The Last Boyfriend

“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.”