The Next Always, Page 27

  your mother, but I thought we could put a journal in each room—themed to it. I got this on loan from TTP. Guests could write comments in them.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Good. And I thought we could get a nice registration book. I know we’re not doing that sort of thing, but if we could find a classy one, put it on the desk in The Library, it’s another way for guests to write something. And I got this sample today.”

  She reached inside the planet again, pulled out a cream-colored folder. “For the rooms—we put a nice welcome note in here on the stationery—from the staff, the list of art when we get that worked out, a menu from Avery’s, other information.”

  “You’re having entirely too much fun with this.”

  “I really am, and just wait until I start buying office supplies. Oh, and while I’ve got one of you, I thought of a few things last night.”

  She reached in again, pulled out an enormous notebook.

  “Beckett!” Ryder yelled down from the second-floor porch. “Are you going to stand around making time with the innkeeper all day, or get any actual work done?”

  “Kiss my ass,” Beckett called back pleasantly.

  “I’ll let you go.” Hope stuck the notebook back in her bag. “Tell me something first. Is he ever going to call me by name, or am I always going to be ‘the innkeeper’?”

  “The only time you have to worry is when he calls you that damn innkeeper.”

  “I suppose so.”

  She glanced up again, cool stare in place, but wasted it as Ryder had already gone back in.

  FOR THE FIRST time in months, Beckett considered demoing his apartment bathroom and installing a hot tub. He might not have been a gym rat, but he considered himself in pretty damn good shape. Or had, until the day of hauling tubs and toilets, sinks, vanities, and Christ knew what up a couple flights of stairs—multiple times—had done him in.

  Everything ached.

  A hot tub, he thought as he stripped and dropped sweaty, filthy clothes on the bathroom floor. Maybe a new shower system with body jets like they were putting in the inn.

  An in-house masseuse would be a nice touch.

  One thing, he told himself as he got into his all-too-pedestrian shower, he’d be modifying his house plans and adding some well-deserved perks to the master bath.

  Of course, the way he was going, he’d be an AARP member before he built the damn place. Really had to get on that.

  But right at the moment, building anything, including the doghouse he’d promised the kids they’d start next week, seemed like the seventh level of hell.

  One of these fine days he’d stick with his drawing board, his CAD, his slide rule, and blueprints, and just tell other people where to hammer, saw, and haul.

  “Yeah, that’s going to happen,” he mumbled and tried to imagine hot jets swirling and pulsing around tired muscles. His imagination didn’t quite make the grade.

  He remembered to pick up the clothes, ditch the towel in the hamper when he considered Clare might use the bathroom when she came to pick him up.

  His back snarled at him—he snarled back.

  Since he didn’t know where they were going, he considered wardrobe choices. Probably not jeans, though jeans and a sweatshirt seemed like the perfect choice for his overworked body.

  He settled on black pants and a casual shirt with tiny blue and green checks. If absolutely necessary, he could dress it up with a tie and—please God, don’t make me—a jacket.

  If she hadn’t already made plans, whatever they were, he’d have nudged her toward a quiet evening in, with delivery and DVDs.

  But a woman who worked all week, at home and at business, deserved a fun evening out on a Saturday night.

  If she wanted to go dancing, he might break down in tears.

  He glanced around the apartment, deemed it reasonably clean, mostly because he hadn’t spent enough time in it recently to mess it up. Between Clare, work, family meetings, dogs, kids, time for sprawling out with beer, chips, and ESPN had dwindled down to next to never.

  He paused a moment, asking himself if he missed it, and decided not very much. Being busy had its perks, especially being busy with Clare and her engaging brood, work he genuinely loved, the regular contact with his own family. Time to stop bitching, he decided, and maybe stock up on the BenGay.

  The brisk knock sounded just as he considered stretching out on the couch for five minutes. Telling himself to stop thinking like an old man, he opened the door.

  Avery and Hope, arms loaded, breezed in and straight by him.

  “Pretend we’re not here,” Avery advised as she marched back to his kitchen.

  “What—”

  “Hi.” Clare paused long enough to offer him a kiss. “We’re just going to set up. It won’t take long.”

  “Okay. Set up what?”

  “This and that. Enough of this and too much of that for me to carry up by myself.”

  “We’re invisible.” Avery cleared off the drop-leaf table he sometimes used for eating. “You can’t see us.”

  Hope opened a white cloth, draped the table with a quick billow and snap while Avery pulled a corkscrew out of her pocket. She drew the cork on a bottle of cab, set it on a silver wine holder.

  “I thought we’d have dinner in. I hope that’s okay.”

  Baffled, Beckett followed Clare into the kitchen to watch her put a roasting pan in his oven. “You want to stay in?”

  “Unless you hate the idea.”

  “No, but—”

  She wore a dress, short and slim in a dark, deep blue, and shiny red shoes with tall, skinny heels.

  “You look great.” He caught the scent of something miraculous. “What’s in the oven?”

  “Pot roast.”

  “Seriously?”

  Obviously pleased, she laughed. “I talked to your mother, and she said it was your favorite. Hopefully mine will measure up to hers.”

  “You made pot roast?”

  “And a few other things. If that wine’s breathed long enough, why don’t you pour us a glass. I have a little fussing to do yet in here.”

  “Sure, I’m . . .” He trailed off when he saw a familiar shape on the counter. He stepped over, lifted the lid. “Apple pie? Are you kidding me? You baked a pie?”

  “Also rumored to be a favorite. I like baking pies when I have time.”

  “Clare, this must’ve taken you all day to put together. I didn’t expect—”

  “Why?” She tipped her head at him. “Why shouldn’t you expect now and then. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “I guess I did. It’s just . . . wow.”

  “You take me out. You take my kids out. You brought them dogs, and put in motion lights at my house. You give us all time and attention, Beckett. I wanted to give some back to you.”

  It staggered him. It moved him. “I think this is the best thing anyone’s done for me in maybe ever.”

  “I don’t know about ever, but I enjoyed doing it. How about that wine?”

  “Sure.”

  He stepped out, saw that Hope and Avery had transformed his lowly drop leaf into a sparkling table for two, complete with candles and flowers. Music played quietly from his stereo.

  He poured the wine, carried the glasses into the kitchen, where Clare put together a fancy tray of olives. “It looks pretty impressive out there. Are they really invisible, or did they leave?”

  “It’s just you and me.” She took the glass, tapped it to his. “So, to just you and me for an evening.”

  “I can’t think of better. Clare. Thanks.”

  “Beckett.” She moved into his arms. “You’re welcome.”

  She wouldn’t let him help, and he had to admit it felt damn good just to sit with her, talk over wine and fancy appetizers. He felt the burden and effort of the day slip away—and pure gratitude when they sat at the table and he took his first bite of her pot roast.

  “It definitely measures up.”

  “Your
mother and I compared recipes. They were pretty close. I had to make it good,” she added, “so you wouldn’t be disappointed we weren’t going out.”

  “Clare, I hauled half a ton of bathroom fixtures up those stairs today. By the time I got home I felt like an eighty-year-old man who got run over by a truck. Pot roast and apple pie at home? It’s like Christmas.”

  “I heard you worked today. I thought you’d all take Saturday off.”

  “Normally, but we wanted to get the fixtures up so the plumber can start Monday morning.”

  “It’s getting more real, isn’t it? It’s not just a building, however beautiful. It’s form and function now, or coming to it. I remember when we put in the bookshelves, the counter, opening those first boxes of books. I remember that so well, that feeling of this is real now. This is actually a bookstore. Mine.”

  “Most days there’s so much going on, so it’s get it done and think about what’s next. But yeah, there are days like this when it hits. It’s real.” He topped off her wine, then his own. “Right now, here with you, I can look back to beginnings, to plans, to how can we do this, and real’s good. Tell me you’ll stay tonight?”

  She smiled at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HE WOULD HAVE LINGERED OVER PIE, BUT SHE INSISTED on clearing up the dishes. Since he figured she was running the show, he didn’t try to persuade her into stacking them up for later. In any case, he enjoyed having her fuss around his kitchen with him with the music going, the conversation easy.

  “This was a hell of a surprise, Clare.”

  “It may not reach the level of two puppies, but it’s not bad. And for me, it’s nice to have an evening where the focus of every minute isn’t on costumes and candy. Plus, I know that as soon as that’s done, it’ll be all Santa all the time until Christmas.”

  “They’re still believers?”

  “I think Harry’s copped to it, but he pretends otherwise. They’ve already started lists, which includes every toy they see advertised on TV.”

  “I remember doing the same thing. Those were the days.”

  “Liam wants a Barbie.”

  She sent him a sparkling smile as she said it. After a beat of surprise, Beckett beamed right back at her. “To use as a hostage, victim, or innocent bystander.”

  Clare fisted the hand holding a dishcloth on her hip. “That’s exactly right, except he hasn’t come up with innocent bystander yet. Men really are just boys in bigger packages.”

  “You ought to get that car she’s got, too. Then she can be driving along, and get carjacked. That’d be cool.”

  “It used to be Winnie the Pooh and jack-in-the-boxes.”

  “Times change.”

  “Boy, they do. And just think, next year you’ll be decorating the inn.”

  “I guess we’ll have to go all-out.”

  “Absolutely. You’ll have to seriously deck the halls. You should do a holiday tour.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  “Really, Beckett. People are invested, and they really want to see what you’ve done in there. You should do a tour after it’s all done. Hope would know just how it should be done. Avery and I could help. Think community relations, publicity, and pride.”

  “I’ll talk it over with the family.” And could already see his mother jumping all over the idea.

  “Meanwhile, I’m thinking of opening the bookstore on Sundays once you’re up and running. Maybe the inn will send some business my way.”

  She paused, glanced around. “Why don’t you pour the rest of the wine? I’m going to go freshen up.”

  Good thing he picked up his dirty clothes and wet towels, he thought.

  He poured the wine, took his to the front windows. She was probably right about the tour, the decorations, even her Sunday hours. More work for everybody, but they’d make it worthwhile. He looked at the way the building shone now, imagined it decked out for the holidays.

  Definitely worthwhile.

  Hardly more than a year before the building had stood sagging in the dark, and now it gleamed. Hardly more than a year from now, he thought, they’d have it sparkling with lights and wreaths and garland.

  Amazing, really, what could happen in a year.

  Clare was here, with him. And he could clearly see her with him next year. In fact, he realized, he couldn’t see it otherwise.

  “Beckett? Could you come in here a minute?”

  Hell, had he left stuff tossed around in there? If so, he’d just have to distract her, so he grabbed her wine on the way.

  “I haven’t had a lot of time to—” He stopped speaking the minute he stepped to the bedroom door, mostly because he’d swallowed his tongue.

  Clare in candlelight.

  She’d scattered them around the room to create a soft and indulgent romantic glow—and added more flowers to perfume the air. She’d turned down his bed, mounded the pillows in invitation.

  And she, he thought, the centerpiece. Her hair fell long and loose around bare shoulders, glinting in the soft edges of the candle glow. Her body—smooth skin, subtle curves—seemed draped in midnight that frothed at the curve of her breasts and high on her thighs.

  He wasn’t sure what women called what she wore—corset seemed much too ordinary and dated. He’d have dubbed it instant seduction.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “You leave me breathless.”

  “I hoped I would. I hope you’ll come here. Come over here, Beckett, and leave me breathless.”

  He set the glasses aside, crossed to her. He trailed his fingertips over her shoulders, down her arms, up again. “You know I’m going to have to get the boys a whole kennel of puppies now.”

  When she laughed, he swooped in, took her mouth. Took her breath.

  She’d wanted so much to know this, this one vivid, intense moment, the absolute focus of body and mind. That moment that held like a diver on a cliff before the needs and sensations whipped and ripped into the heedless fall.

  She’d wanted to give it to him, that moment, the ones that followed. She wrapped close, needing to seep into him as he did to her. Take him over as she was taken.

  Tonight, all night, she would give everything and anything in celebration of knowing she could love.

  All night, she thought again, to savor.

  She pressed her cheek to his, then eased back. “It’s nice”—she began unbuttoning his shirt—“to have so much time. Lingering time.”

  “Just tell me, were you wearing that all along?”

  Her gaze slid up to his, sly as her smile. He wondered if women knew that look could make a man a slave.

  “It was more efficient. And I liked knowing I’d come in here, take off my dress.” She eased the shirt off his shoulders. “Call you in. I liked knowing you’d see me, and want me.”

  “I want you every time I see you. I want you when I don’t see you. I just want you, Clare.”

  “You can have me. I like knowing that, too.”

  She drew down his zipper, making his belly quiver.

  “Lingering’s a challenge when you look like you do.”

  “I’ll help you with that. You should lie down. You worked hard today.” She gave him a playful nudge.

  He thought it might kill him to let her take the reins and take it slow—but he’d die happy.

  He lay back. She slid over him, straddled him. Shaking her hair back, she set her hands on his shoulders.

  “I can feel the work you do here.” She kneaded them gently, working toward his neck. “And here,” she continued as she stroked down his biceps. “It’s exciting. And in your hands.” She took his, pressed their palms together. “Hard and strong. It’s exciting to know they’ll be on me, touching me, doing things to me only you and I know about.”

  She interlaced their fingers, then leaned down to drown them both in a kiss.

  He wondered how the body could relax so utterly and churn so madly at once. She soothed him, arouse
d him, untied every knot of tension all the while lashing new ones as her lips brushed over his jaw, trailed in slow, silky kisses down his throat.

  “I need to touch you.”

  “You will,” she murmured. “I want you to. Soon.” But she kept her fingers twined with his as she glided those lips over his chest, and slowly, torturously, down to his belly.

  It was a gift, she thought, this lazy feast of his body. A gift for both of them. How good it was to have him under her, to know the shape of his body, the scent of him, the feel and taste of his skin.

  To indulge herself, to gorge if she pleased, as long as she pleased. The more she consumed, the more her appetite sharpened.

  Strong hands, strong arms, strong back, she thought, yet he trembled for her. His breath quickened; his workingman muscles tensed. For her. That, too, was a gift.

  She took him to the edge, held him there until every labored breath burned. Then she rose up, bringing his hands with hers to breasts thinly covered with midnight lace.

  She arched back at last, at last letting him touch. Sighing out her pleasure as the candlelight bathed her.

  His fingers found hooks. He willed himself not to rush, not to tear and tug but to release each one carefully. And to watch the midnight shift over her skin, slide down to reveal more.

  She drew him in when he bowed up to sample and to relish, pressed him to her, urging him to feast.

  The air pulsed, heady with candle wax and flowers, and in the fragile light once more she eased him back, braced her hands on his shoulders. Watching him, she took him into her.

  Her breath released, something like a sob. Again she laced her fingers with his, and she began to move.

  Rocking, almost gently at first, her eyes on his until he saw nothing but her, felt nothing but her. Only Clare.

  Time spun out, long, slow beats. Once more she took him to the edge, held him there. Held him, then drove him over into shattered dark.

  IN THE MORNING, he turned the tables and brought her breakfast in bed. It wasn’t pot roast with all the trimmings, but he knew how to put together a fairly decent omelette.