“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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HER LIFE WAS chaos, and she had no one to blame but herself.
In Beckett’s former office area, one she’d semi-transformed to her own, Avery sat surrounded by boxes, wrapping paper, tissue, ribbons, and bows.
Insanity.
She promised herself, every year, she’d do better. She’d shop earlier—and with a list—she’d keep her wrapping paper and ribbons and so on in their containers, packing them back up again after every wrapping session.
She would approach the purchase, storing, wrapping, and stacking of Christmas presents like a sensible adult.
And she meant to, absolutely.
Next year, for certain.
She knew how to organize and stay that way, but it seemed to her all her organization skills arrowed toward work and missed her life by a mile.
So, as usual, with three short days until Christmas, she dug through gift boxes, tore through piles of ribbon, panicked every time she couldn’t find what she knew she put right there a minute ago, and generally exhausted herself.
She loved Christmas.
She loved the music—which she knew drove other people crazy by the time the big day arrived. She loved the lights, the color, the secrets, and excitement.
She loved the shopping and the wrapping, and the happy satisfaction of seeing gifts all bright and pretty in ordered stacks. So why did she always end up rushing through it all at the last minute?
But this year, at least, she refused to spend the last hours and minutes of Christmas Eve in a stressful, eleventh-hour whirlwind. She’d have everything wrapped, stacked, bagged, and ready tonight.
Tomorrow, latest.
She’d given up working at the counter—just too much stuff, so she sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes and scraps of paper, hanks of ribbons. Next year, definitely, she’d organize the counter space first, and she’d buy more containers for bows and so on. Label them, like Hope did.
Damn Hope anyway.
Thinking of Hope and her currently annoying efficiency, Avery admired the earrings she’d bought for her friend. Good shopping job, she congratulated herself. She reboxed them, selected the silver foil paper, the curly red bow, the matching tag. She head-bopped to Springsteen’s “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” as she carefully cut the paper to size, meticulously folded the raw ends.
Organization might be lacking, she admitted, but by God, her presents would be beautifully wrapped.
She reached for her tape, pulled the end—and got the sliver left on the roll.
“Damn it.”
No problem, she told herself. She’d bought more tape.
She was sure of it.
After a fifteen-minute search with rising frustration, trickles of panic, and a lot of swearing, she admitted she’d meant to buy more tape.
So, no problem. She’d just run out and buy some.
She checked the time, cursed again.