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.
In 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 smelled 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.”
He grinned at that, then dipped his head to hers. “Avery.”
He eased her into the kiss, a nice, slow slide that gained a little zip as it went.
A very acceptable pace, she thought, adding some zip of her own.
The back door burst open. Dumbass trotted in just ahead of Ryder. “Got your big-ass ham. If you guys are going to roll around on the floor here, I can dump it, grab a beer, and go.”
“Christ, Ry.”
“Sorry.” But his easy grin belied the apology. “I was under orders from Mom. Swing by, get the ham, bring it here—where she assumed you’d be busy making up for lost time, and not making time with Red Hots. Which you are, baby,” he said to Avery.
“Which I am,” she agreed, and grinned back at him.
“Orders included me slicing up the big-ass ham if you needed help. I figure since you’re busy making up for lost groping time,” he added, circling around to get the beer. “You don’t need my help with that particular to-do item.”
He popped the top on the opener on Owen’s wall, took a good look at Avery. “Definitely Red Hots. If you’re going to muss her up, dude, at least take her upstairs.”
“Shit,” was Owen’s comment.
“I think the time has passed.” Avery gave Owen’s arm a pat, then put on her apron.
“Sorry,” Ryder repeated. “Orders.”
“Probably for the best. It’s a long list,” Avery added when Owen just looked at her. “And now you have another pair of hands because under the circumstances, Ryder’s going to pitch in. Big-time.”
“Orders. But fine.” After he lowered the beer, he leaned in to Avery. “You smell good. Like exotic fruit and . . . honeysuckle.”
“Pomegranate. Honeysuckle.” She sniffed at her own arm. “She must’ve transferred some. How can she do that? Elizabeth. I ran over to see Hope before I came, and Elizabeth popped down to say hi, or maybe Happy New Year.”
“You saw her,” Owen demanded.
“No, which is annoying, or a relief. I’m not sure which.” She got a wooden spoon, lifted the lid on her meatballs, mixed them around a little. “Caught the scent, then when Hope and I were talking about how you and Hope should start researching for this Billy she’s waiting for, she flipped the lights a few times, then boosted up the wattage. We both took that to mean she’d really like you to find Billy.”
“No problem. I’ll just Google Billy, Dead Elizabeth’s friend, and nail that down.”
“Between you and Hope, you’ll figure it out.” Avery lifted her eyebrows at Ryder’s frown. “What?”
“How’s the innkeeper handling the situation?”
“Hope doesn’t rattle easily. Or almost at all. I wouldn’t mind that glass of wine,” she said to Owen.
“I’ve seen her rattled,” Ryder muttered.
“The day Owen saw Elizabeth in the mirror? I’d say Hope was momentarily nonplussed. Nonplussed,” she repeated, liking the term.
Ryder thought of the first time he’d seen Hope Beaumont, when his mother had brought the then-potential innkeeper upstairs where he’d been working. How she’d gone sheet pale and glassy-eyed, staring at him as if he were the ghost.
But he shrugged. “Whatever.”
“She spent the night in E&D, had a brief encounter, and went, practically as she’s a practical sort, to sleep. That’s Hope. Okay, I’ve got the spinach and artichoke dip, the stuffed mushrooms, the . . . pigs in a blanket? Really?”
Owen hunched his shoulders. “People like them.”
“They do. Owen you should set up the bar, and Ry, slice up that ham.”
On the word ham, D.A.’s tail thumped.
“Why didn’t he do that on spinach or mushrooms?” Avery wondered.
“The only vegetable he’ll eat is french fries,” Ryder told her. “He’s a picky eater.”
Avery only snorted, then got to work.
Probably for the best. Owen echoed Avery’s words as he set up glasses, bottles, hauled ice into tubs. He’d never have gotten everything done if they’d . . . rung out the old. Much better to stick with the plan, especially since he didn’t have any choice with Ryder slicing ham while D.A. sat, adoring and hopeful, at his feet.
By the time he’d finished the bar, the tubs, she had set out scrubbed vegetables, a cutting board, peeler, and knife for him.
“Peel, slice, chop,” she ordered. “You’ve got everything, so I’m adding a pasta salad to your menu. Carbs are good since people will be drinking. Including me.”
She lifted her glass to demonstrate.
The heat from the stove flushed pink in her cheeks, and amusement sparkled the blue of her eyes.
It occurred to him he’d seen her like this before, right here in his kitchen, lending a hand with a party, laughing with one or both of his brothers.
But he hadn’t seen her exactly like this, as a woman he wanted. As a woman who wanted him.
Had that one kiss, unplanned, impulsive, really changed the tone and direction of who and what they were to each other? Or had there always been something there, just waiting for that switch to flip?
He saw her eyes change, amused sparkle to awareness as he moved to her, watched her lips curve as he drew her in and up for a kiss. Long and soft and sweet.
“You don’t have to get a room,” Ryder said as he washed his hands off in the sink. “You’ve got one upstairs.”
“This happens to be my room, too. Don’t you have to go pick up your date?”
“I’m stag. I told you I couldn’t take the giggling.”
“You canceled a New Year’s Eve date?” Avery demanded.
“I’m sparing lives. If I hadn’t strangled her before the night was over, someone else would have. I figured if I went for another woman, the whole date on New Year’s Eve thing would add the big deal. I’m not in the mood for big deals, so I’m stag.”
Avery got another knife. “Chop and slice,” she told Ryder. “And don’t pretend you don’t know how.”
She went back to the stove, but sent Owen that sparkling look over her shoulder.
He’d never before wanted a party over before it began.
* * *
STILL, IT WAS a good one. Plenty of people, plenty of food, groups spread throughout the house and out on the patio.
At some point, someone turned the music up for dancing.
He mingled, checked tubs, trays, platters, replenished, took a quick spin with some friends in the game room. And kissed his mother when he found her rinsing off an empty platter in the kitchen.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“If I don’t, you will, and it’s your party. And it’s a good one.”
He took the platter from her, set it down. “If it’s so good, why aren’t you dancing with me?”
“Well.” She batted her eyes, fluffed at her hair. “I was waiting to be asked.”
He pulled her out of the kitchen.
Seeing them made Avery smile. She loved the way they looked together, moved together. Halfway through the dance, Ryder moved in, cut in.
“He stole your girl,” Avery said to Owen when he joined her.
“That’s okay. I’ve got a spare.”
He plucked the glass out of her hand, set it down before he pulled her into the mix of dancers.
“Nice moves.”
“We’ve danced before,” he reminded her.
“You’ve always had nice moves on the dance floor.”
“I’ve got a few I haven’t tried out on you yet.”
“Is that so?”
He brought her close. “Later.”
The single word shot a rocketing thrill through her. “Later. It’s almost midnight.”
“Thank God.”
She laughed, shook back her hair. “Are you going to open more champagne?”
“Yeah, in a minute. I want to kiss you at midnight, so stay close.”
“You can count on it.”
She refilled platters and bowls while he popped more corks, and the year ran down to minutes. People swarmed back in from downstairs, from outside so the noise level spiked.
He took her hands at the countdown—ten, nine, eight. She turned to him, rose up—seven, six, five. His arms came around her—four, three, two.
“Happy New Year, Avery.”
His lips met hers as cheers rang out, and the New Year began to tick.
As Avery rose up, Hope slipped into the kitchen. She’d open another bottle or two, she thought, avoid the whole couples-kissing-the-New-Year-in ordeal.
She twisted off a cork as partygoers shouted out the countdown.
And Ryder walked in.
She stopped. He stopped.
“I’m just opening another bottle,” she began.
“So I see.”
Shouts of “Happy New Year!” burst out, rolled over them.
“Well,” she said. “Happy New Year.”
“Yeah. Happy New Year.” He lifted his brows when she started to offer her hand. “Seriously? The hearty handshake again?” He shook his head, stepped to her. “Let’s do it right.”
He set his hands on her hips, cocked those eyebrows again, waited.
“Sure.” With a half shrug, she laid her hands on his shoulders.
Casually, on both sides, they touched lips.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders; his arm slid around her waist. Something broke, like light, through the simple contact, and left her breathless.
He jerked away, stepped back—and so did she. For one long moment, they simply stared at each other.
“Okay,” he said.
“Yes, okay.”
He nodded, strode out.
She let out the breath she’d barely gotten back, picked up the open bottle with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she liked.
And that, she thought, had been a very stupid way to start the New Year.