The Perfect Hope

didn’t particularly want to drink after a slimy bastard.

“That”—she waved a hand toward the parking lot—“was Jonathan.”

“Yeah, we met.”

“We used to be—” What? she wondered. Just what did it used to be?

“I got that. You were hooked up, and he flipped on you for somebody else.” He shrugged when she stopped walking off the mad long enough to look at him. “Word gets around.”

“The word’s inadequate. I was the other woman. I didn’t know I was the other woman until he told me he was engaged—a bomb he dropped shortly after we had sex. I thought we were in a relationship, an exclusive relationship, but he was juggling me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

She had smoky looks, a smoky voice—and when she was seriously pissed, he thought, you caught the fire under the smoke.

“Okay, he’s a slimy bastard and you were stupid. You got smart and kicked him to the curb. Is this glass yours?”

“Yes, and of course I ended it. And I gave my notice. He actually assumed everything would go on the way it was. Me working for his family while he had me on the side.”

“Then he was stupid.”

“You’re damn right!” Fully appreciating the comment, Hope slapped Ryder’s shoulder as she started pacing and circling again. “He got married in May—a lavish event, naturally, at the Wickham with a three-week honeymoon in Europe.”

“Keeping tabs?”

She stopped. Her chin jutted out. “I read the Style section of the Post. And, all right, yes, I wanted to see—it’s human nature. You’d have done the same.”

He considered, then shook his head. “Not so much. When something’s done, it’s done. What was he doing here, because visiting an old friend was bullshit.”

“What was he doing here? I’ll tell you what he was doing here. He said he wanted to tell me he felt partially responsible for my relocation and so on—partially. He said he wanted to see the inn, and take me to lunch. He said I was missed, and his father designated him to make me a generous offer. Generous offer, my ass!”

He’d never seen her seriously worked up, he realized. Irked, annoyed, somewhat pissed, but not full-throttle. It was probably wrong to sit there thinking it looked good on her.

“Trying to poach our innkeeper.” He kept his voice mild in contrast to hers. “Not cool.”

“Oh, that wasn’t all. Oh no, obviously I’m not suited for this job. According to him I can’t be happy and fulfilled unless I’m back in Georgetown, and managing the Wickham—and sleeping with him.”

“Huh. You look happy enough to me. Usually.”

“Oh, but how could I be, here in this little country town, managing this little country inn. And not being at his fucking beck?”

At a loss, Ryder scratched the back of his neck. “Well …”

“So, he made me a secondary generous offer. I’d be the other woman, with full knowledge this time around, and he’d take very good care of me. A little trip to Paris to renew our acquaintance, a home of my choosing— apparently he already has the property in mind—and a generous stipend to be determined. Does he really think I’d be a part of his cheating on his wife? That I’d be his whore? I’d just jump right back for a job, for money, and a goddamn spree on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore?”

Ryder didn’t know what the hell rue whatever was, but he considered the whole. “He said if you came back, were his side piece, he’d set you up?”

“In a nutshell.”

If he’d known the whole before the slimy bastard had driven off, the asshole would currently be bleeding and unconscious in the parking lot.

“And you didn’t punch him in the face?”

“Oh, oh, I thought about it.” A violence Ryder admired and respected flashed in those deep, dark eyes. “I imagined it. Vividly. Except I was just going to throw my iced tea in his face and ruin his goddamn Versace suit. Then I saw you, and I just went with instinct. He thinks I’m sitting around waiting for him? Arrogant, conceited, immoral bastard. He thinks I can be had for money, for a house, for a trip to goddamn Paris?”

“Hope.” It might’ve been the first time he’d said her name, certainly in just that way—with patience—but neither of them noticed. “He’s a fucking entitled, bat-blind idiot. And he doesn’t get you.”

“Oh he is, and no, he doesn’t. So I humiliated him by kissing you in front of him, letting him think we were involved.”

“You didn’t punch him in the face; you kicked him in the balls.”

“Yes.” She let out a breath. “And thank you for the assist.”

“No problem.”

“No, really. Thank you. My pride took a hell of a hit over Jonathan. It meant a lot to be able to have some payback. I owe you.”

“Yeah, so you said.”

They stared at each other for one throbbing moment with something dangerous and interesting sizzling around the edges.

“Okay. Name your price.”

He could think of any number of dangerous and interesting things. She’d expect something like that, something that involved dimly lit rooms. He figured her for a woman who usually got just what she expected.

“I like pie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pie. I like it. It’s a good time of year for cherry pie. Anyway, I gotta go.” He got to his feet; so did his dog. “You know, sometimes what goes around comes around; sometimes it doesn’t, and a good kick in the balls has to be enough.”

Maybe it was, she thought as he left, but why didn’t it feel like enough?

Now that her mad was over, and she was left alone, everything connected to her life that involved Jonathan seemed hollow. All the years she’d dedicated to his family’s businesses, to him, to being the perfect employee, companion, hostess felt flat and false. Felt horrible.

Not only had she given the Wickhams and Jonathan her best, but in the end, her best fell short. Worse, so much worse, they’d used her. There was no question his parents had known. They’d entertained her in their home, as their son’s … companion. They’d met her family.

They’d betrayed her. They’d made her a fool.

No. She pushed herself to her feet, put the glasses back on the tray. She’d done that to herself. She was responsible for her own actions, her own decisions, just as she was for her own happiness.

She carried the tray inside to the kitchen, calmly poured the remaining tea down the sink. Yes, her mad had fizzled, she thought as she loaded the glasses in the dishwasher. Now she felt sad, sad and shamed.

Tears burned her eyes, so she let them come. Why not? She was alone, wasn’t she? Dutifully she went into the basement, carried up bottles of water, cans of soft drinks.

She restocked the refrigerator, then just rested her forehead on the door.

And smelled the fresh, warm scent of honeysuckle, felt a hand stroke her hair.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Not alone after all.

“I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine. I just have to get through this little pity party.”

Don’t cry over him.

Hope wasn’t sure if she heard the words, or if they played in her mind.

“I’m not. Not over him, not for him. For me. For the three years I gave myself to him thinking it mattered. It’s hard to know it never did. Hard to realize, to really understand he thought of me as an accessory he could buy, use, set aside, and, worse, pick up again whenever he wanted.”

She took a breath. “That’s done. I’m done.”