Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

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 weather. Or maybe he’d rescue an older dog—if he could get half as lucky as Ry had with Dumbass.

He pulled his shop coat out of the closet, pulled on a ski cap, gloves, plucked his keys out of the dish by the door.

A guy needed a dog, he thought. That was what was missing in his life. A good dog.

Maybe he’d swing by the animal shelter after he’d had breakfast with his mother, after he put in some shop time.

Nodding in satisfaction, he climbed into his truck. Sounded like a plan—and he liked a good plan.

He pulled out, drove past the little barn he’d built to house the jeep and plow he used on the property, down to the main road. He made the turn, turned again into his mother’s lane to her house on the slope.

The dogs bounded across the drive—Cus (short for Atticus) with one of his many mangled balls clamped in his mouth, and his eyes wild with joy. His brother Finch gave Cus a body block that had both dogs rolling and wrestling.

Yeah, Owen thought with a grin, he definitely needed a dog.

He wound the drive, puzzled for a moment when he saw Willy B’s truck parked beside his mother’s car.

Early for a visit, Owen thought, even for Avery’s father. Then again, Willy B dropped by often, Owen knew, and now that he was one of the featured artists at his mother’s gift shop, he likely dropped by more with some new piece or design.

Stroke of luck, Owen decided as he parked. He might be able to finesse some insight or info out of Willy B on Avery—subtle, subtle.

He stopped long enough to snatch up the ball Cus had dropped pleadingly at his feet. He winged it, long and hard for the dogs to chase while he hurried up to the back door.

He heard the music when he was still ten feet away, and shook his head. Typical for his mom—who’d never yelled at any of her sons to turn that damn music down.

She’d always blasted her own.

He shoved open the door, caught the scent of bacon, of coffee. Grinning, he thought: just in time.

Then his eyes all but popped out of his head.

Bacon sizzled on the stove. His mother stood in front of the griddle.

So did Willy B, all six feet four inches of him wearing nothing but white boxers, with his hands on Owen’s mother’s ass, and his mouth locked on hers.

He must have made some sound that cut through the blast of music and the jaw-dropping embrace. Maybe he screamed. He hoped he hadn’t screamed, at least not outside of his head.

But his mother—an open robe over short red pajama pants and a thin (way too thin) white tank—stepped back. Her eyes met Owen’s, blinked once.

Then she laughed.

She laughed.

Willy B had the grace to blush as red as his tumbled hair and trim beard.

“What?” Owen managed, shocked to the bone. “What—you— What? ”

“I’m fixing us some breakfast,” Justine said easily, and with that laugh still fluttering on the edges. “I guess I need to break some more eggs.”

“You— But— What? Mom.”

“Try to make a complete sentence, Owen. Have some coffee.” She reached for a mug.

“Ah . . . I should . . .” Still bright red, Willy B shuffled his enormous feet. “Put some pants on.”

“Yes!” Owen felt his hands flapping in the air, but just couldn’t stop them. “That. Pants. You. Please God.”

Rumbling in his throat, Willy B scooted off like a bear toward his cave.

“Mom.”

“That’s my name.” All cheer, Justine beamed smiles. “Sit down, honey. Drink your coffee.”

“What—”

Justine picked up tongs to take the bacon out to drain. “Finish it this time. I’ll get you started. What . . . ?”

“What—” He had to swallow the tight, prickly ball in his throat. It didn’t go down well. “What are you doing? Here. With him. Naked.”

Eyebrows hiked, Justine looked down at herself. “I’m not naked.”

“Almost.”

Obviously fighting another smile, Justine closed her robe, belted it. “Better?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. My head. Did my head explode?” He patted his hands over it.

Without missing a beat, Justine took eggs and milk from the big refrigerator. “I was going to scramble eggs, but under the circumstances, we’ll have French toast. You’re partial to French toast. You haven’t had breakfast, have you?”

“No. Mom, I don’t understand this.”

“What part of this don’t you understand, baby?”

“Any of it. All of it.”

“All right, let me explain. When people grow up, they often want to be close to each other. It’s best if they really like and respect each other. An important part of that closeness includes sex, which means—”

“Mom.” Heat crept up his neck, but he wasn’t sure what emotion kindled it. “Cut it out.”

“So you do understand that part. Willy B and I really like and respect each other, and sometimes we have sex.”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t say Willy B and sex, with you, in the same sentence.”

“Then I can’t explain, can I? Suck it up, Owen,” she advised, and offered him a slice of bacon.

“But . . .” He took the bacon. He couldn’t defog his brain to speak coherently.

“I loved your father. So, so much. I was eighteen when I first saw him—my very first day on the job for Wilson Contractors. There he was, standing on that ladder, torn jeans, big boots, tool belt, no shirt. And oh my God.” She laid a hand on her heart. “I couldn’t see straight the rest of the day. Tom Montgomery. My Tommy.”

She got out a bowl, began to mix the eggs and milk with a fork. “I couldn’t even pretend to be coy when he asked me out. I never went out with anyone else from that first date. Never wanted anyone else. I never loved anyone like I did your daddy.”

“I know, Mom.”

“We had a good life. He was such a good man. Smart, strong, funny. Such a good man, such a good father. We built the business together because we wanted our own. And this house, this family—it’s all got Tommy all over it. All of you have him in you, some of it in the way you are, some in the way you look. You got his mouth, Beckett his eyes, Ryder his hands. And more. I treasure that.”

“I’m sorry.” Watching her, hearing her, he felt his heart drop into his guts. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

“They aren’t sad tears. They’re grateful ones.” She added sugar, a dash of vanilla, generous shakes of cinnamon. “We had a wonderful, interesting, busy life together, and he died. You don’t know—I never let you know—how mad I was at him for dying on me. So mad, for weeks, months. I don’t know how long. He wasn’t supposed to die on me. We were supposed to be together, forever, and then he was gone. He’s gone, Owen, and I’ll miss him as long as I live.”

“Me, too.”

She reached across the counter, laid a hand over Owen’s, then turned, got a loaf of bread.

“Willy B loved Tommy. They were as close as you boys are to each other.”

“I know that. I know that, Mom.”

“We needed each other when Tommy died. We needed somebody else who’d loved him, who could tell stories about him. Somebody to lean on, to cry on, to laugh with. And that’s what we did, all we did, for a long time. Then a couple years ago, we . . . let’s just say I started fixing him breakfast now and again.”