Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

“How much do we charge as a wedding venue?”

She smiled at him. “You and Hope will figure it out. I’d probably give them a discount, due to it’s the first one and all that. Play your cards right, wedding guests will book every room the night before and the night of.”

Good business, he thought. Avery knew good business. “I’ll talk to Hope tomorrow. You’ve got a busy brain, Avery.”

“I know. Right now it’s thinking we should finish this coffee. You go out and plow the lanes while I straighten up from the party. Then to pay me back for my services, you can take me to bed.”

“I can’t lose.”

“To my busy brain, it’s more like win-win.”

Maybe he liked to plow, but as soon as he’d done his own lane—perhaps not with the usual finesse—Owen headed straight to Ryder’s. Paths for D.A. already cleared, he noted. Good.

He parked the jeep, jumped off. He stomped his boots, then walked into the house.

“Hey, Ry.”

“Down here.”

“I’m covered with snow, man. You come up here.”

D.A. padded upstairs, tail wagging. He licked snow off Owen’s boots. Ryder followed moments later. He wore sweatpants hacked off at the knees and a sweaty T-shirt.

“What’s up? I’m trying to get a damn workout in, after which my plans were to fat-ass before game time. Now it’s sledding and snow wars at Mom’s.”

“When?”

“You forget your phone? Has the world ended?”

“I’ve got my phone.” He dug it out. “No messages.”

“Maybe you’re not invited. She likes me better.”

“She pretends to like you better so you don’t whine like a baby. She must’ve called the house. Anyway, this works. I’m taking your truck. You need to finish the plowing. Get Beck’s, then Mom’s. We can switch back over there.”

“You’re Mr. Plow.”

“Have you got a woman in here?”

On a windy sigh, Ryder dipped his hands in his baggy pockets. “Sadly no.”

“I’ve got one. I’m taking your truck.”

“So you can go turn on the Little Red Machine. That’s said with respect and affection. For her.”

“I’m taking your truck, then I’m going to have sex while you’re not. You’re Mr. Substitute Plow.”

“Then no bitching when I don’t do it your way.”

“Just don’t screw it up.” He grabbed Ryder’s truck keys off the table by the door. “What time at Mom’s?”

“I don’t know. We’re not punching a time clock. Two or three. Whenever.”

“Then I’ll see you when I see you.”

As Owen strode out, Ryder looked down at his dog. “One of us has to get a woman. I fucking hate plowing.”

Owen walked in to the smell of soup simmering, and when he stripped out of his gear, into a clean kitchen. Though he considered it a waste of breath over the blasting music, he called Avery’s name as he walked through the house.

He heard her, singing in the shower, when he reached the bedroom. She could barely carry a tune, but she made up for it with strong enthusiasm and volume.

Unable to resist, and really the only downside was a glass shower door rather than a curtain, he yanked the door open and made the high-pitched Psycho sounds.

Her answering scream was brilliant.

Plastered against the shower wall, eyes as big as blue moons, she gaped at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

He had to suck in the breath laughter stole from him. “I think I broke a rib laughing, otherwise, I’m good.”

“Jesus, Owen.”

“I couldn’t help it. It had to be done.”

“Yeah? Well, so does this!” She grabbed the handheld sprayer, twisted the controls, and soaked him where he stood. “Now we’re both twelve.” Smug, she fit the sprayer back in its bracket.

“I guess I might as well come in there.”

“Hmm,” was her answer.

“A hot shower, a hot woman after cold work,” he said as he stripped off his dripping shirt.

“I thought you’d be another hour at least.”

“I switched with Ry.” He yanked off his boots. “Soup smells good.”

“Once I finished down there I decided to take advantage of your shower. Your bathroom rivals the inn’s, and I’ve been getting spoiled. And your mother called.”

“Sledding and snow wars, late afternoon.”

“I said I’d bring the soup.” She sent him a questioning look.

“Good idea.”

“Clare can stop by my place, get my boots and gear.”

“That’ll work.” He peeled off his soaked pants, tossed a couple towels on the floor to soak up the wet.

“She didn’t seem surprised when I answered the phone.”

“Mom has a way of knowing what she needs to know.” He stepped in, closed the shower door behind him. “You know if you switch the TV to digital radio, it pipes in through those.”

He gestured to the speakers in the ceiling.

“Oh.”

“Just FYI.” Then he just smiled at her.

“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.

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.”