I’d realized I couldn’t talk you out of going, I’d have gone, Ryder. I’d have had that face-to-face.”

  “Okay.” His shoulders relaxed as he nodded. “Okay. I can say I’m sorry I cheated you out of that.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate you standing up for me the way I should have.”

  “Good enough. Now are we done with it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “I’ll get you a cold drink, then you’ll tell me what you said to Baxter, and what he said to you. Reverse the situation. You know damn well you’d want to know.”

  “You want me to replay the back-and-forth?”

  “I absolutely do.”

  “Crap.” Details, he thought. Women always wanted them. “Okay, but if I do, I want makeup sex.”

  She got him a cold Coke from the refrigerator, smiled. “That’s a deal.”

  He could take the time, he calculated as he dropped down on a stool. It felt good to get off his feet for five minutes. It felt good to look at her, up close, to catch her scent, to hear her voice. He could tell her about the deal with Wickham. He didn’t see why he needed to tell her they’d run into each other right outside because he’d dropped what he’d been doing with the intention of coming just where he’d ended up—with her—and having it out.

  He’d had enough, that’s all, enough of giving her time to cool off and the space to do it in. Enough of thinking about her all the goddamn time to the point he’d lost sleep.

  He never lost sleep over
a woman.

  And he’d had enough of trying to figure out what the hell she wanted him to do since his ever-reliable flower gambit had gone down in flames.

  So he owed Lizzy a favor for maneuvering things so he was where he wanted to be. Better than, he admitted, because he was sitting down with a cold Coke and Hope was sitting beside him, waiting. Watching.

  And there was a bout of makeup sex in his future.

  “Well?” she said at length.

  “I’m thinking. How long do you figure before the blonde blasts the asshole she married, tossing you in his face?”

  “I don’t know her that well. Probably not long,” Hope admitted.

  “And being a gutless asshole, how long would it take him to turn it around so you made the moves, came onto him, that kind of thing.”

  “Immediately.”

  “Yeah, I figured. You still have contacts down there, people in the business, or people who like to travel, to stay in nice places, unique places.”

  “Yes, I do. In your scenario, to protect themselves from someone who doesn’t even give a damn, and to protect their pride, they might try to damage my reputation. They might spread lies and gossip about pitiful, scheming Hope who slept her way in and out of a job, and now into another.”

  “Not good for business.”

  “So, you were thinking about business.”

  “It’s a factor.” Maybe minuscule in the big picture, but a factor. “A bigger one is they—neither of them—deserve any shot of getting off easy. Kicking his ass? Owen’s always worried about arrests for assault and criminal trials.”

  “It’s a factor,” she said dryly.

  “But to my way of thinking, it’s mostly worth it, until you think about how bruises and broken bones heal. And some people knee-jerk toward feeling bad for the ass that’s been kicked, no matter how it’s earned. So I liked the idea of longer-term benefits. The asshole’s dickless. Plus, you take one good look at him, and the one he married, you can see what drives them is money and show and status. You’ve got to have money and opportunities for the show and the status. Old man Wickham’s still running things, so he’s the power source. He could cut off the money—or channels leading to it, and shut down opportunities.”