Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

“He’s a good boy—man. You always had an eye for him.”

“Dad, I was five. I didn’t know what having an eye meant.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I just . . . you let me know if he doesn’t treat you right.”

“And you’ll crush him like a worm.”

Putting on a fierce scowl, Willy B flexed his considerable biceps. “If I have to.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” She turned with the platter of steaming pancakes. “Let’s eat so we can go rip into those presents.”

*   *   *

It wouldn’t be Christmas to Avery’s mind without a crowd in the kitchen. She’d always appreciated Justine for opening her house, and the big kitchen in it, to her, to her father. And this year with the addition of Clare and the kids, Clare’s parents, and Hope, crowds milled everywhere.

And kids, she mused. Clare’s boys, Carolee’s two granddaughters. Squeeze in Justine’s two dogs—who managed to do just that as often as possible—Ryder’s D.A., and the two puppies, and Christmas was, to Avery, as perfect as it got.

She loved her one-on-one time with her father, but this—the noise, the overstimulated kids, the excited dogs, the smell of ham baking, sauces simmering, pies cooling—plucked a chord deep inside her.

She wanted this, had always wanted this, for herself. For her own.

She stopped mincing garlic long enough to take the glass of wine Owen offered her.

“You look happy.”

“If you’re not happy on Christmas, when?”

Curious, he peered into the mixing bowl beside her. “Smells good.”

“It’ll taste better when it’s inside the mushroom caps and baked.”

“Stuffed mushrooms, huh? Maybe you can make some of those for next week.”

She took another sip of wine, set down the glass, and went back to mincing. “I could do that.”

“How about those little meatballs you do sometimes?”

“Cocktail meatballs.”

“Yeah, those.”

“It’s possible.”

“I tapped Mom for a ham, thought I’d slice it up for sandwiches, maybe get a couple of party platters of cheese and dipping vegetables, like that. And—”

“Don’t get platters. Just get the stuff. I’ll show you how to tray it.”

He’d hoped she’d say that. “Okay. If you give me a list of what you need for the other stuff, I’ll pick it up.” D.A. snuck up, sat delicately on her foot to get her attention. Avery gave him as solemn a look as he gave her.

“You don’t want this,” she assured him.

She heard wild laughter—Harry’s?—roll up from the lower-level family room. “I’m number one! Number one, suckers!”

“Wii.” Owen shook his head with mock sorrow. “Brings out the best or the worst in us.”

“What are they playing?”

“Boxing when I walked up.”

“I can take the kid in that. I can take him.” She looked over where Clare layered a huge casserole for scalloped potatoes. “I’m taking your firstborn to the mat. It’s going to be a KO. I’ll show him no mercy.”

“He’s sneaky, and he’s been practicing.”

Avery flexed her biceps much as her father had that morning. “Small, but mighty.”

“He hits below the belt,” Ryder snarled as he came through. “You’re raising a ball-puncher,” he said to Clare.

“Beat you?”

“In three rounds—but he cheats.” Ryder opened the fridge for a beer, frowned. “What’s this fancy deal in here?”

“Trifle.” Hope reached around him, took out a vegetable crudités.

“A trifle of what? Looks pretty big to me.”

“It’s a dessert, a double chocolate trifle. Here, you can take this downstairs.”

He gave it the same suspicious sneer he’d given the trifle. “Kids don’t want carrots and celery and crap. They want chips—and the runt likes salsa. Hotter the better.”

“They’re having carrots and celery and crap,” Clare told him. “And Murphy’s not having hot salsa and taco chips before dinner.”

“Neither are you.” Justine didn’t spare him a glance as she checked her ham. “Owen, grab those pot holders and take this out for me. It’s heavy. Clare, the oven’s yours.”

“How soon do we eat actual food?” Ryder qualified.

“About an hour and a half.”

“We’re men. Boxing, skiing, alien-fighting, football-playing, race car–driving men. We need real food now.”

“Appetizers in thirty,” Avery called out and snagged his attention.

“You making some of the stuff you make?”

“I am.”

“Okay.” He took the tray, his beer, started back downstairs. “Why do they call it trifle when it’s big?”

“I’ll look that up,” Hope promised.

“Do that. Come on, Dumbass. This is all we’re going to get.”

A little mournfully, the dog followed Ryder down where Harry’s latest cheer burst out. “Still number one!”

“All right, taking five.” Avery pulled off her bib apron, tossed it aside. “Somebody needs a spanking.” After rolling her shoulders, she marched downstairs.

And marched back up five minutes later with Harry’s catcalls ringing behind her. “He beat the crap out of me.”

She paused for a moment, scanned the kitchen, the women, the movements, heard her father’s big belly laugh rise up the stairs, and Justine’s and Carolee’s voices from the dining room.

She slipped out to the living room, still disordered from the morning. Open gifts scattered under the tree shining in the window. Justine’s dog Cus sprawled on his back, feet in the air as he caught a nap in front of the simmering fire.

The ruckus from the family room rumbled under her feet like a minor earthquake.

“Something wrong?” Owen asked her, and she turned.

And she smiled as she crossed to him, slid her arms around him. Laid her head on his chest. “No. Everything’s right. Everything’s exactly right.”

On a supply run the week after Christmas, Avery broke down and bought her own Wii. She’d resisted—she was on her feet hours every day already; she didn’t have time to play games.

And why would she play by herself anyway?

But facing a second defeat—in the rematch with Harry after Christmas dinner, then tanking in bowling so humiliatingly even Carolee’s four-year-old granddaughter beat her score—changed everything.

She’d learn. She’d practice. She’d come back and take them all.

Meanwhile she juggled as fast as she could. Tossing pizzas, making sauces, firing a delivery guy—damn it—redoing the schedule to compensate until she hired a replacement.

When she could, she helped Hope put some finishing touches on the inn, and—big sacrifice—stayed a night in Westley and Buttercup for a status report.

She shoehorned in time for projections and plans for her new place, walked through it to take her own measurements, sketch out some basic ideas to pass on to Beckett.

She barely saw Owen. The brothers’ focus zeroed more truly on the building next door to the inn now, and she really had no excuse—and no time—to poke her nose in there.

Yet.

Every night before bed, she took a last look out the window at the building directly across, and imagined MacT’s—imagined hers. And she gave a final good night to the inn.

Once or twice she thought she saw a woman silhouetted at the rail.

Waiting for Billy.

She wondered at the devotion. Most people, to her mind, couldn’t hang on to a relationship in the normal course of events, yet here was someone who held on beyond the impossible.

Maybe one day—she hoped one day—that faithfulness would be rewarded, at least with answers.

And every morning, she gazed out again, at what would be hers, and at what could be done.

Though she waited, too, she never saw that steadfast figure in the light of day.

Between those two points—the last look at night and the first look in the morning, Christmas week passed in a blur.

*   *   *

At four on New Year’s Eve, she closed the restaurant, ran upstairs, ran back down to her car with the pot of meatballs she’d made the night before.

Raced back upstairs.

By five she’d showered, fussed with her hair, her face, dressed and packed an overnight bag.

A different process than the week before, she mused, seeing as she wore sexy underwear and had packed tiny black boxers and a skinny black tank to “sleep” in.

What would it be like to sleep with Owen?

Okay, she decided as she zipped the bag, she wasn’t going to think about it, try to imagine it, get bogged down in speculation.

Better to let it evolve, be surprised.

She grabbed her bag, texting Hope on her way out.

Heading over now for wardrobe check.

She piled in her car, shook back hair she’d rinsed a smoldering red, blew out a breath.

Hope’s answer came back before she’d turned the key in the ignition.

I’m here to serve.

Avery drove across The Square to the inn’s lot, jumped out as Hope opened the door to Reception.

“I was just organizing my office.”

“You already organized your office.”

“I wanted to make some changes. And while I was in there, I checked reservations. Two more in March.”

“Go team. Okay, be honest.” Pulling off her coat, she tossed it over the high-backed chair in front of the fire, did a quick spin.

“Slow it down, Speedy.”

“Right.” Avery took another breath. “I’m a little wired. I had a vicious day, which I’ll tell you about later, then I couldn’t decide on the earrings, and I always know which earrings, which made me realize I’m a little nervous. I’m going to have sex with Owen next year. Which is tomorrow—tonight. After the party.”