Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

“A couple . . . years.”

“Maybe I should’ve told you.” She shrugged as she dunked bread in the milk and eggs. “Maybe I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about my sex life with my grown sons. And the fact is, Willy B’s shy.”

“Are you . . . in love with him?”

“I love him, of course I do. I have for years, just like Tommy loved him. He’s a good man, you know that. He’s a good father—and he had to raise Avery alone when her mother took off the way she did. He’s got kindness layered all the way through him. In love?” Coated bread sizzled on the griddle. “We enjoy each other, Owen. Like being together when we have time. We each have our own place, our own lives, our own family. We’re happy the way things are, and that’s enough for anyone.

“Now, can I tell him to come on down, have some breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe I should go.”

“You sit right there. I made enough egg batter for a damn army.” She stepped out of the kitchen, set her hands on her hips and called out. “Willy B, you’ve got your pants on by now, so come on down here and have your breakfast.”

Stepping back, she flipped another line of bread, plated bacon and French toast, slid plates over the counter.

By the time Willy B shuffled in, she’d put another line of bread on the griddle. “Sit down and eat,” she ordered. “Don’t let it get cold.”

“It looks real good, Justine.” Rumbling in his throat, Willy B sat on the stool beside Owen.

Out of the corner of her eye, Justine gave Owen the look .

“Um, so . . . how’s it going, Willy B?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Yeah.” With no real choice, Owen dumped syrup on his toast.

“Ah . . . the inn’s coming along real nice,” Willy B ventured. “It sure makes a picture on The Square. Your dad, he’d be real proud and pleased.”

“He would.” Owen sighed. “The women have put some of your fancy work around. It looks good in there.”

“Don’t that beat all?”

At the stove, Justine flipped more bread, and smiled as the two men stumbled their way through breakfast conversation.

He got through it. He still wasn’t sure what to think about it, but he got through breakfast with his mother’s . . . with Willy B. The dogs trooped out to the shop with him, with Cus, always hopeful, carrying one of his balls.

Owen flipped on the lights, the shop radio, boosted the heat up. And after thirty minutes of fumbling, gave it up. His brain just refused to engage, and he wouldn’t risk his hand at the fancy work.

He turned down the heat, turned off the radio, the lights. The dogs dutifully followed him out. To please Cus, he gave the ball a solid kick before climbing back into his truck.

Straight, sweaty carpentry, he decided, and headed over to Beckett’s property. He had enough brain in him to do some framing in on the extra rooms they’d added on for Clare’s boys.

He spotted his brothers’ trucks as he drove back, and couldn’t decide if it relieved or unnerved him.

What did he say? Did he say anything?

Of course he did. He had to tell them—plus it meant he wouldn’t be flustered and weirded-out alone.

He heard the music from hammer and saw, and Beckett’s iPod as he got his tool belt out of the truck.

The place was coming along, Owen thought, especially considering work on it was squeezed in and juggled around the inn project. They had the addition to the original, unfinished structure under roof—thank God, considering the weather. Windows looked good, he decided, and would offer a nice view. The decks and patios for outdoor living would have to wait till spring, but if they could knock the rest out by April, Beckett and his new family could move in right after the wedding.

He went in through what would be the kitchen door, did a short walk-through before climbing the temporary stairs to the second floor.

Freaking huge, he thought, but supposed that made sense for a family of five. The generous master suite included a full-size fireplace the boys had told Beckett their mom had always wanted. Another full bath linked two more bedrooms. Another bathroom, another two bedrooms spread out on the second level, he recalled.

As he headed toward the noise, D.A. wandered over to greet him. The dog sat, eyes trained on Owen’s face. He thumped his tail.

“I got nothing.” Owen spread his empty hands before giving D.A. a rub. He avoided saying the words food or eat so D.A. didn’t get any false hope.

He walked into one of the bedrooms, where Beckett ran the saw and Ryder framed in a closet.

“You don’t call, you don’t write,” Owen said over the din.

With a grin, Beckett straightened, pulled off his safety glasses. “Ry just showed up. I should’ve known you wouldn’t be far behind. Appreciate it.”

“No donuts?” Ryder asked, and D.A. thumped his tail.

“Not on me.”

“Clare’s opening the store this morning, then picking up the kids from her parents’ about noon—running some errands. She can pick up some subs or whatever. They’re coming here to help anyway.”

“Pity him.”

Beckett gave Ryder a shrug. “Dad gave us plenty of on-the-job training when we were their age.”

“I didn’t know enough to pity him at the time. And speaking of time, you could’ve saved a lot of it by cutting back on the bedrooms. What do you need five for anyway? Unless Clare won’t sleep with you.”

“One for each kid,” Owen said, “master suite, guest room.”

“Pull-out down in the family room would take care of anybody who stayed over. Or same deal in the office.”

“Actually, we’re going to need five. We’re going to have another kid.”

Owen paused in the act of pulling off his coat. “Clare’s pregnant?”

“Not yet. We’re waiting until after we actually get married, but then it’s full steam ahead.”

“You don’t make a kid with steam,” Ryder pointed out, then lowered his hammer. “Four kids? Seriously?”

“It’s just one more than three.”

Owen shook his head. “I think, when it comes to kids, the number increases exponentially. But what the hell. You guys are great with three, you should be great with four.”

“Mom’ll go nuts at the idea of another grandkid.” Ryder pulled out some framing nails.

“Ah, speaking of Mom. I figured to do some shop work, so I stopped by the house this morning.”

“To mooch breakfast,” Ryder concluded.

“It was a factor. So anyway, Willy B was there.”

“Another breakfast moocher.” Pulling down his goggles, Beckett reached for the saw.

“Don’t turn that on yet.” A man could lose a finger, Owen thought.

With a frown, Beckett pulled his glasses off again. “Is there a problem with Mom?”

“No. I don’t know. No. It’s not a problem for her, anyway.”

“Who’s got a problem?” Ryder demanded.

“Just let me finish, damn it. I went in the kitchen, and Mom was already cooking breakfast, and Willy B was there. In nothing but his boxers, and they’re . . . you know.”

Now Ryder set his hammer aside. “They’re what? Exactly?”

“They’re . . .” Owen made a circle with his arms. “Except Willy B’s hands are on Mom’s ass, and she’s wearing a robe, but it’s open, and there’s not all that much she’s wearing under it. And I don’t want to talk about that part.”

“He had his hands on her?” Ryder said softly. “Okay. He’s big, but he’s old. I can take him.”

“Hold on.” Beckett shot out a hand, shoved Ryder back. “Are you saying Mom and Willy B are . . .”

“That’s what I’m saying. And they have been for a couple years now.”

“Fuck,” Ryder muttered.

“Don’t say fuck when he’s telling us about Mom and Willy B. I don’t want that verb and those names together in my head.” Beckett walked over, picked up the liter of Coke he’d brought along, gulped straight from the bottle. “Everybody take a breath, okay. You’re saying Mom and Willy B are . . . involved.”