The Last Boyfriend

by Nora Roberts

  Even if he could find a spot where a half a dozen people weren’t moving through, by, or around, he got interrupted every ten minutes.

  So he did what he decided was the next best thing. He acted as if nothing had happened. He talked to her, carted boxes for her, ordered food from her, just like normal over the next couple of days.

  Since she behaved exactly the same way, he figured: problem solved.

  For his last chore of the day—hopefully of the week, he thought—he carried a box of lightbulbs into Nick and Nora. He intended to work his way through the finished rooms, assembling lamps, screwing in the correct bulbs.

  He hesitated only a moment when he saw Avery hanging glass drops on a floor lamp.

  She glanced his way. “Some assembly required,” she said.

  “Looks good.”

  “I’m hanging these my way. I like it better than the way they have it in the diagram. Justine said she did, too.”

  “Works for me.” He noted that the stacked glass ball lamps beside the panel bed had already been assembled.

  “I’m Lamp Girl this evening,” she told him.

  He started to make a joke about being Lightbulb Boy, but thought better of it.

  Damn it. It was weird.

  “I’m the man with the bulbs, so let there be light.” He took a bulb out of the box. “Listen, Avery—”

  “Look!” Hope dashed in, still wearing her coat and scarf. “Isn’t this fabulous?”

  She carried a Deco-style statue of a man and woman.

  “It’s great! It’s Nick and Nora Charles.” Avery shifted to admire it.

  “The amazing people at Bast gave it to us.”

  “Aww. Now I love it even more.”

  “It’s just perfect!” After a moment’s scan, Hope set it on the corner of the carved heater cover Owen had built. “Just perfect. I love that floor lamp. A little glimmer, a lot of glamour and style. Oh, when you’re done there, Avery, maybe you can give us an opinion out in J&R. Owen, we’re trying to decide on your grandmother’s crocheted pieces, the ones your mother had matted and framed. They’re so beautiful. She was an artist.”

  “If she’d had enough thread, she could’ve crocheted the Taj Mahal.”

  “I believe it. We’ve narrowed it down to two spots. We need another eye, Avery.”

  “You can have mine. That’s the last drop. Thank God.” She stepped back, nodded. “Excellent.”

  “Come on down then. We have to decide, then that’s it for tonight.”

  “Good, because I need to run over, take care of a couple of things.”

  “After you do, come to my place,” Hope told her. “Clare’s parents have the kids tonight, and Beckett’s got a dinner meeting with a client. We’ll have some wine, and I’ll cook something.”

  “I’m in. Two minutes here.”

  As Hope went out, Avery crouched to gather up the packaging from the lamp. “They’re even prettier lit,” she commented when Owen tested the lamps.

  “Yeah. So, Avery . . . are we okay?”

  After a humming beat of silence, she flicked him a glance. “There’s that word again.”

  “Come on, Avery.”

  Still crouched, she gave him a long, steady stare from under her arched eyebrows. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just—”

  “Sounds like we’re okay. It wasn’t my first kiss, Owen.”

  “No, but—”

  “Not even my first with you.”

  He shifted the box of bulbs to his other hip. “That was—”

  “So, no problem here.”

  “No problem,” he agreed, but thought it felt like one. “I’ll get that stuff. We’ve got a load to take out anyway.”

  “Good enough.” She started out. “Oh, if you have time, maybe you can hang the mirror, that starburst deal there. Hope marked the spot on the wall.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have a good weekend if I don’t see you.”

  “Yeah, you, too.”

  He frowned at the cardboard, frowned at the mirror, frowned at the empty doorway.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and went out for his drill.

  “‘Are we okay?’” Avery gestured with her wineglass. “Jerk.”

  In Hope’s living room, curled on the sofa, Clare smiled at her friend. “He just doesn’t know how to handle it.”

  Far from ready to cut him a break, Avery huffed. “He didn’t have any problem handling me the other night.”

  “Beckett got awkward and a little jerky with me after we almost kissed the first time. Maybe it’s a Montgomery brothers trait.”

  “Once you had, he wasn’t awkward.”

  “True.” Clare’s smile warmed. “Very true. Still, given your history—”

  “History-smistory.”

  “What history?” Hope carried a tray of fruit and cheese out of her little kitchen. “I haven’t had the opportunity to get all the details on this. Ghostly nudges, hot kiss, lame Owen aftermath.”

  “That sums it.”

  “History? Is this more than knowing each other forever? Clare and Beckett knew each other for years before they got together.”

  “I was with Clint,” Clare reminded her. “We were a couple from the start, so I didn’t have any history other than casual friendship with Beckett.”

  “And you had more with Owen?” Hope probed. “What have I missed?”

  “They were engaged.” Grinning now, Clare toasted Avery.

  “What?” Hope’s dark chocolate eyes rounded with shock. “When? Why didn’t I know this? This is huge.”

  “We were kids. I think I was five—almost six. Our fathers were tight, so we had a lot of activities together. I had a crush on him.”

  “So she proposed to him—or more she announced they were going to get married when they grew up.”

  “Aw, that’s so cute.”

  Softening a little, Avery shrugged. “It was probably a major embarrassment for him. I guess he was about eight. But he was nice about it. Patient,” she remembered, softening a bit more. “I crushed on him for a couple of years.”

  “That’s a long time at that age,” Hope pointed out.

  “I tend to dig in. Then he started hanging out with Kirby Anderson.” The softening process halted as her eyes went flinty. “That ten-year-old slut. Owen Montgomery broke my heart with that boyfriend-stealing bimbo.”

  “I should point out, for Hope, that Kirby Anderson is now married, the mother of two, and an environmental activist living in Arlington, Virginia.”

  “She grew out of it.” Avery shrugged. “But there could still be slutitude in there, dormant. Anyway, after that I was off boys until I hit puberty.”

  “But you forgave Owen,” Hope prompted.

  “Sure. I refused to pine. Besides, a girl’s first boyfriend isn’t going to be her last, right?” After gesturing, she cut a slice of Gouda and nipped into it. “Especially when he’s an ass.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him.” Clare reached over, patted Avery’s hand. “He’s probably flustered, not sure how to act. You know you mean a lot to him. To all of them.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” But she sighed. “It was a damn fine kiss. He’s learned a lot since eight—or I’ve learned. We both have. I wouldn’t mind kissing him again.”

  “Really?” Hope drew out the word as she sampled an apple slice.

  “Sure. What am I, stupid? He’s a damn fine kisser—as I now know. And he’s really pretty.”

  “Would you sleep with him?” Hope wondered.

  “Hmm.” Considering, Avery reached forward, snagged a tart, green grape. “We’re both currently unattached, both adults. Maybe. Yeah, maybe, as long as we went into it clear-eyed. You can trust Owen. That’s a big one, knowing you’re with somebody you can trust.” She bit into the grape, grinned. “And who’s really pretty.”

  “Listening to all this, I’m glad I’m out of the arena.” Content, Hope slid down in the chair with her wine.

 
“You won’t stay out.” Avery shook her head. “You’re gorgeous, smart, interesting—and human.”

  “I’m not interested in dating right now. Not just because of Jonathan. In fact, now that I think about it, not at all because of that dick. Right now, all I want is to focus on the inn, on being the world’s best innkeeper, and keeping that beautiful place perfect. Men, dating, sex? Just not currently on the radar.”

  “Careful,” Clare warned. “Best-laid plans.”

  “But I excel at planning.”

  * * *

  OWEN DIDN’T SLEEP well, which he considered a pisser. He always slept well. He thought of it as a skill, like carpentry or adding up columns of numbers in his head.

  But instead of dropping off after a full day of work, a sweaty hour-long workout, a relaxing soak in his hot tub, he’d slept in fits and starts.

  He’d promised himself no work over the weekend, but when a man climbed out of bed before sunrise, what the hell was he supposed to do with himself all day?

  His house was in order. It generally was, but with the push on the inn over the last couple of weeks, he’d barely done more than sleep there. Even he couldn’t find anything to fuss over.

  He and Beckett had designed the house, a couple of stones’ throws from his mother’s, from Ryder’s, from the home Beckett was finally finishing. He liked being close to family, and still solitary and private on his wooded lot.

  The space suited him and his efficient nature with its open kitchen and dining room serving as great room and entertainment area when he had anybody over. To the left, the laundry and utility room served the added purpose of mudroom.

  He believed in multitasking, even for houses.

  Now, wearing only loose flannel pants, he stood at the atrium doors leading out to his wide, paved patio, drinking coffee ground and brewed in the sleek and efficient machine he’d treated himself to on his last birthday.

  Ryder called it Hilda, claiming anything that shiny and complicated had to be female.

  Generally that first good, strong cup of coffee pleased him, perked him up for the day ahead. But right at the moment it did nothing to cut through his irritability.

  She was the one being weird, he told himself—as he had countless times during the restless night. She’d said she didn’t want things to be weird, then she acted weird. Trying to make him feel guilty, he decided, when he didn’t have anything to feel guilty about.

  It was all just stupid, and he needed to forget it. Because he damn well wasn’t losing another night’s sleep over it.

  He thought about breakfast, but didn’t feel like cooking. Not that he minded cooking, particularly a weekend breakfast where he could load up on bacon and eggs, sit at his counter, and play with his iPad.

  He didn’t feel like using his iPad either, and that was just wrong. He always felt like using his iPad.

  So he’d work after all. He’d put some time in at the shop on the mantel for Beckett’s bedroom fireplace. Maybe even get it finished so Beckett could just seal the chestnut.

  No point in hanging out at home all day if he couldn’t enjoy the loafing. Plus, his mother habitually rose early, he thought as he headed up the central stairs he and his brothers had built. She’d cook him some breakfast—and maybe he could pump her a little—subtly—about Avery.

  Not that he’d tell his mother the full shot—it was too . . . okay, weird. But he knew no one who had better insight on people than Justine Montgomery.

  He turned into his bedroom, switched on the little gas log fireplace built into the mocha-colored wall, and carried his coffee into the bath. Once he’d showered and shaved, he dressed in work clothes and steel-toed boots.

  He made the bed—smoothing the sheets, drawing the white duvet up, stacking the pillows in their dark brown cases.

  He took his phone off the charger, hooked it on his belt, took his pocketknife, loose change, wallet out of the tray on his dresser. Got a fresh bandana out of the dresser drawer.

  He stood a moment, frowning at nothing. Too quiet, he realized. His house and grounds were exactly the way he liked them, work was plentiful, and satisfying. But it was just too quiet.

  Time for a dog, he told himself. Time to seriously think about getting a dog. Maybe a Lab-mix like his mother’s—or a faithful mutt like Ryder’s.

  He’d promised himself a dog, but with the time and demands of the inn project, he’d postponed the idea.

  Better to wait till spring, he considered as he started downstairs. Easier to house-train a puppy in warmer weather. Or maybe he’d rescue an older dog—if he could get half as lucky as Ry had with Dumbass.

  He pulled his shop coat out of the closet, pulled on a ski cap, gloves, plucked his keys out of the dish by the door.

  A guy needed a dog, he thought. That was what was missing in his life. A good dog.

  Maybe he’d swing by the animal shelter after he’d had breakfast with his mother, after he put in some shop time.

  Nodding in satisfaction, he climbed into his truck. Sounded like a plan—and he liked a good plan.

  He pulled out, drove past the little barn he’d built to house the jeep and plow he used on the property, down to the main road. He made the turn, turned again into his mother’s lane to her house on the slope.

  The dogs bounded across the drive—Cus (short for Atticus) with one of his many mangled balls clamped in his mouth, and his eyes wild with joy. His brother Finch gave Cus a body block that had both dogs rolling and wrestling.

  Yeah, Owen thought with a grin, he definitely needed a dog.

  He wound the drive, puzzled for a moment when he saw Willy B’s truck parked beside his mother’s car.

  Early for a visit, Owen thought, even for Avery’s father. Then again, Willy B dropped by often, Owen knew, and now that he was one of the featured artists at his mother’s gift shop, he likely dropped by more with some new piece or design.

  Stroke of luck, Owen decided as he parked. He might be able to finesse some insight or info out of Willy B on Avery—subtle, subtle.

  He stopped long enough to snatch up the ball Cus had dropped pleadingly at his feet. He winged it, long and hard for the dogs to chase while he hurried up to the back door.

  He heard the music when he was still ten feet away, and shook his head. Typical for his mom—who’d never yelled at any of her sons to turn that damn music down.

  She’d always blasted her own.

  He shoved open the door, caught the scent of bacon, of coffee. Grinning, he thought: just in time.

  Then his eyes all but popped out of his head.

  Bacon sizzled on the stove. His mother stood in front of the griddle.

  So did Willy B, all six feet four inches of him wearing nothing but white boxers, with his hands on Owen’s mother’s ass, and his mouth locked on hers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HE MUST HAVE made some sound that cut through the blast of music and the jaw-dropping embrace. Maybe he screamed. He hoped he hadn’t screamed, at least not outside of his head.

  But his mother—an open robe over short red pajama pants and a thin (way too thin) white tank—stepped back. Her eyes met Owen’s, blinked once.

  Then she laughed.

  She laughed.

  Willy B had the grace to blush as red as his tumbled hair and trim beard.

  “What?” Owen managed, shocked to the bone. “What—you— What?”

  “I’m fixing us some breakfast,” Justine said easily, and with that laugh still fluttering on the edges. “I guess I need to break some more eggs.”

  “You— But— What? Mom.”

  “Try to make a complete sentence, Owen. Have some coffee.” She reached for a mug.

  “Ah . . . I should . . .” Still bright red, Willy B shuffled his enormous feet. “Put some pants on.”

  “Yes!” Owen felt his hands flapping in the air, but just couldn’t stop them. “That. Pants. You. Please God.”

  Rumbling in his throat, Willy B scooted off like a bear toward his ca
ve.

  “Mom.”

  “That’s my name.” All cheer, Justine beamed smiles. “Sit down, honey. Drink your coffee.”

  “What—”

  Justine picked up tongs to take the bacon out to drain. “Finish it this time. I’ll get you started. What . . . ?”

  “What—” He had to swallow the tight, prickly ball in his throat. It didn’t go down well. “What are you doing? Here. With him. Naked.”

  Eyebrows hiked, Justine looked down at herself. “I’m not naked.”

  “Almost.”

  Obviously fighting another smile, Justine closed her robe, belted it. “Better?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. My head. Did my head explode?” He patted his hands over it.

  Without missing a beat, Justine took eggs and milk from the big refrigerator. “I was going to scramble eggs, but under the circumstances, we’ll have French toast. You’re partial to French toast. You haven’t had breakfast, have you?”

  “No. Mom, I don’t understand this.”

  “What part of this don’t you understand, baby?”

  “Any of it. All of it.”

  “All right, let me explain. When people grow up, they often want to be close to each other. It’s best if they really like and respect each other. An important part of that closeness includes sex, which means—”

  “Mom.” Heat crept up his neck, but he wasn’t sure what emotion kindled it. “Cut it out.”

  “So you do understand that part. Willy B and I really like and respect each other, and sometimes we have sex.”

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t say Willy B and sex, with you, in the same sentence.”

  “Then I can’t explain, can I? Suck it up, Owen,” she advised, and offered him a slice of bacon.

  “But . . .” He took the bacon. He couldn’t defog his brain to speak coherently.

  “I loved your father. So, so much. I was eighteen when I first saw him—my very first day on the job for Wilson Contractors. There he was, standing on that ladder, torn jeans, big boots, tool belt, no shirt. And oh my God.” She laid a