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—taking 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.”
“No, I’m not. Hope’s gorgeous. I’ve got cute, which I can boost up to hot with time and tools. But thanks. So, what now?” She sat on the arm of a chair, studied him. “You go home before the snow gets too bad, and you do what you’re wired to do. You think about it. And I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” He crossed to her, bent down to brush his lips over hers. “If it was anyone but you, I’d stay. And that really didn’t sound right. I meant—”
“I know what you meant, lucky for you. Go home, Owen.”
He walked to the door, glanced back as he opened it. “See you.”
“See you.”
She sat, listening to his footsteps recede down the stairwell. Rising, she walked to the front window, stood, and watched the snow fall.
And thought, for a moment through the light drift of white, she saw a woman standing at the window of the inn, gazing out as she was.
Waiting? she wondered. Was that what she was doing now, too? She’d never been one for waiting, but for doing, for acting.
And yet . . . maybe she had been, on some level, all this time. Waiting for Owen. The idea struck her—sweet, annoying, baffling all at once.
What now? she mused again. It looked as if she had more to think about than she’d realized.
* * *
IT SNOWED THROUGH the night and into the morning. Owen kept busy most of the day plowing out his lane, his mother’s, his brothers’. He enjoyed the task—at least this early in the winter—the rumble of the jeep, the bump of the plow, the strategy needed to direct the snow into reasonable piles and banks.
While he worked on Ryder’s lane he spotted his brother muscling his snowblower to forge a path from the door. One out the front, Owen thought, to where Ryder parked his truck, another out the back so D.A. could meander out and do his business away from the house. Each of them did their respective jobs with barely a wave of acknowledgment until Owen pulled into the cleared space beside Ryder’s truck and turned off the jeep.
“That should do it.”
“Good enough,” Ryder agreed as he angled the snowblower under an overhang. “Want a beer?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Together they trudged around the side, into Ryder’s combination game room and home gym. They stomped off their boots, took them off on the tiled entranceway floor. Each of them peeled off layers of outerwear, hung them on pegs.
D.A. wandered over, leaned briefly on Owen’s leg, then stared at Ryder. “Yeah, your way’s all clear.” Ryder opened the door. “That dog’ll roll in the snow, run in the snow, eat the damn snow, but he won’t walk through it to shit. I don’t clear the path, he shits right by the door. Why is that?”
“Hence his name.”
“Yeah, hence. Except I’m the one out in the cold blowing snow.”
They walked upstairs into the kitchen, where Ryder pulled out two beers.
“How was the date?” Owen asked him.
“She’s a lawyer, right? Smart. I like smart. Got a killer body.” Ryder took a long pull of the beer. “She can even talk sports, which is a big check in the plus column. So I ask myself, why don’t I want to close this deal?”
“And the answer is?”
“The giggle. I figured it out last night. She giggles. A lot. I think it’s supposed to be adorable, but it’s fucking annoying.”
“The giggle’s a deal breaker?”
“It’s grating, man.” Ryder shoved at his hair, as he did whenever he was overdue for a trim. “Nails-on-the-blackboard grating. And I think, what if we’re heating up the sheets and she giggles?” He held up a finger, curved it down. “I know it, so why go there?”
“Earplugs?”
“Good thought, but I don’t think so. I’d feel her giggle, or wonder if she was about to giggle. It’s not worth it.”
“Strict, but fair.” At home, Owen dropped into a chair at Ryder’s black-topped kitchen table. “Got any food?”
“I got Hot Pockets.” He opened a cupboard. “I got taco chips and salsa.”
“Consider all that my fee for the plowing.”
“Done.” Ryder rooted through the freezer. “Chicken or steak?”
“Chicken.”
Once he’d stuck a few in the microwave, he tossed the chips on the table, dumped salsa in a bowl. He tore off some paper towels, pulled out some plates, and considered it done.
“You’re like the male Martha Stewart,” Owen commented.
“The kitchen is my temple.” Ryder went over to let the dog in, then dropped down across from Owen.
“I’m thinking about having sex with Avery.”
“What is it suddenly with the Montgomery-MacTavish connection?” Ry tossed D.A. a taco chip before digging one into the salsa.
“I’d rather not bring Mom and Willy B into this. I’m still scarred.”
Ryder took another pull on his beer. “What’s Avery think about having sex with you?”
“Unless she’s changed her mind since last night, she’s open to it.”
“Then why aren’t you having sex?”
“Because it’s Avery.”
After loading another chip with salsa, Ryder wagged it a little. “You want me to have sex with her first? Give her a test run?”
“That’s real generous of you, Ry,” Owen said dryly. “But I can handle it.”
“Just trying to help a brother out.” When the mic beeped, Ryder got up, tossed the Hot Pockets on the plates. “I say ride that train.”
“Why?”
“Other than the obvious reasons? Because it’s Avery. You’ve always had a little thing for her.”
“I have . . . so, maybe.”
“And she’s always had a little thing for you—otherwise she’d have jumped me years ago.” With a grin, Ryder bit into his Hot Pocket. “So get on board, find out if it’s a bigger thing. Where’s the downside?”
“What if it gets fucked up? What if it fucks us up?”
Ryder shook his head, gave D.A. the last quarter of his Hot Pocket, took another for himself. “It’s Avery, man. Maybe it’ll get fucked up. That happens more often than not. But it won’t fuck the two of you up.”
“Why not?”
“Because both of you are too smart for that, and like each other too much for that. Maybe it’ll bring on some bumps, but you’ll smooth them out. Meanwhile you’ll have sex with Red Hots.”
Owen scooped up some salsa. “She doesn’t giggle.”
“I rest my case.”
“I’m going to think about it.”
Ryder angled back, pulled open the fridge for two more beers. “Observe my shock.”
* * *
THINKING OR NOT, work had to be done. Throughout the next week, he ran trim, helped touch up paint, hung mirrors. He unboxed cartons, put together lamps, signed for deliveries, and climbed the flights of stairs at the inn more times than he cared to count.
His mother snagged him, pulled him into Elizabeth and Darcy.
“I found the perfect little painting over at Gifts. I want you to hang it in the bathroom.”
“But we’re not loading in the art until—”
“That’s different. I’ve got everything in here to finish this room. That mirror there.” She pointed to the narrow wall between the two porch doors. “Your grandmother’s crocheting there, and that sweet little painting right here.” She stepped into the bath, tapped the wall.
“Hope’s bringing up the amenities, the towels, the little bits and bobs we’ve picked out. We want to see how it all looks. We want to see one room complete.”
“The Penthouse—”
“Gets art, so it’s not really finished. I’ve got the art for this room right here. So we’ll have it finished—all the way.”
She turned to the bed with its lavender brocade head- and footboard. “You hang while I make up this bed.”
“We’ve still got three weeks before the opening party . . . ” he began, and got the glinty-eyed stare.
“Okay, okay.”
He dug out a hanger, his pencil—then went through the “lower, higher, to the right” routine he expected to deal with on every piece his mother wanted hung.
But he conceded she’d chosen well with the little painting as it struck him as charming and English, airy with its pastels.
Hope breezed in with a hamper loaded with towels, amenities, and the bits and bobs they’d settled on.
Now he had two women telling him higher or lower until he’d satisfied them with the placement. As he hammered, they fussed with linens.
He listened with half an ear to their talk of opening-party plans, of reservations already booked, of additional pieces they needed, wanted, had coming in.
“Justine, those are perfect.” Hope stepped out of the bathroom to admire the framed crocheted doilies.
“They are.” Justine stopped fussing with the linen shams to nod. “And she’d be pleased to have them here, and in J&R.”
“I think it’s lovely the way you’re mixing in some of your family things. It makes it more personal.”
“This whole building’s personal.” Justine reached out, rubbed Owen’s arm. “You hang that mirror, then I’ll cut you loose.”
“Can you take a look, see if you like the arrangement in here?” Hope asked Justine.
Owen seized the opportunity to hang the mirror without two fussing opinions as his mother went into the bath with Hope.
He measured, marked, again approved his mother’s choice—the mirror’s frame picked up the purple tone of the occasional chair and still managed to be dainty.
With his mind on his task, and wandering toward others on his list, the waft of honeysuckle didn’t register. He began to hum as he hammered, unconsciously picking up the tune that whispered on the air.
He picked up the mirror, slid the wire over the hanger. Being Owen, he reached for the mini level in his tool belt to check the position.
And saw her.
For an instant she stood in a dove gray dress, her hands folded at the waist of the bell of the skirt. Her blond hair swept back from her face, bound into some sort of net at the nape with a few wispy curls escaping to flutter at her cheeks.
She smiled at him.
He spun around, and it was Hope, dark hair clipped back, a dust rag hanging out of the pocket of her jeans, and her dark eyes wide against her pale face.
“Did you see that?” Owen demanded.
“I . . .”
But she wasn’t looking at him. She stared at the doorway to the hall. At Ryder.
“When you’re finished playing house with the women, I’ve got actual work for you,” Ryder told him.
“Did you see that?” Owen repeated. “She was here.”
“Which she? They’re every damn where.” He glanced toward Hope as he spoke, then he frowned. “Sit down,” he ordered.
When she simply stared, he strode over, took her arm, and dumped her into the pretty little chair. “Mom! Your innkeeper’s having a moment.”
Justine rushed out, took one look, and dropped down at Hope’s feet. “Honey, what’s wrong? Ryder, get her some water.”
“No. No. I’m fine. I just . . .”
“Jesus Christ, did anybody see that?” Frustrated, Owen waved his arms in the air.
“Where the hell is—” Beckett broke off as he came into the room. “What’s wrong?”
“I saw her. She was right there. Did you see her?”
“Who? Hope? I’m looking at her.” Then Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “Elizabeth? You saw Lizzy?”
“She was standing right there.”
“You saw her? Why you? That kind of pisses me off,” Beckett decided.
“Did you see her?” Ignoring his brother, Owen focused on Hope. “She was right there. Then you were.”
“I . . .”
Ryder yanked a water bottle from his belt, shoved it at her. “Drink.”
“I’ll get you a glass,” Justine said when Hope stared at the bottle.
“No. I’m fine.” But she lifted the bottle, drank deep. “Fine. It just startled me.”
“You did see her.”
“Yes. And no. For a second, I thought I did, but it was more feeling her. That sounds crazy.” She looked directly at Ryder. “She’s waiting.”
“For what?”
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
“She smiled at me. I was hanging the mirror, and I saw her in it. Reflected in it. Gray dress, hair thing, netty kind of thing in the back. She’s blond, pretty. Young.” As Hope held the bottle back out to Ryder, Owen snagged it, finished it off. “Wow.”
“She was humming,” Justine said. “I heard humming, and smelled honeysuckle. I stood still a moment, wondering if . . . but I didn’t see her. Come on, sweetie, I’ll take you downstairs.”
“I’m fine,” Hope repeated. “She just . . . It’s an experience, but I’m not scared of her. I’ve felt her before. This was more intense.”
“The building’s nearly back. And this room?” Beckett circled around. “It basically is. Stuff on the walls, bedding on the bed, towels on the rack,” he noted. “I’m thinking she likes it.”
“Now that we’ve satisfied our ghost, maybe we can cut our way through this punch-out list.”
“No romance in Ry’s soul,” Beckett said sadly. “Everybody okay?”
Hope nodded. “I’m—”
“Fine,” Ryder finished. “How many times does she have to say it? Let’s get to work.” But he paused at the doorway, gave Hope one last study. “It looks good in here.”
“He’s right about that anyway. Take a minute if you need it,” Beckett advised Owen, then walked out after Ryder.
“I saw her.” Owen grinned when he said it. “Very cool. She smiled at me,” he added, and strode out.
“Do you want some fresh air, some time off?”
Hope shook her head at Justine. “No, but thanks. Ryder had it right—I had a moment. I guess there’ll be more of them.” Hope pushed to her feet. “I’d say she likes the room.”
“She’d be crazy not to.” Justine continued to rub Hope’s arm. “If you’re up for it, we can start fussing in T&O.”
“Let’s.”
An experience, Hope thought as she picked up the empty hamper. Owen had been right about that. And Elizabeth had smiled at him—briefly. But it had been Ryder who’d brought on that sudden burst of emotion, that bittersweet tangle of joy and grief, so strong, so real Hope’s own legs had all but buckled under it.
Whatever it meant, she assumed she’d find out when she took up residence at the inn.