The Last Boyfriend Page 8

  After dinner, while Clare hauled the boys up for a bath, Owen relayed the conversation to Beckett.

  “Bite him in the dumb ass. Kid’s got a way. Clare and I talked to them after it happened. Played it down, but played it straight. Still, they heard stuff at school. So Harry called a powwow, and they came to me about it.”

  “Keep the women out of it?”

  Beckett glanced toward the stairs. “Maybe that’s not politically correct, or even correct, but it feels right in this case. They need to know we’re covered, and that I trust them to help take care of their mom.”

  “We’d’ve done the same.”

  “Yeah, we would. Speaking of, I was able to tell Clare about that situation on the way home. You pitch the radio to a certain level, your voices to another, you can actually have a conversation that doesn’t carry to the backseats. Plus we used a lot of code.”

  “What did she say?”

  “What you’d expect. Mom’s entitled to a life. She’s a vital woman, Willy B’s a good man. Blah blah. I mean she’s right, but still.”

  “It wasn’t her mother and Willy B mostly naked in the kitchen.”

  On a sigh, Beckett closed his eyes. “And thank you for that fresh image to add to my growing collection.”

  “We could start trading them, like baseball cards.”

  That triggered a laughing shake of the head. “The other thing? When I talked to Clare about it, she didn’t really seem surprised.”

  “What do you mean?” Owen lowered his after-dinner beer. “Like she already knew?”

  “That or one of those woman’s radar deals. With stuff like this? They’re kind of like bats. Anyway, I started to ask her, but then Harry and Murphy started on each other, and that was the end of adult conversation.”

  The thought slapped hard into his brain. “If Clare already knew, then Avery . . . Son of a bitch.”

  “Coulda been that radar.”

  “Avery’s a woman. She has radar. She’s as much of a bat as any of them. Plus, it’s her father groping our mother.”

  “Stop. Stop.” Beckett covered his ears.

  “If she knew, she should’ve told me.” Now the thought rooted in his brain, sprouted like a weed. “I’d’ve told her.”

  “We know now. And I guess we’re going to have to get used to it.”

  Owen started to respond, but Harry ran in, shiny from his bath in his X-Men pajamas, and announced a Wii tournament.

  Roped in, Owen gave it an hour. He liked the kids, he liked Wii, but he just couldn’t get the idea of Avery keeping the situation from him out of his head.

  He chewed at it all the way home, sat in the truck chewing over it some more. Then he turned around, drove back to town. He went into Vesta from the back.

  “Hey, Owen!” Franny stood behind the counter slicing up a large pizza. “What can we get for you?”

  “Is Avery around?”

  “You just missed her. She’s running some deliveries. More people calling in than coming in tonight. I’m closing, so she’s going to go right on up when she gets back. I can give her a call if it’s important.”

  “No. Nothing important. I’ll catch her later. How are you feeling?”

  “Back to normal. Are you really opening the inn next month?”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “I’m spreading the word.”

  “Keep spreading. I’ll see you later, Franny.”

  He went out the back and, after a quick debate, went up the stairs rather than down.

  She had to come back sometime.

  He considered the fact that he had keys; he was the landlord after all. But that crossed the line.

  Instead, he sat on the floor outside her apartment door, took out his phone. He passed the time reading and answering emails, texts.

  He checked the time, wondered where the hell her deliveries were? Portugal?

  He wished he’d hit Franny up for coffee, tried to entertain himself with some Angry Birds.

  He closed his eyes—just to rest them for a minute—and the restless night caught up with him. He fell asleep on the floor, his trusty phone still in his hand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HAULING GROCERY BAGS, Avery shoved open the stairwell door, adjusted her load. Out of habit she paused on the landing, checked the lock on Vesta’s rear door, then climbed up to her apartment level.

  And stopped, frowning at the picture of Owen propped against her door, eyes closed, phone in hand.

  “What’s the deal?” she demanded, and when he didn’t respond realized he was dead asleep.

  “For God’s sake.” Muttering, she stepped closer, kicked him.

  “Ow! What? Damn it.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Waiting for you.” Annoyed, he rubbed his hip where her shoe—canary yellow tonight—had hit. “Where the hell were you?”

  “I had deliveries, then I swung into the grocery store. I ran into a friend, and we . . .” She stopped, glared. “Why am I explaining to you? Why are you sleeping on the floor in front of my apartment?”

  “Because you weren’t home. I wasn’t sleeping. I was just . . . thinking.” He pushed to his feet, blinked at her. “Your hair’s wet.”

  “It’s spitting some sleet. Move, will you? These are getting heavy.”

  He blinked again, then reached out and took the bags. She unlocked the door, walked in ahead of him.

  He crossed the living room, went straight to the kitchen, dumped the bags on the counter. Watching him, she peeled off her coat, unwound her scarf. “How long were you out there?”

  “What time is it?”

  Even as he checked his watch, she arched her eyebrows. “It’s what-the-hell’s-going-on o’clock.” She tossed her coat and scarf over the back of a chair on her way to the counter.

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “You’re the one sleeping on the doorstep,” she said as she began stowing groceries. Unlike her living room, which he considered messy, and she considered a living room, her cupboards and refrigerator were meticulously organized.

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I maybe nodded off for a minute, and that’s beside the point.”

  “What point?”

  “You knew. You knew what was going on, and didn’t tell me.”

  “I don’t tell you a lot of things.” Eyes narrowed on him, she began plucking eggs out of the carton and laying them in the bin. “Be more specific.”

  “You knew your father was sleeping with my mother.”

  The egg slipped out of her fingers, hit the floor like a little bomb. “What?”

  “Okay, you didn’t know.” Owen stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Now you know.”

  “I say again, what?”

  “My mother, your father.” At a loss, he pulled his hands free, rolled them in the air.

  “Get out. Really? No.” She laughed a little, yanked off some paper towels, dampened them to deal with the broken egg. “You must’ve had some dream while you were camped at my door.”

  “Yes, they are—and no, I didn’t.”

  Still shaking her head, she dampened another towel, scrubbed off the tile. “Where do you get this? On a short trip to Bizarro World?”

  “From me. Myself. My own freaking eyes.” He forked his fingers, pointed at them. “I went over to the house this morning. I walked in on them.”

  Avery’s jaw dropped as she slowly straightened. “You walked in on your mom and my dad? In bed?”

  “No. Thank God. They were in the kitchen.”

  “Jesus!” Gaping, she took a step back. “They were having sex in the kitchen!”

  “No. Shut up.” Appalled, Owen slapped his hands over his eyes. “Now I really know what Beckett means about images in the head. Oh God.”

  “You’re not making any sense. At all.”

  Start over, he ordered himself, because Avery had a point. “I went over, they were in the kitchen. Your father’s in his boxers. My mom’s wearing this, this little
. . . thing. And they were . . . hands, lips, tongues.”

  She stared a moment, then held up one finger. Turning, she opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of Glenfiddich and two lowball glasses. Without a word she poured two fingers in each, handed one to Owen.

  She knocked hers back, took a careful breath.

  “One more time. Our parents are sleeping together.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And you walked in on them, scantily dressed and groping each other in your mom’s kitchen.”

  “I’m telling you.” Now he downed his whiskey.

  When she began laughing, he assumed hysteria, but it only took a moment to recognize genuine humor.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “One part is. You walking in on them?” She pressed a hand to her belly. “Oh, oh! I wish I could’ve been there to see your face. I bet it was like—” She mimed exaggerated shock and horror, then fell into fits of laughter again.

  He had a bad feeling she’d nailed it. To compensate he bared his teeth in a snarl. “I guess you’d have been, ‘Hey, toss some more bacon on the griddle for me.’”

  “She was making breakfast. That’s nice.”

  “Nice? You think it’s nice?”

  “Yeah, I do. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  With a nod, Avery went back to stowing groceries. “Let me ask you something. Do you think your mother should be alone for the rest of her life?”

  “She’s not alone.”

  “Owen.” She turned her head, gave him a quiet look.

  “I don’t know. No. No. It’s just that I never thought about it—her—that way.”

  “Now that you are, do you think she’s entitled to have someone in her life?”

  “I . . . yeah. I guess.”

  “Have you got a problem with my father?”

  “You know I don’t. Willy B . . . he’s the best.”

  “He’s the best,” Avery agreed. “So you’re not pleased your mother’s with the best?”

  “I . . .” He fumbled to a stop. “If you’re going to be all rational and mature . . .”

  “Sorry. In this case I must. They’re good friends, longtime, good friends. So, they’ll be good for each other.” Smiling, she folded her market bags. “I tried to fix him up a couple times. It never worked out. I didn’t like knowing he didn’t have anyone. My mother did such a number on him.”

  On both of you, Owen thought.

  “Mom told me they’d been . . .” He rolled his hands in the air again. “A couple years.”

  “A couple years?” Shaking her head again, she poured another round of whiskey. “Willy B, you’re so deep. Who knew? I didn’t have a clue. How could I have not had a clue?”

  “None of us did. I started thinking you knew, and you hadn’t told me.”

  “I would’ve told you, unless they’d asked me not to.”

  “I get that.” He picked up the whiskey, stared into it.

  “What did my father say when you dropped in?”

  “That he’d better go put some pants on.”

  She snorted out a laugh, then tossed her head back, let a rolling one loose. Owen found himself grinning.

  “It’s a little easier to see the humor in it now.”

  “Did you make that face?” She repeated her interpretation of shock and horror. “And kind of stutter? ‘Mom! What! You!’”

  He tried for a cool stare as she had, indeed, nailed it. “I might have had a momentary moment.”

  “A momentary moment.”

  “At least I didn’t punch your dad. Ryder wanted to when I told him and Beckett.”

  Avery lifted a shoulder. “That’s Ry’s default, but he wouldn’t punch Dad. Ry’s fine with punching assholes or bullies, but he loves Willy B.”

  “He loves me, too, but he’s punched me before.”

  “Well, Owen, sometimes you’re an asshole.”

  She smiled when she said it, sweetly, then tapped her glass to his. “To our parents.”

  “Okay.” He sipped the whiskey. “Strange day,” he said with a sigh. “You’re not pissed at me anymore.”

  “I wasn’t pissed at you. Very much. And now I’ve figured out you’ve got an issue with sex.”

  “What?” A close relative of Avery’s shock-and-horror look passed over his face. “I do not. Why?”

  “See.” She lifted a finger off her glass to point at him. “I even say the word and you’re all flustered. Issues.”

  “I don’t have issues with sex. I believe in sex. I like sex. I like lots of sex.”

  “Strange. You kiss me and go into immediate brain freeze. You see our parents kissing and hit the panic button.”

  “No. Yes. Maybe. Damn it, that has nothing to do with issues. Any normal person would have a—”

  “Momentary moment.”

  Smart-ass, he thought. She’d always been one. “A reaction to seeing his mother laying a hot one on a longtime family friend. And you and me? You know that wasn’t expected.”

  “Actually, it doesn’t seem that unexpected to me. But then, I don’t have sexual issues.”

  “I don’t have sexual issues.”

  “Hmm.” She sipped, strolled over to the window. “Oh, it’s snowing now. Pretty. God! I have to finish my Christmas shopping. You’d better go before it starts to stick.”

  “Just wait a minute.”

  She glanced back. “For what?”

  “Damn it, Avery, you can’t just say something like that then say go home.”

  “Just voicing an opinion.” When he stepped around the counter, she took the glass from his hand. “You shouldn’t have any more. I know you handle it well, but still. Whiskey, driving, and snow, not a good mix.”

  He repeated, with all the patience and potency he could muster, “I don’t have sexual issues.”

  “Are we still on that? All right, my mistake. You’re sexual issue–free.”

  “Don’t placate me.”

  “Jesus, Owen, what do you want from me?” Her eyes fired like lasers when he gripped her elbows, hauled her to her toes. “Watch it,” she warned.

  “Now we’re expecting it,” he told her, and gave her a quick yank.

  She knew where his buttons were and how to push them—and could admit she’d done so. She didn’t mind irritating him into kissing her. She wanted an encore, one way or the other, to see how both of them reacted.

  “Okay.” Deliberately she linked her hands behind his head. “Now we’re expecting it.” She moved in first, before he could overthink and pull back.

  Not an explosion this time, she thought, but more of a long, slow fall that picked up velocity. His hands dropped from her elbows to her hips, then molded her body inch by inch on their way up her sides. As the intensity built, he shifted her until he’d trapped her between his body and the counter.

  She’d manipulated him—he knew it, but didn’t much care. The tang of whiskey on her tongue, the hint of lemon in her hair, the hot pulse of her body against his all tangled his senses into a slippery knot of need.

  He skimmed the heels of his hands along the sides of her breasts, glided his fingers over them—felt her pulse kick lightly against his palms.

  Felt her breath quicken as the kiss deepened.

  Easing back, he struggled for equilibrium while she stared at him with drowsy blue eyes.

  “Sexual issues, my ass.”

  Humor warmed her face an instant before she laughed. “I stand corrected.”

  “So . . . what now?”

  On a sigh, she laid her hands on his cheeks, held them there briefly. “Owen,” she murmured, then slid to the side and away.

  “Owen, what?”

  “What now?” She picked up her glass of scotch again. Hell, she wasn’t driving anywhere. “We rip each other’s clothes off and go to bed. If I’m any judge, we have really exceptional sex. But since you ask, you’re already thinking what-if and what then in addition to what now—t
aking that rational and mature route. So you go home, and consider the what-ifs and what thens until you figure it out.”

  “The what-ifs and thens matter, Avery.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  “You matter. You and me—you and all of us—matter.”

  “I know. The fact that you’re thinking about that instead of ripping my clothes off is part of what makes you Owen, and part of the reason I’d have let you rip my clothes off.”

  Now he had new pictures in his brain, and found he didn’t much want to hike on that rational and mature route. “You’re a confusing woman, Avery.”

  “Not really. It’s just I can appreciate you considering what matters and still be sorry you didn’t wait to consider until after that exceptional sex.”

  “I love you.”

  “Oh God, I know.” She turned away, as casually as possible, terrified the tears would come, terrified they’d show. “I love you, too.”

  “I know what to do about that, what to think about that. I don’t know what to do about, what to think about wanting you like this. Wanting you, a lot.”

  She took a careful breath, turned back, and smiled. “That helps, a lot. It’s an adjustment. You never thought about me that way.”

  “I wouldn’t say never.”

  “Really.” Steadier, she studied him over the rim of her glass. “Is that so?”

  “Well, hell, Avery, of course I thought about it, occasionally. You’re gorgeous.”