Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

She waved Clare off, rolled her aching shoulders, then went back to work.

By seven she was in the zone, sliding pizzas into the oven and out again, boxing them for delivery, passing them to waitstaff for table service.

Her place buzzed with activity—and that was a good thing, she reminded herself. She dished up pasta, plated burgers and fries, glanced at the boy who sat at the counter playing the Megatouch as if it comprised his world.

She hustled back to the closed kitchen for more supplies just as Owen walked in.

He took one look around, frowned when he didn’t see her behind the counter.

“Where’s Avery?” he asked a waitress.

“She’s around. The high school chorus decided to come in for pizza after practice. We’re slammed. She must be in the back.”

“Okay.” He didn’t think about it, just went over to the cash register, grabbed one of the order pads, and headed for the back dining room.

When he came out, she stood at the counter, cheeks flushed from the heat, ladling sauce on dough. “Orders from the back,” he told her, slapping the slips in place. “I’ll get the drinks.”

She spread mozzarella, added toppings, watched him.

You could count on Owen, she thought, through the paper thin to the brick thick, you could count on him.

For the next three hours she did whatever came next. Baked spaghetti, Warrior’s pizza, eggplant parm, calzone, gyro. By ten it was like being in a trance, cashing out, cleaning counters, shutting down the ovens.

“Get a beer,” she told Owen. “You earned it.”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“I will, when we finish closing.”

When the last of her crew left, when she’d locked the door, she turned. A glass of red sat on the counter beside a slice of pepperoni pizza. Owen sat on a stool, with a glass and slice of his own.

God, yes, you could always count on Owen.

“Now sit down,” he ordered.

“Now I will. Thanks. Really, Owen, thanks.”

“It’s kind of fun, when you don’t have to do it every day.”

“It’s kind of fun even then, mostly.” She sat, took her first sip of wine. “Oh man, that’s good.” She bit into the pizza. “So’s that.”

“Nobody makes better.”

“You’d think I’d get tired of pizza, but it’s still my favorite thing.” Floating on exhaustion, she sighed her way through another bite. “Clare said you’re clear to load in. How’d the cleaning brigade do?”

“Good, really good. Still some to go, but we’re heading down to the wire.”

“I’d walk over if I could walk that far.”

“It’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Everybody who came in here today, tonight, from town or nearby talked about it. You must be so proud. I know how I felt when I was on the wire here, hanging the art, unpacking kitchen equipment. Proud and excited and a little scared. Here’s my place. I’m really doing it. I still feel that way sometimes. Not tonight,” she said with a weak laugh. “But sometimes.”

“You’ve got a lot to be proud of here. It’s a good place.”

“I know a lot of people thought your mom was crazy renting the space to me. How was I going to run a restaurant?”

He shook his head, thought her skin was pale enough to pass his hand through. The absence of her usual crackling energy made her fatigue seem only more extreme.

He’d talk her through the slice of pizza, he decided, so she had some food in her. Then he’d get her upstairs so she could get some sleep.

“I never thought she was crazy. You can do anything you set your mind to. You always could.”

“I couldn’t be a rock star. I’d set my mind on that.”

He remembered her blasting away on a guitar. More enthusiasm than skill, as he recalled. “What were you, fourteen?”

“Fifteen. I thought my dad was going to faint when I dyed my hair black and got those tattoos.”

“It’s a good thing they were fake ones.”

She smiled, sipped more wine. “Not all of them.”

“Oh yeah? Where— Hold that thought,” he said when his phone rang. “What’s up, Ry?”

He slid off the stool, listening, answering, looking out the glass door at the lights beaming on the inn.

When he clipped the phone to his belt again, turned, he saw Avery sound asleep, her head pillowed on the arms she’d laid on the counter.

She’d managed about half the slice of pizza, about half the wine, he noted. He cleaned off the counter, shut down the lights in the closed kitchen, walked back to shut off all but the security lights throughout.

Then he considered her.

He could carry her upstairs—she didn’t weigh much—but he wasn’t sure how he could carry her and lock up at the same time. Take her up, he thought, come back and lock up.

But when he started to lift her, she jerked up and nearly bashed his face with her shoulder. “What? What is it?”

“Bedtime. Come on, I’ll get you upstairs.”

“Did I lock up?”

“Front’s locked. I’ll get the back.”

“I’m okay. I’ve got it.”

When she pulled the keys out, he took them. But carrying her now just seemed weird. Instead, he put an arm around her waist, let her sleepwalk beside him.

“I just closed my eyes for a minute.”

“You should keep doing that, for the next eight or nine hours.” He supported her at his side, locked the door behind them. “Heading up,” he said and pulled her up the stairs to her apartment.

“I’m a little foggy. Thanks for all and whatever.”

“You’re welcome for all and whatever.”

He unlocked her apartment door, tried not to wince when he saw she’d yet to completely unpack from the move—fully a month before. He set her keys on the table by the door. “You need to lock up behind me.”

“’Kay.” She gave him a smile as she stood swaying with fatigue. “You’re so sweet, Owen. I’d pick you.”

“For what?”

“My share. ’Night.”

“Okay. Lock the door, Avery.”

He stood outside, waiting until he heard the lock click in place.

Her share of what? he wondered, then shook his head and went down the stairs to the back lot and his truck.

He glanced up at her windows as he got in. He could still smell the lemon she used on her hair, her hands.

He smelled it all the way home.

The minute she could break away from the restaurant, Avery bundled into her coat, yanked a ski cap over her hair, and dashed across the street.

She spotted the furniture truck in the parking lot and quickened her steps as much in excitement as to get out of the cold. She walked into a buzz of activity—guys on ladders touching up paint, the thwack of nail guns from The Lounge and The Dining Room, the whirl of a drill.

She headed through the front arch, then went ooooh when she got to the railing leading up the stairs. Ryder poked his head out of the front door of The Dining Room.

“Do me a favor. Don’t go up that way. Luther’s working on the rails.”

“They’re so beautiful,” she murmured, trailing a hand over the dark bronze curve.

“Yeah, they are. He’s spread out on the stairs up there, and he’s too polite to tell you to go around the other way. I’m not.”

“No problem.” She eased toward The Dining Room door, looked up. “God, it’s gorgeous. Look at those lights.”

“Bitching heavy.” But he looked up as well at the big acorn globes with their oak leaf branches. “They look good.”

“They look amazing. And the sconces, too. I can’t poke my nose in for a few days, and look what happens. I don’t have much time, but I want to see everything. Is Hope around?”

“Probably up on three, fussing with furniture.”

“Furniture!” With a whoop, Avery ran back toward The Lobby and out.

Breath puffing in clouds, she ran up two flights of stairs. She opened the door of Westley and Buttercup, stood for a moment just grinning at the simmering fireplace in the wall, the dark slats of window blinds. She wanted to explore, to look at every detail, but she wanted people more.

She rushed down to the porch door, hurried through, following voices to The Penthouse.

Her mouth dropped open.

Justine and Hope angled two occasional chairs covered in silky fabric. The blues and golds in the pattern picked up the rich dark gold of the elaborate sofa where Carolee fussed with throw pillows.

“I think we should . . . Avery.” Justine straightened. “Walk through to the window. I want to check the traffic flow.”

“I’m rooted to the spot. My God, Justine. It’s gorgeous.”

“But does it work? I don’t want guests bumping into chairs or having to wind and scoot. Pretend you just checked in, and now you want to walk through, look out the window on St. Paul.”

“Okay.” She held up her hands, closed her eyes a moment. “Well, Alphonse, I suppose this will do for the night.”

“Alphonse?” Hope commented.

“My lover. We’re just in from Paris.” She strolled across the room, put a snooty look on her face as she glanced out the window. The look broke into a grin as she turned back, danced in place. “It’s spectacular. And no bumping or winding. Are you actually going to let people sit on this furniture?”

“That’s what it’s for.”

Avery ran her fingers over the rolled arm of the sofa. “You know, they’re going to do more than sit. Just saying.”

“Some things I don’t need to think about. I want a little lamp for this chest. Something slim with a sparkly shade.”

“I saw one at Bast,” Hope told her. “I think it would work.”

“Make a note, okay? One of us will run down, grab some accent pieces, and try them out.”