Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

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.

“You’re so damn right about that. Since you’re here, take the shelves out of that box. One’s going right up there, the other right over there.”

She pointed.

“There’re shelves in here?”

“There will be when you put them up. Then you might get one of the crew to give you a hand, hang the mirror in the bedroom. When you’re ready I’ll show you how I want it.”

“Wait, let me write this down.”

“Just do the little shelves, and I’ll walk you through the rest.”

He got to use his tools after all. Maybe not the way he preferred—with a list, items in prioritized order waiting to be checked off—but he used his tools.

When he’d installed the decorative shelves, he drafted one of the crew to help him carry in the big wall mirror with its ornate gilded frame.

Justine stood, hands on hips, adjusting its position with “a little to the left, a little higher—no, lower.” Owen marked, measured, drilled while she went back to her scrubbing.

“It’s up,” he called out.

“Hold on a sec.”

He heard the whoosh of water as she emptied her bucket. When she stepped out again, she once more fisted her hands on her hips. “I love it!”

Walking to him, she stood so the mirror reflected both of them. With a grin, she put her arm around his waist. “It’s perfect. Thanks, Owen. Go on over and get Hope, would you? She knows what needs to go up downstairs. I’ve got another acre of tile to clean.”

“I can hire a cleaning service.”

She shook her head. “This stage is for family.”

He supposed that made Hope Beaumont family. She and his mother had hit it off, Owen thought as he crossed the hall. Right from the first beat.

The former beauty queen stood on a step stool in the apartment kitchen polishing the cabinet doors. She’d tied a bandana around her dark hair, had a rag hanging out of the back pocket of jeans flecked with white paint and nearly worn through on the right knee.

She glanced around at him, blew out a breath that fluttered her spiky bangs. “It didn’t look as dirty as it was.”

“Construction dirt gets into everything.” He wondered if he should tell her she’d be sucking and mopping it up for days. Maybe weeks.

She’d find out for herself, he decided.

“Making progress,” he said instead.

“We really are.” She sat on the stool a moment, took a bottle of water from the countertop, and twisted off the top. “Are we really going to have furniture up here tomorrow?”

“It’s looking good for it.”

She sipped, smiled.

She had a smoky voice that suited the sultry looks, all big dark eyes, full, shapely mouth.

It didn’t hurt, he supposed, to have a looker as innkeeper, but more to the point, much more important to him, her level of organization and efficiency marched along with his own.

“If you’ve got a minute, Mom said there were some things you wanted put up on the second floor.”

“And the first if we can squeeze it in. The more shipping boxes we empty, the easier it’ll be to clean, and the smoother the load-in should go.”

“That’s a good point.” The woman, he thought, spoke his language. “I’m your man. Anything you need done in here?”

“I’ve got some shelves I need to hang.”

Oh well, he thought. It was the Day of the Shelves. “I’ll hang them for you.”

“I’d appreciate it. They’re over at the other apartment. I can get them later.”

“I can send somebody over for them.”

“Sure, if you can spare someone. But we can deal with what’s on-site first. I’ve got everything Justine wants hung back in J&R.”

His language, he thought again.

“Want a coat?” he asked as she got off the stool.

“I’ll be fine. It’s a quick trip.” But she pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt down to her wrists. “I talked to Avery this morning,” she continued as they walked toward the back of the building. “She’s frazzled with so many of her crew out. I’d hoped to go over, give her a hand tonight, but it looks like we’re going to be in here most of the evening.”

When they went out, she slapped a hand on her bandana before the wind whipped it off. “As cold as it is I’ll bet she’s slammed with deliveries tonight. Who wants to go out in this?”

She nipped into Jane and Rochester, rubbed her hands together. “So we can hit W&B first. Or since we’re right here, we could work back to front on the second floor. Starting here, with the bathroom shelves and mirror.” She tapped the carefully labeled boxes. “Bathroom mirror.”

She ran through the items for each room, working down to the first floor.

“That ought to keep me busy. Let’s save steps, start where we are.”

“Good. Why don’t I show you where everything goes, then get out of your way. You can send someone up for me if you have any questions.” Taking a folding knife out of her pocket, she slit open a resealed shipping box.

“I like a woman who carries her own knife.”

“I’ve filled out my tools since I moved here. I nearly bought my own nail gun, then realized I’d gone too far.” She took out two curved copper shelves. “So I compensated with more office supplies. What is it about new file folders and color-coordinated Post-its?”

“Preaching to the choir.”

They chatted amiably as she directed the height, the space, as he measured, leveled, and drilled.

“It’s perfect. Look how the antique gold of the mirror frame plays off the tiles, and the copper of the tub, the shelves. Wait until Justine sees this.” Turning a circle, she aimed for the bedroom again. “I can’t wait to dress this room. All the rooms. With the fireplace and that amazing bed going in here, I think it’s going to be one of our most popular.”

She pulled a notebook out of her pocket, checked off items, made notes.

He grinned when she tucked it away again. “It’s nice to have somebody on my team for a change.”

“Writing things down saves time in the long run.”

“Again, preaching to the choir.”

Together they gathered boxes, carried them to the porch door and through.

Hope started into Eve and Roarke, and nearly walked straight into Ryder.

“Mom wants the ceiling light up. Where the hell is it?”

“I’m carrying it,” Owen told him.

“Then you install it.”

“That’s the plan. Hope’s got some things over at her apartment for her place upstairs. Why don’t you go over and get them?”