The Perfect Hope

“Forever. She took TV privileges away from me for three days—for hiding the pieces, and another day for throwing the ball in the house. I missed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Grow up and buy the DVD.”

“I did. Doesn’t clear you, dude. The Silence of Brotherhood is sacred.”

“I was eight.”

Since Owen’s mind was on something besides his potential sex life, Ryder pushed to his feet. “You girls work this out now, like ladies. I’m going home, get some rack time.”

“Material’s coming at eight,” Owen told him.

“I know it. I’ll be there.”

“I’m going to work in the shop on the panels for the bar. Text me if you need me to come in.”

“I can make it through one day without seeing your pretty face. You I can use.” He pointed at Beckett. “Seven a.m.”

“It’s going to be eight, eight thirty. Clare’s mom wants the boys tomorrow. I have to get them up, dressed, fed, and over there. Clare’s at the inn, remember.”

“Just get there. Let’s go, Dumbass.” He started out. “And don’t throw the ball in the house.”

He remembered the pie plate at the last minute, backtracked to grab it. With D.A. he drove the short distance home, winding out of the woods, down the road, back into the woods where his house sat tucked away.

He liked it tucked away, and private. Liked having his own space—and a lot of it. He’d hired a landscaping crew to do the grounds. His mother had tried to make a gardener out of him, but it just hadn’t stuck. He was fine digging a hole for a tree, the occasional shrub, but when it came to planting posies? He hired it out.

He liked the look of them, the different heights, textures, shadows in the walkway and deck lights.

Since Beckett had washed it, Ryder left the pie plate in the truck so he wouldn’t forget it. He let D.A. sniff and wander and do what a dog had to do while he stood in the quiet, under a sky full of stars.

He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, or wanting to. Not because he’d grown up here, though he imagined that played a role. But because this place—this air, these quiet night sounds—had a hold on him. And always had.

He’d chosen this spot, well back from the main road, to put down his own roots, to build his own place. He’d walked and wandered these woods all his life. He’d known his spot long before he’d become a man.

He went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen, flipped on the light. He’d designed the space, with Beckett’s help. Clean lines, simple, and roomy enough for a table. He put the cell phone he’d finally stopped resenting on the charger, grabbed a bottle of water.

He’d get that hot shower now, a hell of a lot later than planned.

The dog trotted upstairs with him, went directly to the big square of pillow he used as a bed. Circled once, twice, a third time, then with a huge sigh curled up with the ratty stuffed cat he loved. Still he watched Ryder, tail thumping contentedly as Ryder emptied his pockets, pulled off his belt.

He stripped down, tossed the clothes in the direction of the hamper, and walked naked into the big indulgent master bath.

A man who worked with his hands, with his back, deserved the king of showers. Especially if he was a contractor and knew how to get it done.

It rivaled the baths they’d put in the inn—the tile work, in his case, in tones of stone gray, the long white counter, the stainless steel vessels. He turned the rainhead and body jets on full, and plenty hot, and let them beat the muscles tight from a long day of work, and play.

And as they loosened, he thought of Hope.

He wasn’t going to screw with her. And he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for her history with assholes.

She’d started it. He reminded himself of that because it was damn well the simple truth. He’d kept his distance, until recently. He’d kept it because there’d been something right from the jump. He hadn’t wanted something, not with a sloe-eyed, sharp-cheekboned beauty queen who probably paid more for a single pair of those stilts she wore than he had for every shoe in his closet combined.

Maybe the stilts made her legs go on forever, but that wasn’t the point.

She wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t hers. Hers wore designer suits and ties, probably went to art openings and galas. And liked it. Maybe even the opera. Yeah, the asshole had looked like the opera sort.

She’d started it, and if they finished it, he’d make sure they both laid their cards on the table first. He played fair. And since maybe Owen had a few valid points, he’d think about it awhile before deciding either way.

And if the time came when they both gave the nod, well, he’d play extra fair. No problem.

He shut the shower off, grabbed a towel to scrub his hair dry. It made him think of Hope and her garden hose, and made him smile. Maybe it hadn’t struck him funny at the time, but it did now.

She wasn’t always perfect. She made mistakes, took missteps. He liked it better that way. Perfect? It could be boring, intimidating, or just outright annoying. He liked the chinks, and wondered if—if— things moved forward, he’d find a few more.

Taking time on it, he thought. He had enough on his mind, enough on his plate without adding her right now, straight off.

He walked naked back into the bedroom, pulled down the sheet he’d pulled up that morning—his method of making the bed.

His dog was already snoring, and his windows open to the night breeze, the night sounds. He didn’t bother to set the alarm. There was one in his head, and if it didn’t go off, D.A. would.

He thought about switching on the TV, winding the rest of the way down. He thought of Hope again, saw in his mind’s eye that look on her face—that post-kiss look.

And thinking of Hope, fell straight into sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RYDER UNLOCKED THE DOOR OF THE INN JUST BEFORE seven a.m., while the early sun slanted over roses tumbling around the garden wall. He’d started the crew early, before the heat of the late June day drummed down on them. Already the sounds of hammers, saws, drills, echoed from the open windows across the lot.

The inn sat silent, which didn’t surprise him. He figured women who had the whole place to themselves with nothing to do but whatever women who hung out on their own all night did would sleep in.

He vaguely remembered what it was like to sleep in.

He went into the kitchen. Whatever women did on their own all night, they left the kitchen tidy, he noted. He set the empty pie plate on the counter, started to walk out again.

Turned back.

He’d been raised better, so opened a couple drawers hunting for something to write with and on. He hit on the third drawer, came up with sticky notes and a pen.

Good pie. We’re square.

He stuck it to the lip of the pan, then eyed the coffeemaker. Considered.

As he considered, Clare shuffled in, and let out a gurgling yelp.

“Easy.” In case the baby weight overbalanced her, he started around the island to grab hold of her arm. But she waved him off.

“You scared me.” She laughed when she said it, leaned back against the refrigerator, a hand resting on the mound of her belly as pregnant women seemed compelled to do. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone this early.”

“I just brought this dish back.” Her hair tumbled like the roses, and her face held a quiet glow. Being knocked- up looked good on her, he decided. “What are you doing up? I figured you’d all be down for the count after a night of female debauchery.”

“Habit, I guess. My body clock hasn’t switched to summer hours. Even with that, the boys are usually up by now.” She rubbed her belly. “These two are.”

The idea of a couple of entities rolling around in there made Ryder vaguely uneasy. “You should sit down.”