The Last Boyfriend

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.

How did it get to be nearly midnight?

She needed tape!

She spent another fifteen minutes pawing through drawers, as-yet-unpacked boxes, searching closets.

This, she decided, was a solid reason to live in New York, where a person could go out and buy anything they needed at any time of the day or night. When a person ran out of tape during a present-wrapping frenzy, she could buy more damn tape.

She took a moment, ordering herself to stop being an idiot, and surveyed the current wreckage.

The search had jumbled everything, even unearthed potential gifts she’d bought during a shop-early-shop-often phase she’d initiated the previous summer.

Bad, she admitted, but not horrible. And there was tape down in the restaurant.

She grabbed her keys, left the lights and music on, then jogged down to unlock the restaurant. After switching on the lights, she headed to the counter, searched the drawer under the register.

“Aha!” She pulled out the tape dispenser, elated. Then deflated when she saw there was only a stingy amount left on the roll.

She hunted for the refill—drawers, cubbies, the rear storage closet. When she found herself searching in coolers, she gave it up and poured herself a glass of wine.

She sat at the counter, propped her head on her hand, and wondered how all her good intentions could be upended for the lack of a roll of Scotch tape.

The knock on the front door had her jerking upright, nearly slopping the wine on the counter.

Owen stood in the security lights, peering in at her through the glass door.

New York, definitely, she thought. A woman couldn’t even have a private Scotch tape crisis in Boonsboro.

She stalked over to the door, flipped the locks. “We’re closed.”

“Then why are you in here, sitting at the counter drinking wine?”

“I’m wrapping Christmas presents.”

“Funny, it really looks like you’re sitting in your empty pizza shop drinking wine.”

“I ran out of tape. I thought I bought more, but I didn’t, and there’s not enough down here to bother with. It’s too late to buy any damn tape because this isn’t New York.”

He studied her. Plaid flannel pants he imagined she used as pajamas, a long-sleeved tee, thick socks. Her hair held back by one of those clips that always made him think of big teeth.

“You waited to wrap everything at once again.”

“So?”

“Just saying.”

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you home wrapping presents? Because they’re all wrapped,” she said bitterly. “Neatly wrapped and in shopping bags according to where they go. And I know you guys gave the crew their presents already because I saw the Inn BoonsBoro sweatshirts.”

“Want one?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a glass of that and I’ll bring you one tomorrow.”

“Might as well because I can’t wrap presents.” She went back, got the bottle and a glass. “Why are you here?”

“I saw the lights go on and you running around in here like a maniac. From across the street,” he explained. “I was running my checklist. We finished.”

“Finished what?”

“The inn. Well, not the loading in, but the work. It’s done.”

“Get out.”

“Done,” he repeated and toasted himself. “Final inspection’s tomorrow.”

“Owen!” Her mood pivoted, lighting her face. “You made it before Christmas.”

“We made it. We should get the Use and Occupancy permit, no problem. Hope can move in. We’ll load in the rest, polish it up. With her living there for a couple weeks, we should nail down anything that needs tweaking before the opening.”

“Congratulations. Hope said you were close, but I didn’t get how close.”

“Lot to do yet, but it’s all filling out. When the crew comes back after Christmas, it’ll be on the bakery building.”

She walked to the door, looked out. “It’s beautiful. Every time I see it, it’s a lift. Hope said you’ve already got reservations booked.”

“We’ll get more when we get all the pictures online and when word gets out. Hope’s doing some interviews next week. She’ll give reporters a tour, talk it up. We’ll do some, too. Family business and all that. It makes good media.”

“It makes good life. Sláinte,” she added, tapping her glass to his. “I’ll come over in the morning before I open. And after I go out and buy some tape.”

“I have some in my truck.”

She lowered the wineglass, narrowed her eyes. “You have Scotch tape in your truck?”

“In the glove box, sure. And before you make any smart remark, remember—you need it, I have it.”

“I was going to say it’s really smart to carry tape in your glove compartment.” She smiled, sweetly.

“No, you weren’t, but good catch. I’ll go get it.”

“I’ll get it. You’re parked behind the inn.”

“Yeah, and it’s freezing. Where’s your coat, your shoes?”

“Upstairs, but it’s just across the street.”

No question she’d run across The Square in her pajamas and stocking feet at midnight, in December, he mused. “I’ll go get it. Lock up. I’ll meet you around the back.”

“Thanks. Really.”

He handed her his wineglass, walked out the front.

She locked back up, took the empty glasses to the kitchen. Flipping off lights, she made her way back to the stairwell, started down to unlock the back door. She heard the locks snick open.

He had a key, of course.

Landlord.

She met him halfway down, took the tape. “I’m going to Sam’s Club and buying a hundred rolls of this damn stuff.”

“Everything’s better in bulk.”

She laughed. “I bet you’ve got spare rolls in the truck, at home, in the shop.”

Brows lifted over quiet blue eyes, Owen watched her steadily. “Is that a smart remark?”

“An observation. No, a compliment,” she decided. “And I’m going to try to follow your exemplary tape-access behavior.”

He stood below her so their faces stayed on level and, watching her, reached into his pocket. “Start now.”

“You brought me a spare. You actually had two rolls of tape in your truck.” Laughing, she took it.

Three, he thought, but who’s counting? “I could give you a hand with the wrapping.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Then you’d have many smart remarks about the state of my wrapping area—and that’s after I revived you from the dead faint you’d fall into when you saw it.”

“I’ve seen your so-called wrapping area before.”

“Not up there. It’s worse than it’s ever been. I have more room for the chaos.” She saw the move in his eyes, shifted back a little. “Owen, I’ve been thinking about this.”

“About chaos?”

“In a way. Thinking about what we’re both thinking about doing right now. At first I wondered why we hadn’t thought about doing what we’re thinking about doing before. Then I thought, hell yes, let’s just do what we’re thinking about doing. Then it occurred to me we haven’t because it might mess things up. And seriously, Owen, you mean a lot to me. You mean a whole lot to me.”

“Funny, I was thinking about what we’re both thinking about, too. And I’d worked myself around to messing things up. Ryder says we won’t mess things up.”

“Ryder says?”

“I got an opinion. Don’t tell me you haven’t talked about this with Clare and Hope.”

She backpedaled on the automatic annoyance. “Fair enough. Why does Ryder say we won’t mess things up?”

“Because we mean a lot to each other, and we’re not stupid.”

She angled her head. “All true. Another thing, now that we’re thinking . . .” She laid her hands, each holding tape dispensers, on his shoulders. “It may not give us the same buzz as before. We could check.”

He put his hands on her hips. “Like a test.”

“Makes sense, right? Why spend time thinking about what we’re thinking about if it turns out it’s not worth thinking about? Then if it is worth thinking about, we—”

“Be quiet, Avery.”

He leaned in, brushed his lips lightly over hers. Like a test. Drew her in, a little more, brushed again. And watched those bold blue eyes of hers slowly close.

She made that hum in her throat as her lips parted, as her grip tightened, as all that Avery energy slammed into him.

It rocked him, that quick burst of need—his, hers. Where had it been? How had they missed it?

Tart and hot, lemons and fire—everything urgent and eager and open.

He boosted her up, and without a thought she wrapped her legs around his waist. She dived deeper into the kiss, trusting him absolutely as he staggered up the stairs to the landing, pressed her back to the wall.

She started to grab his hair—God, she loved his hair—and clunked him in the head with the tape dispensers.

Laughing, she dropped her head to his shoulder.

He said, “Ow,” and made her laugh harder.

“Sorry, sorry.” She hugged him, nuzzled into his throat. “Owen.” She sighed, and thought—softer, warmer—Owen before she lifted her head to look at him. “It’s definitely worth thinking about.”

“Good thing you said so. Now I don’t have to drop you on your head.”

“Better put me down anyway.”

“I can make it up. Then we can wrap presents.”

“If we go up there, we won’t wrap presents.”

“That was code.”

“Ah.” Still, she eased down until she stood. “I think we should give this a few days, considering. Not to dis Ry’s opinion, but if we take a few days, it won’t just be impulse.”

“And here I was thinking I’ve never given impulse a fair chance.”

“I give it too many chances, so I guess we even out.” If she hadn’t been thinking about sleeping with him, she realized, she could ask him straight-out if he was seeing or sleeping with someone else. But to ask now felt like a demand.

Still . . .

“You probably have a date for New Year’s Eve.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“We’ve been pretty busy. I haven’t thought about it.”

She saw, clearly, he was now—and very likely along the same lines as her thoughts.

“Do you have a date?”

“Sort of. With Hope. You guys decided no work on or at the inn on New Year’s Day. So we were going to hang out, watch chick flicks, and talk about how we didn’t care we didn’t have a date.”

“We can have a date.”

Sweet, she thought. Sexy. And, unfortunately, impossible. “I couldn’t ditch Hope like that, not on a major date night.”

“I’ll have a party. My place.”

Avery stared at him as if he’d just spoken in tongues. “Do you mean this New Year’s Eve? The one in just over a week?”

“Sure.”

“Owen, that’s called spontaneity. You’re not really familiar with the concept.”

“I can be spontaneous.”

“It takes you six months to plan a party. You make spreadsheets and itineraries. This kind of spontaneity? You may hurt yourself.”

“Party,” he said firmly, ignoring the fact she spoke God’s truth. “My place. New Year’s Eve. And you’ll stay over. With me.”

With him. On New Year’s Eve. “You’re on. And if you actually pull this off, I’ll not only stay, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Deal.” He wrapped around her again, kissed her until she went limp. “I’ll lock up the back.”

“’Kay.” She worked on getting her breath back as he walked down the stairs. “Owen?”

He turned, smiled at her, and her heart did a long, slow roll. Was it any wonder she’d fallen for him at age five?

“Thanks for the tape.”

“Anytime.”

She heard the lock click as she pulled her shaky legs up the stairs. No problem with a wrapping marathon now, she thought, despite the late hour. Not only did she have plenty of tape, but she’d never be able to sleep with Owen Montgomery on the brain.

Obviously all the blood had drained from his brain into his dick. Otherwise, Owen decided as he drove back from Hagerstown in the blustery afternoon, he’d never have scheduled a New Year’s Eve party.

He had an inn to open, Christmas to deal with, a new project in the works. How the hell could he throw a party in a week?

He supposed he’d find out.

He braked at a light, pulled out his phone to make a few notes on food, on drink. Checked his messages. Two from Ryder, he noted, both demanding—basically—Where the hell are you?

As he was two minutes away from Boonsboro, he didn’t bother to answer.

As he drove on, he let his mind flip from one party to another. The inn’s opening bash was more involved than his impromptu holiday party. Most of the details were already in place—and his mother, aunt, and Hope had a handle on the bulk of it.

Still, he had a fat file on it in his briefcase, and a couple of spreadsheets on his computer. And, okay, an itinerary.

He considered generating one for his own party, assuring himself it wasn’t obsessive. It was practical. A time and stress saver.

An obsessive time and stress saver, but so what?

He glanced over at Vesta, thought of Avery as he made the turn onto St. Paul. Why hadn’t he just suggested they go out to dinner—then jump into bed? he wondered as he swung into the lot behind the inn.

Because she’d brought up New Year’s Eve, and he’d had that brain drain going. It had all made sense at the time.

He got out of the truck, then just stood a moment in the cold, studying The Courtyard, the sweep of porches and pickets.

All that grace and charm, he thought, hadn’t come easy. He remembered the rubble, the mud, the debris. He remembered the serious nightmare of pigeon shit—and really wished he didn’t.

But they’d brought it back, and then some. If he could accomplish this, he could pull off a damn holiday party.

He headed in through The Lobby, stopped and grinned at the big, glossy table under the central chandelier, the straw-colored chairs against the exposed brick wall.

And then some, he thought again, and headed through the arch toward The Dining Room, and the voices.

He found Ryder and Beckett setting the huge, carved buffet in place under the window of exposed stone while his mother and Hope shifted the pretty wood tables around the space.

Dumbass lounged in the far corner, but lifted his head, thumped his tail when he saw Owen.

Idly Owen wondered if the dog saw him as a man-sized donut.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ryder demanded.

“I had some things. It looks great.”

“It does.” Justine beamed as she set a chair by the table. “We’re going to put the big mirror right there. You know, the antique. And we realized we’re going to need another server. It can go up there, under that window. I’ll measure the space and run down to Bast, see if they have something that works.”

“You have that piece you got at the fancy French place in Frederick,” Ryder reminder her.

“It’s warped.” Instantly, Justine’s face went stony. “One leg’s shorter than the other three. I should never have bought anything there.”

“I told you I shortened the other legs. You put enough stuff on it, you won’t see the warping.”

“They were rude,” Hope put in. “Any business that doesn’t make good on an obviously defective piece shouldn’t be a business.”

“It’s paid for, I fixed it. Get over it.”

“It was bought for The Lobby,” Hope insisted. “We’ve already found another piece at Bast for that space.”

“And if you hadn’t had a stick up your butt, I’d’ve fixed it for The Lobby.”

Justine aimed a hard stare. “Just whose butt are you referring to, Ryder, as I’m the one who told you to take the defective piece down to the basement?”

“Where I fixed it,” he muttered. “I’m going to get it. Give me a hand,” he said to Beckett.

More than willing to get out of the line of fire, Beckett aimed for the basement.

“If it doesn’t work there, if you don’t like it, we’ll haul it out,” Owen promised. “It’s a good-looking piece.”

“Defective, and not worth what I paid for it. I got caught up,” Justine admitted, and rubbed the dog’s ears when he walked over to lean on her. “Well, we’ll see. Hope, that must be Carolee bringing in more kitchen things,” she added when she heard the footsteps on the main stairs. “Maybe the two of you can get the chafing dishes, the coffee urn. Let’s see how it all looks.”

“Sure.”

Owen opened his mouth, but a look from his mother cut off his offer to help. Justine held her tongue until Hope’s footsteps retreated. “I wanted her out of the room for a few minutes.” Then she folded her arms as Ryder and Beckett carried in the repaired server.

“Ryder Thomas Montgomery.”

Owen knew that tone, that look. Though it wasn’t aimed at him—this time—he felt his own balls shrink a little.

Head bowed, tail tucked, Dumbass slunk back over to his corner.

“Ma’am.”

“I didn’t raise you to be rude to people, to snarl at women, or to snap at employees. I expect you to be polite to Hope, whether or not you agree with her.”

He set down the server. “Okay. But—”

“But?” The single syllable rang with warning and challenge.

Standing hip-shot now, Ryder put on his most agreeable expression. “Well, you said we were to treat her like family. So, do you want me to be polite to her, or treat her like family?”

Justine said nothing for a long, simmering moment. Beckett edged away from his brother as she started forward. She reached up, grabbed both Ryder’s ears.

“Think you’re clever?”

“Yes’m. I take after my mama.”

She laughed, shook his head from side to side. “Your father’s son is what you are.” And poked him in the belly. “Watch your tone.”

“Okay.”

Nodding, Justine stepped back, fisted her hands on her hips. “That top’s warped, Ry.”

“Some, yeah. It’s poorly made and overpriced, but it works—and it’s pretty enough. Better when you put those big copper things on it.”

“Maybe, yeah. Galls me. My mistake.”

“Yeah, it was.” Ryder shrugged. “You outfitted a nine-thousand-square-foot B&B from p-traps to four-posters, and this is your mistake? That’s not shabby, Mom.”

She slid him a glance. “You are clever. Maybe you do take after me.”

She turned as Hope came in with a huge box, followed by Carolee with another.

“Let me take that.” Ryder stepped over, took the box from Hope. “I’m being polite.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not yet. Might be sore later.”

Beckett took the box from Carolee, and Owen stood back a moment, watched them. Unpacking boxes, pulling out the big coffee urn, the chafing dishes, the racks, shoving aside boxes and packing material—he’d haul it out later.

Carolee talking about washing wineglasses, his mother adjusting her hair tie. Beckett and Ryder making noises about hauling the mirror in so they could get next door and join the crew.

He waited while the three women studied the result on the piece in question.

“It doesn’t show, but I’ll know it’s warped.” Hope pushed at her hair. “That just irritates me.” She shifted her gaze to Ryder. “I’ll get over it.”

“Good. Let’s get that mirror in place and get out of here before they find something else for us to haul around.”

“I need a minute first. Quick meeting,” Owen announced.

“After we knock off,” Ryder began.

“It’s got to be now.” Deliberately Owen put a sour look on his face. “It’s about the U and O.”

“Christ, don’t tell me they’re giving us a hassle with Use and Occupancy. The inspector signed off.”

Owen gave Ryder a sigh, a slow shake of the head. “Yeah. I went up to Hagerstown to see if I could move this along. And . . . I got it.”

Beckett pointed at him. “You got the U and O.”

Grinning, Owen pointed back. “I got the U and O.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God! Carolee.” Justine grabbed her sister’s hand.

Owen punched Ryder in the shoulder, then grinned at Hope. “Are you ready to move in? We can haul the rest of your stuff over. You can stay here tonight.”

“I’m so ready. Owen!” Laughing she threw her arms around him, kissed him on the mouth. “I’m moving in.” After the jump and squeal with his mother, with his aunt, Hope jumped at Beckett, kissed him noisily.

Then stopped short at Ryder.

“What do I get? A hearty handshake?”

She laughed again, shook her head, and gave him a very prim, very chaste peck on the cheek.

“Same thing,” he complained.

But he threw an arm around Owen’s shoulders, the other around Beckett’s. “Son of a bitch. We did it.”

Justine’s eyes filled, spilled over. “My boys,” she murmured. She spread her arms wide to embrace all three of her sons. She held tight there a moment, just held as Dumbass tried to nose into the hug.

“All right.” Stepping back, she nodded as she brushed tears away. “Lunch, here. On me. Beckett, see if Clare can come over. Owen, call Avery, order us up some food, have her bring it over—and join us if she can. Hope, break out one—no two—of the bottles of champagne we’re stocking for guests.”

“Oh, you bet.”

“I haven’t washed all the glassware!” Carolee made a dash for the kitchen.

“Champagne?” Ryder commented. “At lunch?”

“Damn right, champagne.”

“Speaking of champagne, sort of.” Owen scratched his jaw. “Ry, do you have a date for New Year’s Eve?”

“Yeah. The Giggler. But I’m going to bail.”

“On New Year’s Eve?” his mother demanded.

“Believe me, if you heard the giggle, you’d understand. Why?” he asked Owen. “You want to take me dancing?”

“I’m having a party.”

“This New Year’s?” his mother said, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah, this one.” Jeez! “It’s no big deal. Just a party. A holiday get-together. A thing with food and drink. You can come, right?”

Puffing out her cheeks, Justine continued to study him. “Sure.”

“Ry?”

“Why not?”

“Clare’s on her way up,” Beckett announced as he pocketed his phone.

“New Year’s Eve party, my place. Okay?”

“What year?” Beckett asked.

“Okay, that joke’s old now. You in or not?”

“We were going to stay home. The boys want to watch the ball drop, but Murphy’s the only one with a prayer of making it. I’ll ask Clare if she wants to get a sitter.”

“Good enough.” Owen pulled out his notebook. “Lunch,” he said, and D.A. thumped his tail in anticipation. “Give me the orders. I’ll call them in.”

As he started the list, he heard champagne pop from the kitchen. “That makes it official.” He grinned at his family. “Welcome to Inn BoonsBoro.”