The Last Boyfriend

“Once you had, he wasn’t awkward.”

“True.” Clare’s smile warmed. “Very true. Still, given your history—”

“History-smistory.”

“What history?” Hope carried a tray of fruit and cheese out of her little kitchen. “I haven’t had the opportunity to get all the details on this. Ghostly nudges, hot kiss, lame Owen aftermath.”

“That sums it.”

“History? Is this more than knowing each other forever? Clare and Beckett knew each other for years before they got together.”

“I was with Clint,” Clare reminded her. “We were a couple from the start, so I didn’t have any history other than casual friendship with Beckett.”

“And you had more with Owen?” Hope probed. “What have I missed?”

“They were engaged.” Grinning now, Clare toasted Avery.

“What?” Hope’s dark chocolate eyes rounded with shock. “When? Why didn’t I know this? This is huge.”

“We were kids. I think I was five—almost six. Our fathers were tight, so we had a lot of activities together. I had a crush on him.”

“So she proposed to him—or more she announced they were going to get married when they grew up.”

“Aw, that’s so cute.”

Softening a little, Avery shrugged. “It was probably a major embarrassment for him. I guess he was about eight. But he was nice about it. Patient,” she remembered, softening a bit more. “I crushed on him for a couple of years.”

“That’s a long time at that age,” Hope pointed out.

“I tend to dig in. Then he started hanging out with Kirby Anderson.” The softening process halted as her eyes went flinty. “That ten-year-old slut. Owen Montgomery broke my heart with that boyfriend-stealing bimbo.”

“I should point out, for Hope, that Kirby Anderson is now married, the mother of two, and an environmental activist living in Arlington, Virginia.”

“She grew out of it.” Avery shrugged. “But there could still be slutitude in there, dormant. Anyway, after that I was off boys until I hit puberty.”

“But you forgave Owen,” Hope prompted.

“Sure. I refused to pine. Besides, a girl’s first boyfriend isn’t going to be her last, right?” After gesturing, she cut a slice of Gouda and nipped into it. “Especially when he’s an ass.”

“Don’t be too hard on him.” Clare reached over, patted Avery’s hand. “He’s probably flustered, not sure how to act. You know you mean a lot to him. To all of them.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But she sighed. “It was a damn fine kiss. He’s learned a lot since eight—or I’ve learned. We both have. I wouldn’t mind kissing him again.”

“Really?” Hope drew out the word as she sampled an apple slice.

“Sure. What am I, stupid? He’s a damn fine kisser—as I now know. And he’s really pretty.”

“Would you sleep with him?” Hope wondered.

“Hmm.” Considering, Avery reached forward, snagged a tart, green grape. “We’re both currently unattached, both adults. Maybe. Yeah, maybe, as long as we went into it clear-eyed. You can trust Owen. That’s a big one, knowing you’re with somebody you can trust.” She bit into the grape, grinned. “And who’s really pretty.”

“Listening to all this, I’m glad I’m out of the arena.” Content, Hope slid down in the chair with her wine.

“You won’t stay out.” Avery shook her head. “You’re gorgeous, smart, interesting—and human.”

“I’m not interested in dating right now. Not just because of Jonathan. In fact, now that I think about it, not at all because of that dick. Right now, all I want is to focus on the inn, on being the world’s best innkeeper, and keeping that beautiful place perfect. Men, dating, sex? Just not currently on the radar.”

“Careful,” Clare warned. “Best-laid plans.”

“But I excel at planning.”

*   *   *

Owen didn’t sleep well, which he considered a pisser. He always slept well. He thought of it as a skill, like carpentry or adding up columns of numbers in his head.

But instead of dropping off after a full day of work, a sweaty hour-long workout, a relaxing soak in his hot tub, he’d slept in fits and starts.

He’d promised himself no work over the weekend, but when a man climbed out of bed before sunrise, what the hell was he supposed to do with himself all day?

His house was in order. It generally was, but with the push on the inn over the last couple of weeks, he’d barely done more than sleep there. Even he couldn’t find anything to fuss over.

He and Beckett had designed the house, a couple of stones’ throws from his mother’s, from Ryder’s, from the home Beckett was finally finishing. He liked being close to family, and still solitary and private on his wooded lot.

The space suited him and his efficient nature with its open kitchen and dining room serving as great room and entertainment area when he had anybody over. To the left, the laundry and utility room served the added purpose of mudroom.

He believed in multitasking, even for houses.

Now, wearing only loose flannel pants, he stood at the atrium doors leading out to his wide, paved patio, drinking coffee ground and brewed in the sleek and efficient machine he’d treated himself to on his last birthday.

Ryder called it Hilda, claiming anything that shiny and complicated had to be female.

Generally that first good, strong cup of coffee pleased him, perked him up for the day ahead. But right at the moment it did nothing to cut through his irritability.

She was the one being weird, he told himself—as he had countless times during the restless night. She’d said she didn’t want things to be weird, then she acted weird. Trying to make him feel guilty, he decided, when he didn’t have anything to feel guilty about.

It was all just stupid, and he needed to forget it. Because he damn well wasn’t losing another night’s sleep over it.

He thought about breakfast, but didn’t feel like cooking. Not that he minded cooking, particularly a weekend breakfast where he could load up on bacon and eggs, sit at his counter, and play with his iPad.

He didn’t feel like using his iPad either, and that was just wrong. He always felt like using his iPad.

So he’d work after all. He’d put some time in at the shop on the mantel for Beckett’s bedroom fireplace. Maybe even get it finished so Beckett could just seal the chestnut.

No point in hanging out at home all day if he couldn’t enjoy the loafing. Plus, his mother habitually rose early, he thought as he headed up the central stairs he and his brothers had built. She’d cook him some breakfast—and maybe he could pump her a little—subtly—about Avery.

Not that he’d tell his mother the full shot—it was too . . . okay, weird. But he knew no one who had better insight on people than Justine Montgomery.

He turned into his bedroom, switched on the little gas log fireplace built into the mocha-colored wall, and carried his coffee into the bath. Once he’d showered and shaved, he dressed in work clothes and steel-toed boots.

He made the bed—smoothing the sheets, drawing the white duvet up, stacking the pillows in their dark brown cases.

He took his phone off the charger, hooked it on his belt, took his pocketknife, loose change, wallet out of the tray on his dresser. Got a fresh bandana out of the dresser drawer.

He stood a moment, frowning at nothing. Too quiet, he realized. His house and grounds were exactly the way he liked them, work was plentiful, and satisfying. But it was just too quiet.

Time for a dog, he told himself. Time to seriously think about getting a dog. Maybe a Lab-mix like his mother’s—or a faithful mutt like Ryder’s.

He’d promised himself a dog, but with the time and demands of the inn project, he’d postponed the idea.

Better to wait till spring, he considered as he started downstairs. Easier to house-train a puppy in warmer