The Last Boyfriend
Nora Roberts
“What?”
“I was just thinking when I watched you skinny-dipping all those years ago, I never figured on this.” He ran his hands down her body. “You’re all wet and warm.”
“You’re wet.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But a little chilly.”
“It’s cold out there, doing man work.”
Laughing, she tipped her head back. “You’ve got man work to do in here, too.”
“Then I’d better get started.”
He took her mouth while water rained hot and steam plumed, letting his hands roam that wet, slippery skin as she hooked her hands around his shoulders, rose up.
No, he’d never figured on this, on the ease of it, the excitement of it. Never imagined the odd discovery of someone he’d known all of his life.
Smooth and curvy, firm and agile, and so willing to touch and be touched, to take and be taken.
She smelled of his soap now, something else to make the familiar the new.
She lathered it over him, enjoying the play of muscle. She rarely thought of his strength as it was his mind, his kindness, his Owenness she thought of first. But now, running her hands over him, exploring those ridges, those ripples, reminded her he was, at the core, a man who worked with his hands, his back, his brawn as well as his brain.
And those hands, far from smooth, incited fresh needs, new wants, deeper desires.
He made her tremble, made her breath snag and tear, meeting those needs, exploiting more until her body seemed to gather into one aching pulse.
Water sluiced over her, slicking her hair back. Her eyes, brilliantly blue now, stared into his, then went opaque as she shuddered.
“I don’t . . . We can’t.” She struggled to regain her balance, to find purchase. “You’re too tall.”
“You’re too short,” he corrected, then gripping her hips, lifted her off her feet. “So you’d better hang on.”
“Owen—”
He braced her against the wet wall, and drove into her.
“Oh.” Her eyes flew open, intense now, focused on his. He plunged again, ripping a cry of pleasure from her, and still her eyes remained open and on his. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go.”
“You either,” he managed an instant before she pulled his mouth to hers.
They both held on.
Later, she sprawled facedown, naked, on his bed. “I’m going to get up and get dressed in a minute.”
“Take your time,” he told her, admiring her thistle. “I like the view.”
“What is it with guys and tattoos on girls?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think it’s the Xena factor. Female warrior.”
“You don’t have a two-piece black leather warrior suit, do you?”
“It’s at the cleaners.“ She pillowed her head on her arms. “Maybe I should get another tattoo.”
“No.” Then studying her butt as he dressed, he considered. “Like what? Where? Why?”
“I don’t know, have to think about it. The problem with the butt location is I hardly ever see it, and it seems like the person who goes through the process ought to be able to see the results easily. Added to it, hardly anybody else sees my butt either, so what’s the point? Unless I consider it some secret ritual of teenage rebellion, which it pretty much was.
“This would be mature.”
“A mature tattoo.”
“Anyway.” She rolled over, sat up. “I really like your shower. I really like you in your shower.” On a long, lazy sigh, she reached for her blue-checked robe. “I need to check the soup.”
“Stay tonight.”
With the robe half on, she stopped to blink at him. “Tonight? We both work tomorrow.”
“We both work tomorrow anyway. After snow wars and soup and most probably fights over football, come back with me. Stay tonight.”
She wrapped the robe around her, belted it. Looked up again. “All right. I’m going to check the soup before I get dressed.”
“Okay.”
As she walked downstairs she wondered what to do about the flutter around her heart. She recognized it; she’d felt it before.
She’d been five.
Falling in love with Owen—again—was very likely as foolish now as it had been then. But the MacTavish Gut knew what it knew. She just wasn’t so sure about the MacTavish Heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EARLY IN THE new year, armed with a thick binder, Avery did yet another walk-through of what she firmly thought of now as MacT’s. But this time she had Hope and Clare as sounding boards.
“The bar along there. Dark wood, something that makes a statement. I’m going to try to sweet-talk, cajole, beg, and sex Owen into making it.”
“How’s that going?” Clare wondered. “The sex part.”
“Look at this face.” Avery pointed her thumbs at her own face.
“Satisfied, relaxed, happy. And just a little bit smug. So question answered.”
“So far, so good. Lights there, there, there, warm tones. And I’m thinking a leather sofa—maybe dark brown—over there, coffee table. Some high tops in the front window, low tops there and there. And the pass-through to the restaurant will be right there.”
“It’s going to be great. But before we get into color wheels and tables,” Hope added, “one must ask why you’re not bragging about said sex, or offering details to the one, sad one of us who isn’t having any.”
“I might jinx it, and make you sadder.”
“Please.” Hope flicked that away. “I saw Owen earlier, and his face also looks satisfied, relaxed, and happy. I’m not sure about smug, though he may have been masking that. Are you seeing him tonight?”
“No. I’ve only got about an hour, then I’ve got to get over to the shop. I’m working. And he’s—all of them—are so busy right now. Prepping for the opening in a few days, working on the other building, planning for this one. We’ve been together almost every night since New Year’s, and I thought . . .”
“You needed a break?” Clare suggested.
“I thought I—we—should take one. You know how I can get. I always go into something like this thinking it’s casual, it’s fun, it’s natural. You like the guy, trust the guy, you’re attracted to the guy, so you go with it. Then, being me, I start wondering, is it more, should it be more, is this love—big L?”
“Are you in love with Owen?” Clare asked.
“I got the . . .” She fluttered a hand at her heart.
“The MacTavish Heart.” Hope nodded.
“It can’t be trusted. But the thing is, I’ve loved Owen forever. I love all the Montgomerys. It’s in the bone. So this could be that. Kind of a false positive. If it turns into the big L, it could mess things up.”
“Why,” Clare demanded, “do you automatically assume he couldn’t big L you back?”
“I don’t know, maybe that’s in the bone, too.” She let her shoulders rise, then fall. “I think part of it’s a mother issue, which is just depressing.”
“You’re nothing like your mother.”
“And I don’t want to be,” Avery said with a nod at Clare. “She cheated and lied and used. Sex was easy for her, it was sure as hell casual for her. So I think the part of me that can’t handle the thought of being anything like her takes the easy, casual sex and insists on making it more. Like a reflex. Or antidote. Then I switch it around because the big L hardly ever works. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not,” Hope insisted. “It’s you.”
“But now it’s me and Owen. Every time I’ve been involved with a man I end up making it more because, you know, flutter. Then the flutter stops, and I realize no, he’s not the one. He’s a perfectly nice guy—mostly they have been—but he’s not the one, if there really is a the one anyway.”
“There is,” Clare insisted.
“Maybe. Now I’ve got the flutter with Owen, and when it stops—”
“Why when?” Clare shook her head. “It might not stop.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself, and him. But—” Clare checked the time. “I can’t go into depth on that as I’ve got to get home. But we will talk,” she finished, pointing a finger.
“Fine by me. I’d better lock up. I can walk over to the inn with you, Hope, go over my part of the menu for the opening before I head to work.”
“Okay.”
They went out, parted ways with Clare heading across Main Street and Avery walking with Hope across St. Paul.
“She’s in love,” Avery said. “Love like that makes an optimist out of you, helps you see other people riding the same optimistic train.”
“Why shouldn’t you be optimistic?”
“I’m not overly pessimistic—I don’t think. I’m more cautious.”
“I’m not in love or riding the optimistic train, but I can tell you it’s really nice to see the way you and Owen are together.”
She unlocked the door to Reception. “And I can also see how you—anyone—might take a short, thoughtful break. Sex can be easy and casual, and it can also cloud the brain. So clear your brain for a day or two.”
“That’s it, exactly.” God bless practical-minded Hope, Avery thought. “Brain-clearing interlude.”
“I’m going to make tea while we go over the menu.”
“You’re making tea at the inn.” Avery boosted onto a stool at the island. “And we’re talking opening menu. A year ago, we weren’t even close to this. You weren’t even living in town.”
“A year ago, I thought my future was the Wickham Hotel and Jonathan.”
“Did your heart flutter?”
“No.” Considering, Hope put the kettle on. “But I thought I loved him. I did trust him, admire him, enjoy him. And so, I thought I loved him. He knew that. Knew I trusted him, admired him, felt for him—and he knew I believed we were going to make a future together.”
“Why wouldn’t you believe?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Hope agreed, without the taste of bitterness on her tongue she’d once swallowed too often. “We all but lived together. He said he loved me, he talked about the future with me.”
“I’m sorry, Hope. Does it still hurt?”
“No . . . maybe a little,” she admitted as she set out cups. “More pride than heart though at this point. He used me, and that—that just pisses me off. I don’t believe he intended to in the beginning. But in those last months, he lied to me and used me, and in the end made me feel like a fool. That hurts. Being made to feel like a fool.”
“He’s the fool. I don’t ever want to hurt anyone like that.”
“You couldn’t. You don’t have it in you, Avery.”
She hoped not, but now and again, worrying over it kept her awake at night.
* * *
IN HER QUIET, closed shop, Avery tied on her apron and began the opening process. She switched her ovens on, started coffee. She counted out her cash register, checked the level of her ice machine. Moving from open kitchen to closed and back again, she refilled her toppings trays, made a note to order more delivery boxes, opened a new tub of mozzarella.
After transferring some dough pans to her under-counter cooler, she calculated she’d need to make more by noon. She hauled out her big pots of sauce, set them on low. Deciding she was lower on marinara than she liked, she gathered what she needed to make more.
She paused at the knock on the door, and damn, there was that flutter when she saw Owen through the glass. He held up a key, and at her nod, used it to unlock the front.
“You look busy.”
“Not too. We’re low on marinara.”
“Can I work here at the counter for a while? It’s too noisy at the job site, and they’re into the media tours at the inn.”
“Sure. Want some coffee?”
“I’ll get it in a minute.” He set down his briefcase and a long tube, shed his coat, pulled off his ski cap. Ran his hand through his hair.
Then he walked around the counter, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Smells good.”
“Best marinara in the county.”
“I was talking about you, but the sauce isn’t bad. Do you want coffee?”
“My hands are going to be full until I get this going. Aren’t you supposed to be part of the media stuff?”
“Off and on.” He walked off to get a mug, lifting his voice when she opened a huge can of crushed tomatoes. “We’ve got a nice slate. Hope has contacts down in D.C., up in Philadelphia, so we drew some interest beyond the local. Nice for us.”
“Very.”
“Mom and Carolee are handling most of it with Hope, and the rest of us will do whatever, whenever.”
“Exciting stuff.”
He stood, watching her stir, add her herbs.
“Don’t you have to measure?”
“No,” she said simply.
“I looked over the menu you’ve worked out for the new place. How do you know how to make all that?”
She slanted him a look Hope would’ve termed smug. “I have many skills.”
“I figure you need to test some of those dishes on a willing subject.”
She glanced over. “Do you? And you’d be willing?”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Generous to a fault, that’s you.” But it actually wasn’t a bad idea, she mused. It was like testing out each room in the inn before opening. “I’m off Monday night.”
“Works for me.”
“Place your order.”
“Whatever you want.”
“No, take another look at the proposed menu, place an order—salad, appetizer, entree. The works. When it’s real I’ll have a chef so I won’t do all the cooking, and I’ll have people working the line, but this would be a good indicator. I should try different dishes out on different people, too, make adjustments sooner rather than later.”
“Speaking of adjustments. Are you about done there?”
“I am done.” But she could make dough now, save time in the afternoon.
“I want to show you something.”
“Has to be quick,” she told him as she wiped off her hands. “I should go ahead and make dough while I have the time. And didn’t you have some work?” she added as she crossed to the cooler. Deciding she wanted her caffeine cold, she pulled out a Diet Coke.
“This is part of it.”
He opened the tube, took out a set of blueprints, unrolled them on the counter.
“Is that the bakery building? I never did get a chance to . . .” She trailed off, momentarily speechless as she read the name.
MacT’s Restaurant and Tap Room
“MacT’s. It says MacT’s.”
“That’s the name you said, right? You can always change it. You can change anything right on the blueprints. This is your copy. Beckett is tied up this morning, but he’ll go over them with you. For now, I can answer most questions, if you have any, explain what you don’t get.”
“My blueprints.”
“That’s right.”
“Hold on a minute.” She whirled away, danced around the dining room. Jumped, spun, kicked, reminding him of her cheerleading days at Boonsboro High.
When she did a handspring, he jolted, then laughed. “Jesus Christ, Avery. You can still do that?”
“Apparently.” On a woo-hoo, she launched herself at him.
He caught her, staggered a little as she pumped her fists in the air.
“I was hoping you’d have more enthusiasm.”
“How’s this for enthusiasm?” She locked her arms around him, her legs around him, her mouth to his.
“Not bad.” He turned them in a circle. “Not bad at all.”
“I haven’t even seen them. I have to see them!” Wiggling down, she all but fell on th
e plans.
“I can explain,” he began, but she brushed it away.
“Do you think I can’t read blueprints? I practically slept with the ones for Vesta. It’s good, it’s good,” she muttered. “I’m going to want to move this cooler from here to here. It makes more sense for the flow, plus I’ll need a table here, beside the dishwasher.”
He pulled a pencil out of his briefcase. “Mark it.”
She marked it, made a couple small adjustments. “The opening here, that’s good. Easy pass-through from space to space for servers and customers. Sitting at the bar having a drink with a friend. Hey, why don’t we have dinner? Stroll right on over.”
“It’s a big bar.”
She gave a decisive nod. “Needs to make a statement.”
“You need to tell me what you’re looking for there. The wood, the finish, the style, so I can work up a design for you.”
She shifted her gaze over. “Are you building it?”
“I figured on it. Why?”
“I was going to sex you into it.”
“Now that I think about it, I’m pretty busy.”
On a quick laugh, she turned to wrap her arms around him. The hell with head-clearing breaks. “Owen.”
“Maybe not that busy.”
She held tight, squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not going to let you down.”
“Nobody thinks that. Not for a minute.”
She shook her head, looked up at him. It was more than a building, a business. It was Owen, and that flutter around her heart. “I’m not going to let you down.”
“Okay.”
