The Last Boyfriend tibt-2

by Нора Робертс

“Oh, they’re so beautiful. I bet you get to see deer all the time.”

  “A lot.”

  “The boys are going to love it when they all move into the new house. You did. I remember how you and your brothers ran wild in the woods when we were kids.”

  “Good times.” Bending, he kissed the top of her head. “So are these. What’re you making here?”

  “You had this and that left over from the party. We’ll call them kitchen-sink omelettes.”

  “Sounds great. You didn’t have to.”

  “Food, kitchen—” She spread her hands. “I’m helpless not to cook. You have most excellent tools, and I know you hardly ever use them.”

  “But they’re here if I want to.”

  “True. I could toss a bunch of this in a pot—people never eat as many dipping vegetables as you figure they will. No point in having them go to waste. I can make up a soup.”

  “Snowy day, homemade soup?” Did that mean she planned to stay awhile? “Who’s going to argue with that?” He walked over to pour himself coffee. “I need to go out and plow soon.”

  “I guess you do, but too bad. It’s nice feeling snowed-in and cozy. Well, a man about to plow needs a manly breakfast.”

  While she cooked, he put away dishes, and enjoyed the easy rhythm.

  “So, the delayed post-party replay,” she began. “Did you get the scoop on Jim and Karyn?”

  “I got that Jim’s in Pittsburgh and Karyn didn’t want to come without him.”

  “You don’t talk to the right people.” Avery folded the omelettes. “Jim’s in Pittsburgh with his mother because Karyn kicked him out.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because she found out Jim’s been having an affair with the mother of their oldest boy’s best pal.”

  “Jim? Come on, that can’t be right.”

  “No, it’s very wrong, and it’s been going on nearly two years according to my sources.” She plated the omelettes, added bacon, toast, passed a plate to Owen.

  “But . . . they seemed so solid.”

  “Well.” Taking her own plate, she joined him at the breakfast bar. “She comes into the pizza shop with the kids, more often without him than with, and I saw her at Sam’s Club right before Christmas when I was doing a supply run. She looked stressed, barely spoke to me. At the time I figured it was just mother-of-three Christmas countdown pressure, but now . . . She found the other woman’s panties in her bed.”

  “Well, Jesus. That’s not only wrong, rude, cold, but it’s stupid.”

  “Could be the slut/lover—she’s already separated from her husband—left them in there on purpose. Anyway, that was the kicker. She booted him out, and she’s already got a lawyer.”

  “I’d say good for her, but it doesn’t seem like the right phrase. It’s hard to swallow it from Jim. They’ve been married, what, like ten years?”

  “About, I guess, but for the last two of them, at least, he’s been screwing around. No excuse for it. You’re not happy, you fix it or you end it. Plus, since he’s in Pittsburgh with his mommy, he must not be serious about the slut.”

  Mystified by her logic, he took the toast she buttered for him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if he was serious, he’d have crashed at the slut’s. Now he’s broken his family, ruined his marriage, his rep, not to mention how much this’ll hurt those little kids. All for some stranger. I hope she skins him.

  “No comment?” she said after a moment of silence.

  “I figure you never know what goes on between two people, or a family, but yeah, from what you’ve got, skinning seems appropriate. I like Jim okay. He just called me a couple weeks ago about rehabbing their master bath. I was supposed to take a look at it after the holidays.”

  Avery wagged a slice of bacon. “He’s planning a new bathroom and screwing his slut in his wife’s bed. Not serious about the slut, no respect for his wife or his family.”

  “No respect, agreed. But maybe the affair isn’t a slut.”

  “Please.” Avery shoveled in omelette. “She was still married when she first hooked up with Jim, and my sources say Jim isn’t, or wasn’t, her first cowboy.”

  “How do people know this stuff? Who is it anyway?”

  “I don’t know her. Apparently she lives in Sharpsburg, works for some insurance company. Has a weird name—no smart remark referencing Avery,” she added. “Harmony, which doesn’t seem to be apt.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know a Harmony who works for our insurance agent. This omelette is great.”

  “Aha!”

  “Aha?”

  “Subject change, shifting in seat.” Eyes keen, she wagged a finger at him. “Sure signs of guilt and/or evasion. You dated her?”

  “No! She’s married—or she was married. And she’s not my type anyway. Let’s just say I’ve had conversations and so on with her due to insurance. And there may have been subtext.”

  “Slut.” With a flick of her finger in the air, Avery mimed touting up a scoreboard. “I can call ’em.”

  “I’ll say the first lines of subtext were delivered while she was wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Slut! What does she look like? Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Blond.”

  “Bleached.”

  He let his gaze roam over her messy, clipped-back hair. “I’m forced to point out you have no grounds to disdain anyone for changing hair colors.”

  “You have a point. Still. Is she pretty?”

  “I guess. Not my type,” he repeated. “She’s . . . obvious, is maybe the best word. She’s good at her job, as far as I’m concerned. That’s all I am—was—still am—interested in. When did the kick-out go down?”

  “The day after Christmas. Karyn found out the week before, but let him stay so the kids would get one more family Christmas in. Why?”

  “I had to drop in the agency a couple days ago, sign some stuff. She didn’t seem upset. And, ah, there was additional subtext.”

  Those bright blue eyes darkened. “Slut—slutty slut with no conscience. She helps destroy a marriage, and now she’s moving on, looking for the next sucker. That’s what my mother did.”

  He said nothing, just laid a hand over hers.

  “That’s probably why I have zero tolerance for sluts and cheats.” With a shrug, Avery rose to take both their mugs back to the coffeemaker. “In addition to the Karyn/Jim implosion, did you know Beth and Garrett are getting married?”

  “Yeah, she was flashing the ring around last night. They both look happy.”

  “They are—and Beth’s got an extra glow, seeing as she’s about eight weeks pregnant.”

  “What? How did I miss this stuff?”

  “By spending too much time hanging out with men who have no gossip to share. They’re happy about the baby. They’ve been together almost two years now, and it looks like baby makes three boosted them to make it legal. I was talking to Beth about the idea of them getting married at the inn.”

  “At the inn.”

  “Clare and Beckett are getting married there next spring. This could be a kind of dry run. They want something small, and soon. They were even thinking about just doing the courthouse thing, but that made both their mothers cry,” she added as she came back from getting fresh coffee for both of them. “When I suggested the inn, Beth got pretty excited. She didn’t know it was an option.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “It’s up to you guys, of course, but Hope’s good with it. I could do the catering, no problem. Mountainside could do the flowers. They’re only talking about tight friends and immediate family. Maybe twenty-five, thirty people. You’ve already got bookings for Valentine’s Day, but the weekend after, you’re clear so far.”

  “Next month?” He had to gulp down coffee. “That’s pretty damn quick.”

  “As I said last night, one spontaneous—semi—party doesn’t make you Mr. Spontaneity. Relax. You wouldn’t have to
do anything. Beth wants to get into a nice dress before she starts showing, so they don’t want to wait. They’d already talked about staying there for their wedding night, and this would be like one-stop shopping.”

  “How much do we charge as a wedding venue?”

  She smiled at him. “You and Hope will figure it out. I’d probably give them a discount, due to it’s the first one and all that. Play your cards right, wedding guests will book every room the night before and the night of.”

  Good business, he thought. Avery knew good business. “I’ll talk to Hope tomorrow. You’ve got a busy brain, Avery.”

  “I know. Right now it’s thinking we should finish this coffee. You go out and plow the lanes while I straighten up from the party. Then to pay me back for my services, you can take me to bed.”

  “I can’t lose.”

  “To my busy brain, it’s more like win-win.”

  * * *

  Maybe he liked to plow, but as soon as he’d done his own lane—perhaps not with the usual finesse—Owen headed straight to Ryder’s. Paths for D.A. already cleared, he noted. Good.

  He parked the jeep, jumped off. He stomped his boots, then walked into the house.

  “Hey, Ry.”

  “Down here.”

  “I’m covered with snow, man. You come up here.”

  D.A. padded upstairs, tail wagging. He licked snow off Owen’s boots. Ryder followed moments later. He wore sweatpants hacked off at the knees and a sweaty T-shirt.

  “What’s up? I’m trying to get a damn workout in, after which my plans were to fat-ass before game time. Now it’s sledding and snow wars at Mom’s.”

  “When?”

  “You forget your phone? Has the world ended?”

  “I’ve got my phone.” He dug it out. “No messages.”

  “Maybe you’re not invited. She likes me better.”

  “She pretends to like you better so you don’t whine like a baby. She must’ve called the house. Anyway, this works. I’m taking your truck. You need to finish the plowing. Get Beck’s, then Mom’s. We can switch back over there.”

  “You’re Mr. Plow.”

  “Have you got a woman in here?”

  On a windy sigh, Ryder dipped his hands in his baggy pockets. “Sadly no.”

  “I’ve got one. I’m taking your truck.”

  “So you can go turn on the Little Red Machine. That’s said with respect and affection. For her.”

  “I’m taking your truck, then I’m going to have sex while you’re not. You’re Mr. Substitute Plow.”

  “Then no bitching when I don’t do it your way.”

  “Just don’t screw it up.” He grabbed Ryder’s truck keys off the table by the door. “What time at Mom’s?”

  “I don’t know. We’re not punching a time clock. Two or three. Whenever.”

  “Then I’ll see you when I see you.”

  As Owen strode out, Ryder looked down at his dog. “One of us has to get a woman. I fucking hate plowing.”

  * * *

  Owen walked in to the smell of soup simmering, and when he stripped out of his gear, into a clean kitchen. Though he considered it a waste of breath over the blasting music, he called Avery’s name as he walked through the house.

  He heard her, singing in the shower, when he reached the bedroom. She could barely carry a tune, but she made up for it with strong enthusiasm and volume.

  Unable to resist, and really the only downside was a glass shower door rather than a curtain, he yanked the door open and made the high-pitched Psycho sounds.

  Her answering scream was brilliant.

  Plastered against the shower wall, eyes as big as blue moons, she gaped at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He had to suck in the breath laughter stole from him. “I think I broke a rib laughing, otherwise, I’m good.”

  “Jesus, Owen.”

  “I couldn’t help it. It had to be done.”

  “Yeah? Well, so does this!” She grabbed the handheld sprayer, twisted the controls, and soaked him where he stood. “Now we’re both twelve.” Smug, she fit the sprayer back in its bracket.

  “I guess I might as well come in there.”

  “Hmm,” was her answer.

  “A hot shower, a hot woman after cold work,” he said as he stripped off his dripping shirt.

  “I thought you’d be another hour at least.”

  “I switched with Ry.” He yanked off his boots. “Soup smells good.”

  “Once I finished down there I decided to take advantage of your shower. Your bathroom rivals the inn’s, and I’ve been getting spoiled. And your mother called.”

  “Sledding and snow wars, late afternoon.”

  “I said I’d bring the soup.” She sent him a questioning look.

  “Good idea.”

  “Clare can stop by my place, get my boots and gear.”

  “That’ll work.” He peeled off his soaked pants, tossed a couple towels on the floor to soak up the wet.

  “She didn’t seem surprised when I answered the phone.”

  “Mom has a way of knowing what she needs to know.” He stepped in, closed the shower door behind him. “You know if you switch the TV to digital radio, it pipes in through those.”

  He gestured to the speakers in the ceiling.

  “Oh.”

  “Just FYI.” Then he just smiled at her.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking when I watched you skinny-dipping all those years ago, I never figured on this.” He ran his hands down her body. “You’re all wet and warm.”

  “You’re wet.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But a little chilly.”

  “It’s cold out there, doing man work.”

  Laughing, she tipped her head back. “You’ve got man work to do in here, too.”

  “Then I’d better get started.”

  He took her mouth while water rained hot and steam plumed, letting his hands roam that wet, slippery skin as she hooked her hands around his shoulders, rose up.

  No, he’d never figured on this, on the ease of it, the excitement of it. Never imagined the odd discovery of someone he’d known all of his life.

  Smooth and curvy, firm and agile, and so willing to touch and be touched, to take and be taken.

  She smelled of his soap now, something else to make the familiar the new.

  She lathered it over him, enjoying the play of muscle. She rarely thought of his strength as it was his mind, his kindness, his Owenness she thought of first. But now, running her hands over him, exploring those ridges, those ripples, reminded her he was, at the core, a man who worked with his hands, his back, his brawn as well as his brain.

  And those hands, far from smooth, incited fresh needs, new wants, deeper desires.

  He made her tremble, made her breath snag and tear, meeting those needs, exploiting more until her body seemed to gather into one aching pulse.

  Water sluiced over her, slicking her hair back. Her eyes, brilliantly blue now, stared into his, then went opaque as she shuddered.

  “I don’t . . . We can’t.” She struggled to regain her balance, to find purchase. “You’re too tall.”

  “You’re too short,” he corrected, then gripping her hips, lifted her off her feet. “So you’d better hang on.”

  “Owen—”

  He braced her against the wet wall, and drove into her.

  “Oh.” Her eyes flew open, intense now, focused on his. He plunged again, ripping a cry of pleasure from her, and still her eyes remained open and on his. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go.”

  “You either,” he managed an instant before she pulled his mouth to hers.

  They both held on.

  Later, she sprawled facedown, naked, on his bed. “I’m going to get up and get dressed in a minute.”

  “Take your time,” he told her, admiring her thistle. “I like the view.”

  “What is it with guys and tattoos on girls?”

  “I have no idea.”

&n
bsp; “I think it’s the Xena factor. Female warrior.”

  “You don’t have a two-piece black leather warrior suit, do you?”

  “It’s at the cleaners.“ She pillowed her head on her arms. “Maybe I should get another tattoo.”

  “No.” Then studying her butt as he dressed, he considered. “Like what? Where? Why?”

  “I don’t know, have to think about it. The problem with the butt location is I hardly ever see it, and it seems like the person who goes through the process ought to be able to see the results easily. Added to it, hardly anybody else sees my butt either, so what’s the point? Unless I consider it some secret ritual of teenage rebellion, which it pretty much was.

  “This would be mature.”

  “A mature tattoo.”

  “Anyway.” She rolled over, sat up. “I really like your shower. I really like you in your shower.” On a long, lazy sigh, she reached for her blue-checked robe. “I need to check the soup.”

  “Stay tonight.”

  With the robe half on, she stopped to blink at him. “Tonight? We both work tomorrow.”

  “We both work tomorrow anyway. After snow wars and soup and most probably fights over football, come back with me. Stay tonight.”

  She wrapped the robe around her, belted it. Looked up again. “All right. I’m going to check the soup before I get dressed.”

  “Okay.”

  As she walked downstairs she wondered what to do about the flutter around her heart. She recognized it; she’d felt it before.

  She’d been five.

  Falling in love with Owen—again—was very likely as foolish now as it had been then. But the MacTavish Gut knew what it knew. She just wasn’t so sure about the MacTavish Heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Early in the new year, armed with a thick binder, Avery did yet another walk-through of what she firmly thought of now as MacT’s. But this time she had Hope and Clare as sounding boards.

  “The bar along there. Dark wood, something that makes a statement. I’m going to try to sweet-talk, cajole, beg, and sex Owen into making it.”

  “How’s that going?” Clare wondered. “The sex part.”

  “Look at this face.” Avery pointed her thumbs at her own face.

  “Satisfied, relaxed, happy. And just a little bit smug. So question answered.”