“Then let’s talk about that.”

While they discussed nuts and bolts, Justine came in. Mint green sunglasses today, to match her high-tops. She sent Avery a wave and walked straight to the table.

“And you’re Hope. I’m Justine Montgomery.” She shook hands before running one over Owen’s shoulder. “How’s it going here?”

“A lot of questions,” Owen told her. “And a lot of fresh ideas.”

Hope shifted in her chair to meet Justine’s eyes. “You already have a lot of great ones. I’m impressed with how many of the nitty details you’ve already nailed down. You’ve got a very comprehensive plan for someone who hasn’t worked in the trade.”

“We took polls, friends and family, people we know who travel a lot. What their dream list would be in a hotel. I expect there’ll be a learning curve once we open, but we’d like to hit most of the notes right off the bat.”

“Can I get you coffee, Justine?” Avery called out.

“I’m going to grab a soda out of the cooler. I’ve been up since six,” she said as she did so. “My brain won’t turn off. I was thinking, Owen’s going over all the details, the job description, and so on. I thought I’d come by for a minute before we went over, and tell you what it is I’m looking for.”

“Of course.”

“No question we need somebody presentable, who knows how to deal with the public, roll with the punches. But you wouldn’t have lasted at the Wickham if you couldn’t do all that. I want more.”

Watching Hope, Justine twisted off the top on a bottle of Diet Coke. “I want somebody who can put down roots, who’ll look at the inn, and this town, as home. Somebody who does that’ll be happier in the job, and do a better job because of it. The day-to-day, the this-and-that, we’ll work that out. But you’ve either got the heart for it, or you don’t. You’re going to have to fall in love, or it won’t work for you, or for us.”

She smiled. “Now, Owen’s thinking it’s more important that you can handle the reservation software, keep good records, keep a database on guests, know how to turn a room if there’s a rush. I imagine you can do all that and more, or Avery wouldn’t have suggested you in the first place. But this isn’t just a business, not to us. That place needs love. We’re giving it plenty. I want to put it into hands that can do the same. And whip up some nice waffles.”

“I don’t know if I’m the right person,” Hope said carefully. “I don’t know if this is the right place or situation for me. My life’s . . . in flux at the moment. But I do know I’m interested. And I have fallen in love with your concept, and your purpose.”

“That’s a start. Why don’t we walk over, take a look? You and Owen can talk more about details later.”

“I’d really like to see it.”

“I’ll be over in a couple minutes,” Avery told them. “As soon as Franny gets in.”

“Back door’s open.” Owen picked up his briefcase as he rose. “Ry and Beck are putting in a couple hours this morning.”

“You’ll need your imagination,” Justine began as they stepped out. “We’ve come a long way, but there’s a lot left to do before she shines.”

“It’s a big project. Beautiful stonework.” Hope studied the lines as they walked down the side.

Justine talked about a courtyard where Hope saw rubble and hard-packed mud. But the porches looked promising with their charming banjo pickets.

They went into The Lobby, and Hope listened as Justine talked of tile and tables, art and flowers, then moved through a wide arch into what would be the dining room. Coffered ceiling—white trim over deep brown, Justine explained. Tables of glossy wood, left unclothed, each with a little vase of flowers. A small arch of the original stone left exposed in the back wall, with a big, carved buffet in front of it. Chandeliers of iron with oak leaf motif and big globes of stained glass shaped like acorns.

Hope nearly saw it in the unpainted walls, the rough floor, the jumble of material. She saw enough to be sure they’d need a couple of server tables, maybe under the wonderful side windows.

They moved down, more exposed stone, exposed brick, passed what would be the laundry room, the office and into the kitchen space.

She listened again, tried to see the cabinets, many with glass fronts to break up the solidity of dark wood. The granite countertops and stainless steel appliances—wall oven, the range in the island done in cream wood to contrast with the dark.

“There’s no door on the kitchen?”

“We’re leaving it open.” Justine, her sunglasses perched on her head, her thumbs in the front pockets of her pants, scanned the space. “We want guests to be at home, the minute they walk in the door. We’ll keep the fridge stocked with cold drinks—soda, juice, bottled water.”

“Like a big minibar?”

“In a way. Guests should feel free to help themselves. We’re not going to nickel-and-dime people. Once they’re here, the room charge covers the lot. They want a cup of coffee before breakfast—or anytime—and the innkeeper isn’t right on the spot, they can make a cup here, or on the little machine we’re getting for The Library on the second floor. We should have a bowl of seasonal fruit maybe. Or cookies.”

“She already thought of cookies,” Owen pointed out.

“See, same page. That’s the idea. Relax, enjoy, be at home.”

Something in Hope warmed, and that warmth spread as they moved into Reception. She could barely see over boxes and tools, but she began to visualize. A pair of big barrel chairs in soft green in front of the brick fireplace. No desk, no counter, but a long, custom-made table for the innkeeper. Tile floors, tying in with the kitchen and lobby, and all the windows bringing in the light.

She knew she asked practical questions about check-in, computers, storage, security, but by the time they’d finished the main and started up, she understood why the Montgomerys had fallen in love.

“Sounds like my other boys are up on the third floor.” Justine glanced back. “Why don’t we start up there, and the innkeeper’s apartment? You can meet the rest of the family.”

“Perfect.”

She felt a little tug from the left as they started the turn toward the third floor.

“Elizabeth and Darcy,” Justine told her when she hesitated. “Both these front rooms have access to the porch over Main Street.”

For a moment she thought she smelled honeysuckle, turned back to look inside. And jumped when Avery shouted from below. “Are you up there?”

“Heading to three,” Owen called back.

“Took longer than I thought.” Avery jogged up. “What do you think?”

“It’s big, and wonderfully thought-out. I’ve only seen the ADA room on the main level as far as guest rooms. We’re going up to three, working down.”

“You can check out your apartment.”

With an indulgent shake of her head, Hope continued up, gripping the temporary rail. Imagination, she thought as she pulled her hand away again. She could have sworn she’d touched smooth metal.

“The innkeeper’s apartment.” Justine gestured. “And The Penthouse, where somebody’s busy.”

Hope stepped in behind her. She heard the whoosh, thud of a nail gun before she saw him. Sunlight flashed through the window where he worked. For a second, she couldn’t see his face, only had the impression of strength and competence as the nail gun thudded again.

He ran his hand down the wood—the same type of panel she’d seen framing the windows downstairs. Then he lowered the tool, shifted.

He stared at her out of cool, assessing eyes. From somewhere nearby another nail gun thudded. Justine spoke, introducing them, but Hope’s ears buzzed. She barely heard his name, felt a quick and foolish relief that it wasn’t Beckett.

Ryder.

She shook his hand—one with a healing scrape on the back, felt the hard, calloused palm briefly before he dropped it again.

“How ya doing?”

“Fine, thanks.” But she wasn’t entirely sure. The heat rose, seemed to concentrate right on that spot. Her brain throbbed from an excess of details, images.

She wanted suddenly, desperately, to sit down and drink something—anything—very cold.

“Are you okay, honey?”

She looked at Justine, whose voice came down a long tunnel. “Ah . . . too much coffee this morning,” she managed. “I’m a little dehydrated.”

Ryder flipped open the lid of a cooler for a bottle of water. When she just stared at it, he twisted off the top. “So hydrate.”

“Thanks.” For the first time she noticed the dog—the wonderfully homely mud brown dog—who sat with his head cocked, studying her. “That’s a lovely detail,” she said to keep herself from gulping half the contents in one go. “The side panels.”

“Yeah, they turned out.”

“Shit, out of ammo. You got any—” Beckett sauntered in. “Oh, hey.”

“And here’s Beckett,” Justine announced. “We’re showing Hope around.”

“Yeah, hi. I think we met for about five seconds a couple years ago. Welcome to The Penthouse. I was just across the hall in what may be your apartment. So . . . Clare’s not with you?”

“I called her before I came over,” Avery said. “She had to stop by TTP, some Internet glitch.”

“Let’s show you the rest of this space before we go through the apartment.” Justine gestured. “This will be the parlor, third-floor porch access through the door at the end of the hall. The bedroom’s in the back, with the bath between.”

Hope followed her down a short hall, then goggled. “This is a huge space. I love the floating wall.”

“My son, the architect. Counter with double sinks on this side, shower there. The tub, and it’s a beauty, on the other side of the wall. We’re going for lush here, intricate tile work, some mosaic touches, crystal sconces with brushed-nickel accents. Contemporary with a touch of Old World.”