by Nora Roberts
“and my other boys kept the brothers’ vow of silence. But I knew, and I bought him this CD player he’d been saving up for. So he knew I knew.”
“They’ve got Riley blood, and Rileys take care of their own. Montgomerys, too.” Carolee jabbed a finger in the air. “It’s how that Freemont boy was raised. Spoiled rotten. His mother’s the worst—never could stand that woman—but his father’s just as bad for going along. Anything he wanted, anytime he wanted. And he just lorded it over everybody.”
“She got what she deserved, didn’t she?” Justine shrugged. “A big prick for a son.”
Clare smiled as she started the grinder. Justine Montgomery was exactly what Clare wanted to be when she grew up. Smart, strong, self-aware, an excellent and beloved mother to her sons. An attractive woman with her dark hair scooped up in a sassy tail, the body she kept in excellent shape clad in casual but stylish capris and a thin white shirt.
Carolee, who had stood up to browse with her sister, was pale gold, nearly as tall, delicate in build.
They were bonded like glue, Clare knew.
Justine walked over, set two books on the counter. “You know, honey, Ryder—any of them—would warn Sam off if you said the word.”
“Thanks, really, but I can handle him.”
“Just keep that in your back pocket. So Owen tells me you and Avery may have a prospect for innkeeper now that Karen’s buying baby booties.”
“Hope would be amazing. I think the place deserves someone as talented as she is. I only really got the sense of one room—Beckett filled us in on Titania and Oberon this morning. But oh, I’m in love. I can really picture it.”
“You and Avery both have good heads on your shoulders, so your recommendation’s something I take seriously. That place.” She stepped over to look out the glass in the front door. “It’s got my heart now. Ours—doesn’t it, Carolee?”
“I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Helping to pick out everything from four-poster beds to soap dishes. We’re going to have a smell contest next week.”
Clare paused as she added whipped cream to the iced coffee. “Sorry?”
“Scents,” Justine explained with a laugh. “You put us on to Joanie—Cedar Ridge Soaps.”
“Oh, she’s great, isn’t she? She did tell me she was going to do your amenities, all locally made. I think that’s such a wonderful idea.”
“With each room having its own signature scent.”
“Now that’s a fabulous idea. Soaps, shampoos, lotion. Have you thought of doing diffusers?”
Justine narrowed her eyes. “Not until right this minute. Can she do those?”
“She can. I use them at home.”
“Carolee—”
“I’m writing it down.”
“That does look sinful.” Justine took both cups, carried one to her sister. Have you got a minute, Clare?”
“Of course.”
“I wanted to talk to you about The Library. We’re going to hit the used bookstore for the bulk, I think, but I want to mix in some new. I want romance novels, thrillers, mysteries. The kind of thing somebody might like to read on a rainy day, or curled up in front of the fire on a cold night. Can you put a list together, things you’d recommend?”
“Of course.”
“Mix of paperbacks and hardcovers. And some of the local books. Nonfiction on the area. Nobody’s got a better spread of those than you. You can put some together now, some closer to the first of the year. Add that to the books for each room. And Beckett said you can get DVDs.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I want DVDs of all the room books, and I’m going to make you a list of what I want us to have on hand for guests. You can add any ideas you have on those, too, if you think of any.”
“I will.” She grinned at Carolee. “It is fun. I’m going back over later, to get a better sense. Beckett asked if I’d help write the brochure copy.”
“Did he?”
“If that’s all right.”
“It’s just fine with me.” Justine smiled as she licked whipped cream from her fingertip.
CHAPTER FOUR
ARMED WITH A NOTEBOOK SHE’D ALREADY ORGANIZED and divided, Clare crossed Main Street. Helping out with room descriptions wouldn’t take much time or trouble, but it made her feel a part of the project. In a minor role. Plus, she’d help select and supply some of the books and DVDs.
She wondered what the inn’s library would look like. Would there be a fireplace? Oh, she hoped there’d be a fireplace. Maybe, if she inched her way in, they’d let her help set it up.
She stepped in through the back, into the bangs, buzzes, and echoes. She heard a voice say “fuck yourself, Mike” in easy, casual tones—and the answering “I would, but your sister did such a good job of it last night.”
Laughter rolled out just ahead of Beckett.
He stopped, stared at her, then blew out a breath. “Lady in the house,” he called out. “Sorry.”
“No problem. I thought there were already ladies in the house.”
“Mom and Carolee are checking out the third floor. And they’re used to it anyway. So, okay. Ah . . .”
He looked distracted, she realized, and busy. And just a little confused.
“If this isn’t a good time, I can—”
“No, just shifting gears. We can start right here.”
Relieved she wouldn’t have to bottle her excitement for later, she turned a circle.
“Where is here?”
“You’re standing in The Lobby—double glass doors where you came in—they’ll look out on The Courtyard. Tile floor, nice pattern, with a tile rug centered to highlight the big round table under the chandelier. The light’s kind of contemporary and cool, and organic. Looks like white glass pieces that melted. Mom wants big, showy flowers on the table. Couple of slipper chairs there.”
“Tell me you’re keeping the brick wall exposed.”
“Yeah. The chairs, the tile have a French feel to them, straw green upholstery, bronze rivets on the chairs, so it’s a blend of rustic and French. Mom’s still fiddling with the table for the chairs. Maybe another chair in the corner, and I think we’ll need something on the facing wall.”
She studied it, tried to get a picture. “A little server, maybe.”
“Maybe. Artwork to be determined, but we’re going local all the way, and we’ll have a list of the art and artists in the room packages, with pricing.”
“That’s a great idea.” He rattled everything off so fast she assumed he was in a hurry. She scribbled down notes as quick as she could, trying to keep pace. “So this is really a pass-through? A place to sit down with a cup of coffee or tea, maybe a glass of wine? You didn’t say anything about a desk or counter for check-in, so—”
“That’s Reception. Entrance for that’ll be right off the sidewalk. I’ll take you around. Jog left from here, and into The Lounge.” He gestured, vaguely, toward a short hallway. “It’s crammed with equipment and materials right now. It’s long, a little narrow. It used to be the carriageway.”
“A lounge, for . . . lounging?”
“Hanging out. Kind of a contemporary pub feel, I guess. We’re going leather sofa and chairs. Big, comfortable, rolling ottomans for the wing chairs. Mom went for yellow.”
For the first time, he smiled, seemed to relax.
“I thought Ry was going to have her committed.”
“Buttery yellow, buttery leather.” She tried to imagine having a yellow leather sofa, thought of the kids. Just couldn’t do it. “I bet it’s going to be fabulous.”
“She and Carolee swear it’ll have that upscale pub feel. Some kind of card or game table, with lime green leather club chairs,” he continued. “Thirty-two-inch flatscreen. Three ceiling lights—organic feel again—oak leaves. We’re still filling in the details.”
“I can’t believe how far ahead you are, and how you can furnish a place when it’s still under construction.” She scribbled in her notebook as she s
poke. “I should’ve known Justine wouldn’t go for chintz and gingham.”
“She wants a jewel, every facet sharp and shiny. We’re going to give it to her.”
Struck, Clare looked up. “It’s nice, the way you are. All of you. It’s what I want for me and my boys. The affection, the teamwork, the understanding.”
“I’ve seen you with your boys. I’d say you already have what you want.”
“Some days I feel like the ringmaster in a three-ring circus inhabited by demons. I imagine your mother felt the same.”
“I think if you asked her, she’d say she still does.”
“Comforting and scary at the same time.”
Yes, he looked busy, distracted—and flat-out sexy on top of it. But she’d been wrong about the confused. He knew every sharp and shiny facet of the jewel they were creating.
She remembered she’d dreamed about him one night not long ago, and, flustered, turned away.
“What’s down there?”
“The ADA room and the front entrance to the dining room.”
“Which one’s the ADA room?”
“Marguerite and Percy.”
“Scarlet Pimpernel. Speaking of French.” She flipped through the notebook. Tilting his head, Beckett noted she’d headed sections with the room names. “Can I see it?”
“You can try. It’s got material stacked in it, too. It’s the smallest,” he said as he led her down the short hall. “We had to work with the footprint of the building, and the ADA code. Going with two full-sized beds, night table between, with this great old ornate lamp that was my grandmother’s.”
“You’re putting family things in here?”
“Here and there when they work. Mom wants to.”
“I think that’s lovely, and special. The beds go in front of the windows?”
“Right. Cane headboards, and we’ll dress up behind them with treatments—for style and privacy. Cane benches with fancy fabric pads at the feet, fancy bedskirts. Some sort of big, ornate mirror for this wall as you come in. Cream walls and crown molding, soft blue ceiling.”
“A blue ceiling.” For some reason it struck her wonderfully romantic. She wondered why she’d never thought of painting her ceilings anything other than flat white.
She supposed she’d forgotten how to be romantic.
“It sounds very French. I never asked what you’re doing as far as dressing the beds.”
“After considerable, occasionally heated debate, we’re going with high-end sheets—white or what is it, ecru, depending on the room. Down alternative, all-weather duvet—covered by another sheet rather than spread or quilts or whatever. Lots of pillows, with neutral-tone linen shams, possibly a bedroll, and cashmere throw things.”
“Cashmere throws? I’m so booking a room. Peacock feathers.”
“Is that some sort of curse?”
“There should be peacock feathers somewhere. I know they’re supposed to be bad luck, but they just feel French, and opulent.”
“Note to self. Peacock feathers. It’s the most problematic space, but I think it’s going to turn out.”
“I love it already. Where’s the bath?” She managed to step in, over buckets, some lumber.
“Watch your step,” he warned, taking her arm. “No tub, but a big luxury shower. We’ll do the rain head, the body jets—ORB.”
“Orb?”
“Sorry. Oil-rubbed bronze. All the public areas have that accent. Crystal vessel bowl sink on an iron bracket. It’s big and it’s beautiful. Cream and pale gold tiles, fleur-de-lis accents.”
“Mais oui,” she said and made him grin.
“I found some iron wall shelves, scrolled. The code and the space equal some limitations.”
“That is not good copy. Something more like ‘special needs meet spectacular comfort. The grandeur of a bygone age with all the comforts—no, pleasures. All the pleasures of today.’ ”
She started to make more notes, backed up a step, rapped into a stack of paint cans.
“Careful.” He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her as she grabbed his arm to keep from overbalancing.
For the second time that day they stood close, bodies brushing, eyes locked. But this time the light was dim, filtered through the blue tarp. Something near to moonlight.
Being held, she thought, a little dazed. She was being held by a man, by Beckett, and in a way that didn’t feel friendly or helpful. In a way that made something coil inside her, a long, slow wind.
Something that felt exactly like lust.
It spread in a swamping wave as she watched his gaze slide down to her mouth, hold there. She smelled honeysuckle. Moonlight and honeysuckle.
Yearning, she eased closer, imagining that first touch, that first taste, that first—
His gaze snapped back to hers, jolted her out of what seemed like some strange dream.
My God, she’d nearly—
“I need to get back.” She didn’t squeak it out, but she knew it was damn close. “I have the . . . the thing to do.”
“Me, too.” He stepped back like a man moving cautiously away from a live wire. “I have the thing.”
“Okay, well.” She got out, out of the room with its false moonlight and air that had so suddenly smelled of wild summer vines. “So.”
“So.” He slid his hands into his pockets.
Safer there, she imagined, or she might jump him again.
“I’ll play around with some ideas for the rooms I’ve seen.”
“That’d be great. Listen, I can let you have the binder. We have a binder with cut sheets and photos of lighting and furniture, bath fixtures, like that. The one here has to stay on-site, but I have one at my place you could borrow for a couple days.”
“Okay.” She took a breath, settled a bit more. “I’d love to look through it.”
“I can drop it off at the bookstore, or by your place sometime.”
“Either’s fine.”
“And you can come back, when you’ve got time, if you want to go through more of the space. If I’m not around, Owen or Ry could take you through.”
“Good, that’s good. Well, I’d better go. My mother’s going to drop the boys off at the store in a little while, and I still have . . . things.”
“I’ll see you.”
“Yeah.”
He watched her go, waited for the door to close behind her with his hands still in his pockets, and balled into fists. “Idiot,” he muttered. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
He’d scared her so she could barely look at him, so she couldn’t wait to get away from him. All because he’d wanted—just wanted.
His mother liked to say, to him, to his brothers, they were old enough so their wants wouldn’t hurt them.
But they did. This kind of want left a jagged hole in the gut.
He’d stay away from her for a few days, until those jags smoothed out. And until she felt easier around him again. He’d have one of the men run the binder over to her—keep clear.
His wants might hurt, but he was old enough to control them.
He caught the scent of honeysuckle again and, he swore, the faintest whisper of a woman’s laugh.
“Don’t you start on me.”
Annoyed, he clomped upstairs to harass the crew.
NOT READY TO face the bookstore and her staff, Clare bolted to Vesta. Behind the counter, layering cheese on a pie, Franny, Avery’s second in command, shot her a smile.
“Hey, Clare. Where are my boyfriends?”
“With my mom. Is Avery here?”
“In the back. Is something wrong?”
God, how did she look? “No, nothing. Just . . . just want a minute with the boss.”
Striving for casual, Clare strolled around to the closed kitchen area where Avery cut fresh dough into tins for rising. Steve, the dishwasher, rattled around at the big double sink, and one of the waitstaff grabbed glassware from the wire shelves.
“I need to talk to you when you have a minute.�
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“Talk. I’m not using my ears for anything right now.” Then Avery glanced over, saw Clare’s face. “Oh. Talk. Give me five. Go grab something cold out of the cooler for both of us. I need to get some supplies from downstairs anyway.”
“I’ll just go down and wait.”
She grabbed a couple of ginger ales and went out the door to the back stairwell. Outside again, and under the building—she could hear people talking and laughing on the porch above—and into the sprawling, low-ceilinged basement with its stacked cases of soft drinks, bottled beer, wine.
Cooler, she thought. Cooler here. And opened the ginger ale to drink long and deep.
Moonlight and honeysuckle, she thought in disgust. Just another fairy tale with her. She was a grown woman, a mother of three. She knew better.
But really, had she ever noticed, really noticed, how strong and wonderfully shaped Beckett’s mouth was? Gorgeous—she knew that, too. All the Montgomerys were, but had she ever noticed how deeply blue his eyes were in the moonlight?
“There wasn’t any moonlight, you idiot. It was an unfinished room crowded with paint cans and lumber and tarps. For God’s sake.”
She’d gotten caught up in the romance of it, that’s all. Buttery leather, blue ceilings, peacock feathers, and cashmere throws.
It was all so fanciful, so outside her own reality of practical, affordable, childproof. And it wasn’t as if she’d actually done anything. Wanting to for a minute wasn’t doing.
She paced, then whipped around when the door opened.
“What’s up?” Avery demanded. “You look like the town cops are hot on your trail.”
“I almost kissed Beckett.”
“They can’t arrest you for that.” Avery took the unopened can of ginger ale. “How, where, and why almost?”
“I went over to see a few more rooms, and we were in Marguerite and Percy—”
“Ooh-la-la.”
“Cut it out, Avery. I’m serious.”
“I can see that, sweetie, but almost kissing a very attractive, available man who’s got the hots for you doesn’t rate disaster status.”
“He doesn’t have the hots for me.”