Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

“You did see her.”

“Yes. And no. For a second, I thought I did, but it was more feeling her. That sounds crazy.” She looked directly at Ryder. “She’s waiting.”

“For what?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.”

“She smiled at me. I was hanging the mirror, and I saw her in it. Reflected in it. Gray dress, hair thing, netty kind of thing in the back. She’s blond, pretty. Young.” As Hope held the bottle back out to Ryder, Owen snagged it, finished it off. “Wow.”

“She was humming,” Justine said. “I heard humming, and smelled honeysuckle. I stood still a moment, wondering if . . . but I didn’t see her. Come on, sweetie, I’ll take you downstairs.”

“I’m fine,” Hope repeated. “She just . . . It’s an experience, but I’m not scared of her. I’ve felt her before. This was more intense.”

“The building’s nearly back. And this room?” Beckett circled around. “It basically is. Stuff on the walls, bedding on the bed, towels on the rack,” he noted. “I’m thinking she likes it.”

“Now that we’ve satisfied our ghost, maybe we can cut our way through this punch-out list.”

“No romance in Ry’s soul,” Beckett said sadly. “Everybody okay?”

Hope nodded. “I’m—”

“Fine,” Ryder finished. “How many times does she have to say it? Let’s get to work.” But he paused at the doorway, gave Hope one last study. “It looks good in here.”

“He’s right about that anyway. Take a minute if you need it,” Beckett advised Owen, then walked out after Ryder.

“I saw her.” Owen grinned when he said it. “Very cool. She smiled at me,” he added, and strode out.

“Do you want some fresh air, some time off?”

Hope shook her head at Justine. “No, but thanks. Ryder had it right—I had a moment. I guess there’ll be more of them.” Hope pushed to her feet. “I’d say she likes the room.”

“She’d be crazy not to.” Justine continued to rub Hope’s arm. “If you’re up for it, we can start fussing in T&O.”

“Let’s.”

An experience, Hope thought as she picked up the empty hamper. Owen had been right about that. And Elizabeth had smiled at him—briefly. But it had been Ryder who’d brought on that sudden burst of emotion, that bittersweet tangle of joy and grief, so strong, so real Hope’s own legs had all but buckled under it.

Whatever it meant, she assumed she’d find out when she took up residence at the inn.

Her life was chaos, and she had no one to blame but herself.

In Beckett’s former office area, one she’d semi-transformed to her own, Avery sat surrounded by boxes, wrapping paper, tissue, ribbons, and bows.

Insanity.

She promised herself, every year, she’d do better. She’d shop earlier—and with a list—she’d keep her wrapping paper and ribbons and so on in their containers, packing them back up again after every wrapping session.

She would approach the purchase, storing, wrapping, and stacking of Christmas presents like a sensible adult.

And she meant to, absolutely.

Next year, for certain.

She knew how to organize and stay that way, but it seemed to her all her organization skills arrowed toward work and missed her life by a mile.

So, as usual, with three short days until Christmas, she dug through gift boxes, tore through piles of ribbon, panicked every time she couldn’t find what she knew she put right there a minute ago, and generally exhausted herself.

She loved Christmas.

She loved the music—which she knew drove other people crazy by the time the big day arrived. She loved the lights, the color, the secrets, and excitement.

She loved the shopping and the wrapping, and the happy satisfaction of seeing gifts all bright and pretty in ordered stacks. So why did she always end up rushing through it all at the last minute?

But this year, at least, she refused to spend the last hours and minutes of Christmas Eve in a stressful, eleventh-hour whirlwind. She’d have everything wrapped, stacked, bagged, and ready tonight.

Tomorrow, latest.

She’d given up working at the counter—just too much stuff, so she sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes and scraps of paper, hanks of ribbons. Next year, definitely, she’d organize the counter space first, and she’d buy more containers for bows and so on. Label them, like Hope did.

Damn Hope anyway.

Thinking of Hope and her currently annoying efficiency, Avery admired the earrings she’d bought for her friend. Good shopping job, she congratulated herself. She reboxed them, selected the silver foil paper, the curly red bow, the matching tag. She head-bopped to Springsteen’s “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” as she carefully cut the paper to size, meticulously folded the raw ends.

Organization might be lacking, she admitted, but by God, her presents would be beautifully wrapped.

She reached for her tape, pulled the end—and got the sliver left on the roll.

“Damn it.”

No problem, she told herself. She’d bought more tape.

She was sure of it.

After a fifteen-minute search with rising frustration, trickles of panic, and a lot of swearing, she admitted she’d meant to buy more tape.

So, no problem. She’d just run out and buy some.

She checked the time, cursed again.

How did it get to be nearly midnight?

She needed tape!

She spent another fifteen minutes pawing through drawers, as-yet-unpacked boxes, searching closets.

This, she decided, was a solid reason to live in New York, where a person could go out and buy anything they needed at any time of the day or night. When a person ran out of tape during a present-wrapping frenzy, she could buy more damn tape.

She took a moment, ordering herself to stop being an idiot, and surveyed the current wreckage.

The search had jumbled everything, even unearthed potential gifts she’d bought during a shop-early-shop-often phase she’d initiated the previous summer.

Bad, she admitted, but not horrible. And there was tape down in the restaurant.

She grabbed her keys, left the lights and music on, then jogged down to unlock the restaurant. After switching on the lights, she headed to the counter, searched the drawer under the register.

“Aha!” She pulled out the tape dispenser, elated. Then deflated when she saw there was only a stingy amount left on the roll.

She hunted for the refill—drawers, cubbies, the rear storage closet. When she found herself searching in coolers, she gave it up and poured herself a glass of wine.

She sat at the counter, propped her head on her hand, and wondered how all her good intentions could be upended for the lack of a roll of Scotch tape.

The knock on the front door had her jerking upright, nearly slopping the wine on the counter.

Owen stood in the security lights, peering in at her through the glass door.

New York, definitely, she thought. A woman couldn’t even have a private Scotch tape crisis in Boonsboro.

She stalked over to the door, flipped the locks. “We’re closed.”

“Then why are you in here, sitting at the counter drinking wine?”

“I’m wrapping Christmas presents.”

“Funny, it really looks like you’re sitting in your empty pizza shop drinking wine.”

“I ran out of tape. I thought I bought more, but I didn’t, and there’s not enough down here to bother with. It’s too late to buy any damn tape because this isn’t New York.”

He studied her. Plaid flannel pants he imagined she used as pajamas, a long-sleeved tee, thick socks. Her hair held back by one of those clips that always made him think of big teeth.

“You waited to wrap everything at once again.”

“So?”

“Just saying.”

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you home wrapping presents? Because they’re all wrapped,” she said bitterly. “Neatly wrapped and in shopping bags according to where they go. And I know you guys gave the crew their presents already because I saw the Inn BoonsBoro sweatshirts.”

“Want one?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a glass of that and I’ll bring you one tomorrow.”

“Might as well because I can’t wrap presents.” She went back, got the bottle and a glass. “Why are you here?”

“I saw the lights go on and you running around in here like a maniac. From across the street,” he explained. “I was running my checklist. We finished.”

“Finished what?”

“The inn. Well, not the loading in, but the work. It’s done.”

“Get out.”

“Done,” he repeated and toasted himself. “Final inspection’s tomorrow.”

“Owen!” Her mood pivoted, lighting her face. “You made it before Christmas.”

“We made it. We should get the Use and Occupancy permit, no problem. Hope can move in. We’ll load in the rest, polish it up. With her living there for a couple weeks, we should nail down anything that needs tweaking before the opening.”

“Congratulations. Hope said you were close, but I didn’t get how close.”

“Lot to do yet, but it’s all filling out. When the crew comes back after Christmas, it’ll be on the bakery building.”

She walked to the door, looked out. “It’s beautiful. Every time I see it, it’s a lift. Hope said you’ve already got reservations booked.”

“We’ll get more when we get all the pictures online and when word gets out. Hope’s doing some interviews next week. She’ll give reporters a tour, talk it up. We’ll do some, too. Family business and all that. It makes good media.”

“It makes good life. Sláinte,” she added, tapping her glass to his. “I’ll come over in the morning before I open. And after I go out and buy some tape.”

“I have some in my truck.”

She lowered the wineglass, narrowed her eyes. “You have Scotch tape in your truck?”

“In the glove box, sure. And before you make any smart remark, remember—you need it, I have it.”

“I was going to say it’s really smart to carry tape in your glove compartment.” She smiled, sweetly.

“No, you weren’t, but good catch. I’ll go get it.”

“I’ll get it. You’re parked behind the inn.”

“Yeah, and it’s freezing. Where’s your coat, your shoes?”

“Upstairs, but it’s just across the street.”

No question she’d run across The Square in her pajamas and stocking feet at midnight, in December, he mused. “I’ll go get it. Lock up. I’ll meet you around the back.”

“Thanks. Really.”

He handed her his wineglass, walked out the front.

She locked back up, took the empty glasses to the kitchen. Flipping off lights, she made her way back to the stairwell, started down to unlock the back door. She heard the locks snick open.

He had a key, of course.

Landlord.

She met him halfway down, took the tape. “I’m going to Sam’s Club and buying a hundred rolls of this damn stuff.”

“Everything’s better in bulk.”

She laughed. “I bet you’ve got spare rolls in the truck, at home, in the shop.”

Brows lifted over quiet blue eyes, Owen watched her steadily. “Is that a smart remark?”

“An observation. No, a compliment,” she decided. “And I’m going to try to follow your exemplary tape-access behavior.”

He stood below her so their faces stayed on level and, watching her, reached into his pocket. “Start now.”

“You brought me a spare. You actually had two rolls of tape in your truck.” Laughing, she took it.

Three, he thought, but who’s counting? “I could give you a hand with the wrapping.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Then you’d have many smart remarks about the state of my wrapping area—and that’s after I revived you from the dead faint you’d fall into when you saw it.”

“I’ve seen your so-called wrapping area before.”

“Not up there. It’s worse than it’s ever been. I have more room for the chaos.” She saw the move in his eyes, shifted back a little. “Owen, I’ve been thinking about this.”

“About chaos?”

“In a way. Thinking about what we’re both thinking about doing right now. At first I wondered why we hadn’t thought about doing what we’re thinking about doing before. Then I thought, hell yes, let’s just do what we’re thinking about doing. Then it occurred to me we haven’t because it might mess things up. And seriously, Owen, you mean a lot to me. You mean a whole lot to me.”

“Funny, I was thinking about what we’re both thinking about, too. And I’d worked myself around to messing things up. Ryder says we won’t mess things up.”