Нора Робертс: The Last Boyfriend

Because she’d snapped the words out in little whiplashes, Owen just nodded. “Okay.”

“Just . . .” She gestured toward the long counter. “Do whatever.”

She rushed back to the kitchen on bright green Nikes.

He’d have offered to help, but he could tell she wasn’t in the mood. He knew her moods—he’d known her forever—and recognized harried, impatient, and stressed.

She’d roll with it, he thought. She always did. The sassy little redhead from his childhood, the former Boonsboro High cheerleader—co-captain with Beckett’s Clare—had become a hardworking restaurateur. Who made exceptional pizza.

She’d left a light, lemony scent behind her, along with a frisson of energy. He heard the faint thump and rattle of her work as he took a stool at the counter. He found it soothing and somewhat rhythmic.

He opened his briefcase, took out his iPad, his clipboard, unclipped his phone from his belt.

He made his calls, sent emails, texts, reworked his calendar, calculated.

He steeped himself in the details, surfacing when a coffee mug slid under his nose.

He looked up into Avery’s pretty face.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to bother. I won’t be long.”

“Owen, you’ve already been here forty minutes.”

“Really? Lost track. You want me to go?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Though she pressed a fist into the small of her back, she spoke easily now. “I’ve got it under control.”

He caught another scent, and glancing to the big stove saw she’d put her sauces on.

The red hair, milk-white skin, and dash of freckles might declare her Scot heritage, but her marinara was as gloriously Italian as an Armani suit.

He’d often wondered where she’d gotten the knack, and the drive, but both seemed as innate a part of her as her big, bold blue eyes.

Crouching, she opened the cooler under the counter for tubs, and began filling the topping containers.

“Sorry about Franny.”

“Me, too. She’s really sick. And Dave’s miserable. He’s only coming in for a couple hours this afternoon because I’m so shorthanded. I hate asking him.”

He studied her face as she worked. Now that he really looked, he noted the pale purple shadows under her eyes.

“You look tired.”

She shot him a disgusted look over the tub of black olives. “Thanks. That’s what every girl loves to hear.” Then she shrugged. “I am tired. I thought I’d sleep in this morning. Franny would open, I’d come in about eleven thirty. Not much of a commute since I moved right upstairs. So I watched some Jimmy Fallon, finished a book I’ve been trying to squeeze out time to read all week. I didn’t go down until nearly two. Then Franny calls at eight. Six hours isn’t bad, unless you worked a double and you’re going to work another.”

“Bright side? Business is good.”

“I’ll think about bright side after the bus tour. Anyway, enough. How’s it going at the inn?”

“So good we’re going to start loading in the third floor tomorrow.”

“Loading in what?”

“Furniture, Avery.”

She set down the tub, goggled at him. “Seriously? Seriously? ”

“The inspector’s going to take a look this afternoon, give us the go or no. I’m saying go because there’s no reason for no. I just talked to Hope. She’s going to start cleaning up there. My mother and my aunt are coming in—maybe are in already since it’s going on eleven now—to pitch in.”

“I wanted to do that. I can’t.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got plenty of hands.”

“I wanted mine to be two of them. Maybe tomorrow, depending on sickness and root canals. Jeez, Owen, this is major.” She did a little heel-toe dance on her green high-tops. “And you wait almost an hour to spill it?”

“You were too busy bitching at me.”

“If you’d spilled, I’d’ve been too excited to bitch. Your own fault.”

She smiled at him, pretty Avery MacTavish with the tired eyes.

“Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes?”

“I’ve got to keep moving today, like a shark.” She snapped the lid on the tub, replaced it, then went over to check her sauces.

He watched her work. She always seemed to be doing half a dozen things at once, like a constant juggling act with balls hanging in the air, others bouncing madly until she managed to grab and toss them again.

It amazed his organized mind.

“I’d better get back. Thanks for the coffee.”

“No problem. If any of the crew’s thinking about lunch here today, tell them to wait until one thirty. The rush’ll be over.”

“Okay.” He gathered his things, then paused at the door. “Avery? What color is that? The hair.”

“This? Copper Penny.”

He grinned, shook his head. “I knew it. See you later.”

Owen strapped HIS tool belt on, checked his punch-out list against Ryder’s.

“The third floor’s full of women,” Ryder told him, with an edge of bitterness.

“Are they naked?”

“Mom’s one of them.”

“Okay, scratch the naked.”

“Mom, Carolee, the innkeeper. Clare might still be up there. Dude, they’re a swarm. One of them keeps buzzing down here, asking questions.” Ryder grabbed his Gatorade off the kitchen island where he’d spread out plans and lists since Hope had booted him out of her projected office space. “Since you’re the one who opened the gates there, you’re the one who’s going to answer all the damn questions. And where the hell were you?”

“I left word. I went over to Avery’s so I could make some calls. Inspector’s going to take a look at the third floor to clear the load-in there. He’ll check out the rest while he’s here. Furniture for up there’s set, and they’ll start hauling it in, setting it up in the morning. Window-blind install’s set. They’ll start upstairs this afternoon. You want the rest?”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“That’s why I make the calls. I can start running trim on two.”

“Third floor.” Ryder drilled a finger into Owen’s chest. “Women. All yours, brother.”

“Fine, fine.”

He wanted to work, to slide into the rhythm of nail guns, hammers, drills. Men. But he went back outside, cursed the cold as he rounded back and jogged up the stairs.

And entered the world of women.

He smelled perfume and lotion and lemon-scented cleanser. And heard women’s voices over the din echoing up from below. He found his mother on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor of the shower stall in The Penthouse.

She’d bundled her dark hair up, shoved up the sleeves of a baggy gray sweatshirt. Her jeans-clad butt swayed side-to-side to whatever played on her headphones.

Owen walked around the glass, hunkered down. She didn’t jolt; he’d always believed her claim of having eyes in the back of her head. Justine just lifted her head, smiled at him as she sat back on her heels and took off the headset.

She said, “Hot damn.”

“You ready for this, Mom?”

“I’ve been ready. We’ll get her shined up, though I’d forgotten just how grimy construction dirt is. We split up. Carolee’s back in Westley and Buttercup, and Hope’s dealing with her apartment. Clare’s going to give us some time this afternoon.”

“I was just over at Vesta. Avery’s got a bus tour coming in, and Franny’s out sick. She wanted to be in on this.” Owen studied the bucket of soapy water. “God knows why.”

“It’s satisfying work, in its way. Look at this place, Owen.” Shoving a couple of loose pins back in her hair, she glanced around. “Look at what you and your brothers did here.”

“What we and our mom did,” he corrected, and made her smile again.