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—
“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
“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—
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,
