Too bad they couldn’t have gone together, but the stops didn’t match up well enough to make it practical. If the weather guys were right, they were in for a full day of rain, a full night of it. He remembered Avery had scheduled herself to work, and to close. He could grab dinner at Vesta after work, use her apartment to finish up paperwork while she was downstairs.

Stay at her place.

He had to remind himself not to assume, but damn it, he’d reached the point he wanted to assume. He wanted her to do the same.

Why shouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t they? But he couldn’t shake the certainty that she’d braked on that particular step and wasn’t quite willing to take the next.

Then again, he had to admit the step they’d stopped on was pretty comfortable.

He swung off for hardware, put an order in for lumber, picked up paint, then carpet samples for the over-the-bakery apartments.

He streamed through his list, making a circuit, making his last stop the drugstore. He clicked through his own items, added Ryder’s shaving cream, Beckett’s Motrin, tossed in a couple of fresh sets of playing cards—to supplement the naked women cards he’d already bought for Beck’s poker night bachelor party.

He started to turn down the next aisle, and spotted Avery.

It gave his heart a quick lift, to see her like this, unexpectedly—and made him shake his head when he noticed her damp hair.

She hadn’t used the umbrella after all.

He thought he’d ease down to her, come up behind—grab her. Imagined her reaction—the jolt, the squeak, the surprise, then the laugh.

She was concentrating so hard, he thought, amused, trying to figure out which . . . pregnancy test to buy.

Jesus Christ.

It was his last clear thought as he watched her take one off the shelf, give it another long study, front and back, then add it to her basket.

He stood exactly where he was, rooted to the floor as she strolled away down the aisle, turned the next corner.

A home pregnancy test? But she took . . . He used . . . How could . . . ?

Avery pregnant? How could she be pregnant? Well, he knew how, but she’d never said anything. Never gave the slightest hint she thought maybe.

She just picked up the am-I-or-aren’t-I kit and added it in with her shower gel and shampoo and mouthwash.

Just another item on the list?

He wanted to go after her, ask her what the hell.

Not the time or place, he told himself. Not the right frame of mind since he couldn’t decide what his frame of mind was, exactly.

He stared down at the things in his own basket, couldn’t think what to do, couldn’t think at all. Numb, a little shaky in the knees, he set the basket aside, and left without buying a thing.

*   *   *

He went back to the new job site, put his back into the demolition. It was hard to beat tearing out walls as a tension reliever. He hauled out hunks of drywall, lengths of splintered framing, personally busted up an old counter.

And still felt shaky, frustrated, and tense as a wire about to snap.

Avery. Pregnant.

How long did one of those tests take? How accurate were they?

He wished he’d taken the time to look up the answers, give himself at least that much solid ground.

First, if she’d bought a pregnancy test, she had reason to think she might be pregnant. Women didn’t buy that kind of thing on a whim.

Did they? Why would they?

People bought Band-Aids before they cut themselves, but didn’t buy pregnancy test kits before they thought they were pregnant.

So since she had reason to think she was, why hadn’t she mentioned it? Just say: Owen, there’s a possibility I could be pregnant, so I’m going to buy a pregnancy test and find out.

She had to be freaked out. Except she hadn’t looked freaked-out.

She’d looked calm, he remembered. She’d even smiled a little as she’d added it to her basket.

Did she want to be pregnant?

Thought she might be, liked the idea. She’d decided not to say anything until she knew one way or the other. If she wasn’t, he supposed she’d planned not to mention it at all. And that didn’t seem right, no, that didn’t sit well with him.

If she was pregnant, he imagined she’d let him know whenever she wanted to let him know. Not telling him the maybe left him in the dark—or would have without that mutual trip to the CVS—so she got to choose if and when. That didn’t sit well, not one bit.

When you factored in what her mother had done, shouldn’t she, of all people, know the father (Jesus, maybe he was going to be a father) had a right to know? There were two people involved in this, not just Avery. They weren’t casual sex pals or an impulsive one- two- or three-night stand.

They were . . .

He wasn’t absolutely sure now that he considered it, but they were in more than a casual, get laid now and again relationship.

Whatever they were, trust and honesty had to be key elements.

She hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about her mother’s visit until he’d put her back to the wall, he remembered. Instead, she’d holed up, walled off, shut him out.

If she thought she could pull that on something like this, she was in for a major attitude adjustment.

“Son of a bitch!” He heaved broken plywood into the Dumpster.

“Okay.” Beckett came up behind him. “You haven’t worked off whatever it is, so spill it.”

“You want me to spill it?” In a rare show of temper, Owen kicked the Dumpster. “I’ll spill it. Avery’s pregnant.”

“Holy shit.” Glancing around as one of the crew came out, Beckett waved the man off before taking Owen by the arm and pulling him under the overhang and out of the rain. “When did you find out?”

“Today. This morning. And you know how I found out? You know how because she doesn’t fucking tell me? I found out because I walked into the goddamn CVS, and there she is, picking up one of those pregnancy tests.”

“Christ, Owen. It was positive?”

“I don’t know.” Temper rising, rising, he marched up and down the concrete walk. “She’s not telling me any damn thing. She’s sneaking off buying one of those pee sticks instead of talking to me. I’ve had it.”

“Okay, take it down a notch.” To halt his brother’s angry pacing, Beckett moved into the path, held up both hands. “You don’t know if she’s pregnant.”

“I’d say, the way she handles things, I’ll be the last to know.” Along with the sudden hot rage ran a cold stream of hurt. “I’ve had it.”

“What did she say when you asked her about it?”

“Nothing. I didn’t.”

After a moment staring at Owen’s angry face, Beckett rubbed his hands over his own. “You didn’t ask her why she was buying the kit?”

“No. I froze, okay? Jesus. She’s tossing it in her basket like it’s a bag of candy—with a little smile—and I froze. What the hell would you do?”

“It’s not the same for Clare and me.” Beckett stared out at the rain, steady and slow, from under the pitch of the roof. “We’ve talked about having a baby. We want to have another kid. I take it the two of you haven’t discussed what you’d do on the if.”

“No. I never thought of the if. She should’ve told me, Beck, that’s bottom line. She should’ve told me she needed a test. Why does she think she has to deal with everything by herself? I can’t work that way, and I don’t want to live that way.”

“No, you can’t.” Not Owen, Beckett thought. His brother was a born team player, an innate believer in partnership and shared loads. For Owen, secrets were for Christmas and birthdays, not for day-to-day living. “You need to talk to her, but Christ, not now. She’s in the middle of her lunch rush. And you need to cool off some anyway.”

“I don’t think cooling off’s going to happen. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I am.”

“Then think about this. If she is pregnant, what do you want to do?”

“If she’s pregnant, we should get married.”

“I didn’t ask should, I asked want.”

“I . . .” He waited for his mind to make that subtle and vital switch. “If we’re making a baby, I’d want to get married.”

“Okay, so take an hour to figure it out. You always figure it out, Owen. By that time, her place will have cleared out some. Go over and tell her you need to talk to her in private. And find out, for Christ’s sake, if you’re going to be a daddy before you freak out any more than you are. Then handle it.”

“You’re right. Jesus, I feel a little . . .”

“Sick?”

“Not exactly. Off. I never figured on anything like this. It’s out of . . .”

“Owen’s Order of Events. Adjust,” he suggested, giving Owen a light punch on the shoulder.

“Adjust. Yeah, I can adjust.” His face darkened, his eyes glinted. “But I’m not the only one who’s going to.”

He waited an hour, decided he’d calmed down, steadied up. He walked over to Vesta in the unrelenting rain, and into the warm, into the scents of sauce and spice.

Behind the cash register, Avery rang up a customer, sent Owen a sassy wink.

A wink, he thought, heating up again. This wasn’t the time for cute little winks.

“Good timing,” she told him. “Things’ve just slowed down. I was going to run over and see what you guys have demolished so far.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, have a seat. I’m going to get Franny to take over. Do you want a slice?”

“No. And I need to talk to you upstairs. In private.”

“Oh. Crap. Is something wrong in the new place?”

“It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“Then what—”

“Avery.” His tone flattened, had her eyebrows drawing together. “Upstairs, now. In private.”