Нора Робертс - The Perfect Hope

“Fair enough.” Ryder pocketed the card.

“I’ll have Jerald show you out.”

“I know the way. Let’s hope we don’t speak again.”

RYDER FOUGHT THE miserable traffic toward home, and felt some of the tension dissolve when he caught his first sight of the mountains as he traveled north.

He’d done what seemed right—not as personally satisfying as kicking in Jonathan Wickham’s balls—but it wasn’t about personal satisfaction.

He trusted Wickham would make good on his word. God knew what kind of wrath and pressure he’d bring to bear, but Ryder imagined it would be fierce and plentiful.

It hadn’t just been anger and embarrassment he’d seen on Wickham’s face at the end. There’d been regret, too.

He turned off the highway, took the winding, blissfully familiar road that wound through those mountains, into and out of Middletown, and straight into Boonsboro.

He turned at The Square, spotted Beckett’s truck—but not his dog as he pulled in beside it.

He did catch a glimpse of Hope in one of her floaty dresses, serving drinks to some guests in The Courtyard.

He needed to check on what had been done at Fit in his absence, and at MacT’s, needed to find his dog and an ice-cold beer.

But even as he climbed out of the truck, Hope stepped around The Courtyard wall.

He didn’t see any signs of tears—thank Christ—and didn’t think she’d let guests see any.

“How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine. I’d like to speak with you. Privately.”

“Okay.”

“In there.” She pointed to the fitness center. “Carolee’s here.”

Without waiting for an answer, she started across the lot.

Okay, he thought, she was a little pissed that he hadn’t patted her hand while she cried. Maybe the flowers hadn’t come through yet.

He unlocked the door, took a quick scan. Progress on the rough electric and plumbing on this level, and signs the HVAC was moving. He needed to get upstairs, check it out up there. Maybe they’d—

“Ryder, I’d appreciate it if you’d pay attention.”

“Okay. What?”

“You had no business confronting Jonathan behind my back. You had no right to take this situation out of my hands, or to do anything at all without so much as a discussion with me. It’s my business. Did you think I wouldn’t hear what you were doing, where you went?”

“Didn’t give that much thought. And I didn’t bother with your ex-asshole. I went to the power source, it’s usually the best way. I talked to his father.”

“You—” She went pale first, then righteous fury bloomed in her cheeks. “How could you do that? Why would you do that? This is my mess, it’s my business.”

He’d just spent over three hours on the road into and out of what he considered a man-made hell. And she was ragging on him?

“You’re my goddamn business. Do you really think I’d let some bitch of a blonde come around here and slap you around and do dick about it?”

“I got slapped. She’s stuck with Jonathan. I’d say she’s got the worst of the deal.”

“You got that right. She doesn’t get away with it. She doesn’t get to walk away after hitting you, after making you cry. That’s it.”

“I wasn’t crying because she hurt me. I was humiliated. Beyond humiliated. I don’t even have the word. That your mother would have to see that, hear that.”

“She can handle it.”

“And your crew, all those men who saw it. Everybody in town knows what happened by now, or some variation of it.”

“So the fuck what?” Jesus, he was tired, and getting a damn headache, and she stood there bitching at him for doing what needed doing. “It’s how it goes, and she’s the one who comes off the idiot, not you. And don’t, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t start crying again.”

“I’m not crying!” But one tear trickled through. “And I’m allowed to cry. People cry! Deal with it.”

“Here.” He grabbed a hammer out of the tool belt he’d discarded earlier. “Hit me in the head with it. That I can deal with.”

“Stop. Just stop.” She spoke to herself as much as him, gripping her hands in her hair as she turned. “None of that matters. None of that is the point! You took it on yourself, without a word to me, to drive to the Wickham, to tell Jonathan’s father all this sordid mess.”

“That’s right. I talked to him, and it’s handled.”

“You talk to him, but you don’t talk to me. You couldn’t spend five minutes talking to me, but you’d spend close to four hours driving round-trip to Georgetown and talking to Baxter Wickham. I don’t expect you to dry my tears, Ryder, or kiss it better, but I damn well expect you to talk to me, to take my thoughts, feelings, needs into account. And until you do, I’m done talking to you.”

“Wait a damn minute,” he said when she strode to the door.

She looked back. “I waited four hours. It’s your turn to wait. And thanks for the goddamn flowers.”

She sailed out, leaving him baffled and pissed off all over again.

CLIMBING UP AND DOWN HER STEPLADDER TO REMOVE, wash, and replace every vent filter in the inn kept Hope’s mind from wandering—very often—in Ryder’s direction. With that seemingly endless task accomplished, she dived into paperwork.

They’d made a mistake, obviously, believing they could maintain any sort of relationship with too much passion and too little common ground.

They didn’t think alike; their makeup diverged too sharply.

She couldn’t be involved with someone who didn’t respect her feelings, her needs, her capabilities.

It was best they’d taken a big step back before things became impossibly tangled.

Her work kept her busy and fulfilled enough. And if she finished everything on her list, she could put some time into Lizzy/Billy research that night. As she had the night before, and the night before that as Ryder continued to keep his distance.

Nice trick, she thought, when he worked every day within spitting distance.

She left her office to take delivery from the florist for the rooms booked that day, and happily carried the fresh arrangements upstairs. She came down just as Avery stepped in The Lobby door.

“I knocked first.” Avery pocketed her key.

“I was up in The Penthouse. It’s booked tonight.”

“Swank. Are you all clear now? Have you got a minute?”

“I have several if you need them. Is something up with MacT’s?”

“Not that. It’s still on to open two weeks from Thursday—or we’ll have our friends and family night then. Official opening that Friday.” Avery pressed a hand to her belly. “I feel a little sick when I say that, but not in a bad way. But today’s breaking news? I think I found my wedding dress.”

“Where? When?”

“Online. This morning when I was poking around before coming in.”

“Online? But—”

“I know, I know, but with the new place moving so fast, and Vesta busy, Clare starting to waddle—don’t tell her I said that—and you tied up here, there’s not a lot of chances to hit the shops. And, well, I was just poking, trying to get an idea of the style I might want, what I thought would work, and there it was.”

Hope held up a hand. She did plenty of shopping online, primarily for the inn, and respected the convenience. But there were limits. “You ordered your wedding dress online?”

“Not yet! What do you take me for? I wouldn’t order a wedding cracker—if I wanted one—without showing you and Clare first. I just went down to TTP and showed Clare.” She waved the iPad she carried. “Now I want to show you. I couldn’t send links, because I want firsthand—honest—reaction.”

“Okay. Hit me.”

“I’ve got it bookmarked on my iPad.”

“Let’s go sit.”

“You can tell me if you don’t like it,” Avery began as they walked into the kitchen.

“What did Clare say?”

“Uh-uh. You’re going into this without prejudice.” Avery sat, sucked in a breath, and brought the image up on her tablet.

In silence, Hope took a long, careful study. “Well, it’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful’s not hard in a wedding dress. Your eyes could bleed from beauty when you’re scrolling through them online. It’s the lines and details that pulled me toward this. I’ve got a small build, so I can’t carry the big princess dress, which is sad for me. But I’ve got good arms and shoulders, so I can carry strapless. But the ruching on the bodice helps with the fact I don’t have much boobage.”

“Your boobage is lovely.”

“Aw, thanks. But there’s not a lot of it. And see it’s more Empire style, which should help me look taller, and the detailing, the beading …” Avery enlarged the beadwork on the flow of skirt. “It’s all small scale.”

“Like you.”

“Yeah. The skirt’s got some flare and flow, but no poof.” She sighed a little. “I’d love the poof. If you can’t have poof on your wedding day, when? I asked myself that, and concluded, for me, never. And I’m too white to wear white so the ivory will warm me up. I’m going to skip the veil, just go for a sparkly tiara type deal. That’s my princess thing. I want something princessy.”

“You’ll look like one in this,” Hope decided, taking the tablet to move, shift, enlarge, shrink the image for her own judgment. “A fairy princess. You’re right to go with flow instead of poof, the higher waistline, the smaller, more delicate details. I think you’ll look gorgeous.”

“You’ve got a ‘but’ buried in there.”

“It’s just if you order it this way, you can’t try it on, compare it with others, feel the material.”

“I can try it on when it gets here, feel the material. And if it doesn’t make the grade, I can send it back.”

Hope thought of the thrill, the one-time excitement, of surrounding yourself with wedding gowns, the silk, the tulle, the subtle shades of white.

And realized that was her thrill much more than Avery’s.