by Nora Roberts
sauces on.
The red hair, milk-white skin and dash of freckles might declare her Scot heritage, but her marinara was as gloriously Italian as an Armani suit.
He’d often wondered where she’d gotten the knack, and the drive, but both seemed as innate a part of her as her big, bold blue eyes.
Crouching, she opened the cooler under the counter for tubs, and began filling the toppings containers.
“Sorry about Franny.”
“Me, too. She’s really sick. And Dave’s miserable. He’s only coming in for a couple hours this afternoon because I’m so shorthanded. I hate asking him.”
He studied her face as she worked. Now that he really looked, he noted the pale purple shadows under her eyes.
“You look tired.”
She shot him a disgusted look over the tub of black olives she was holding. “Thanks. That’s what every girl loves to hear.” Then she shrugged. “I am tired. I thought I’d sleep in this morning. Franny would open, I’d come in about eleven thirty. Not much of a commute since I moved right upstairs. So I watched some Jimmy Fallon, finished a book I’ve been trying to squeeze out time to read all week. I didn’t go down until nearly two. Then Franny calls at eight. Six hours isn’t bad, unless you worked a double and you’re going to work another.”
“Bright side? Business is good.”
“I’ll think about bright side after the bus tour. Anyway, enough. How’s it going at the inn?”
“So good we’re going to start loading in the third floor tomorrow.”
“Loading in what?”
“Furniture, Avery.”
She set down the tub, goggled at him. “Seriously? Seriously?”
“The inspector’s going to take a look this afternoon, give us the go or no. I’m saying go because there’s no reason for no. I just talked to Hope. She’s going to start cleaning up there. My mother and my aunt are coming in—maybe are in already, since it’s going on eleven now—to pitch in.”
“I wanted to do that. I can’t.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got plenty of hands.”
“I wanted mine to be two of them. Maybe tomorrow, depending on sickness and root canals. Jeez, Owen, this is major.” She did a little heel-toe dance on her green hightops. “And you wait almost an hour to spill it?”
“You were too busy bitching at me.”
“If you’d spilled, I’d’ve been too excited to bitch. Your own fault.”
She smiled at him, pretty Avery McTavish with the tired eyes.
“Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes?”
“I’ve got to keep moving today, like a shark.” She snapped the lid on the tub, replaced it, then went over to check her sauces.
He watched her work. She always seemed to be doing a half dozen things at once, like a constant juggling act with balls hanging in the air, others bouncing madly until she managed to grab and toss them again.
It amazed his organized mind.
“I’d better get back. Thanks for the coffee.”
“No problem. If any of the crew are thinking about lunch here today, tell them to wait until one thirty. The rush’ll be over.”
“Okay.” He gathered his things, then paused at the door. “Avery? What color is that? The hair.”
“This? Copper Penny.”
He grinned, shook his head. “I knew it. See you later.”
Also available . . .
THE OFFICIAL NORA ROBERTS COMPANION
(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)