The Last Boyfriend tibt-2 Page 12

  “It’s a good idea,” Justine began.

  “Don’t get her started,” Ryder warned.

  “It would add to the inn,” Avery went on. “Guests would have more choices, and could walk right across St. Paul, have a bottle of wine, and not worry about driving. You could arrange for room service from there, just like we’re going to do for you from Vesta. Don’t want to go out? Have some pizza in The Lounge, or a nice, quiet dinner in The Dining Room. And you’re doing packages. Adding a package with a dinner for two at a nice restaurant, right next door—or again, brought to them here—would be a draw.”

  “No question.” Beckett nodded at her. “And we’ve tossed it around, some. The sticking point is finding someone who not only wants to run a place like that but can do it, and do it right.”

  “I want to.” She said it fast, her hands clasped in her lap under the table. “I can do it right.”

  “You’ve got a restaurant. You’ve got Vesta.” Ryder narrowed his eyes at her. “And Little Red, if you tell me you’re thinking of packing it in over there, I’m going to be pissed off. I need my Warrior’s pizza fix.”

  “She’s not thinking of that.” Concerned, Owen nudged his plate aside. “Two places, Avery? Don’t you have enough to do already?”

  “I’d give Franny more responsibility, use Dave in both sites on a rolling schedule. I’d need a good manager for the new place, and I’ve already got someone in mind. Justine, it didn’t work before because it wasn’t the right fit. I know exactly what to do there to make it work, to make it pop.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Oh brother.” Ryder lowered his head and focused on waffles.

  “You want warm, contemporary without being showy. Maybe a couple of love seats as well as low and high tops in the pub area. One big-ass bar, and you get bartenders who know what they’re doing. Relaxed, but just a touch of edge. Good wine, good drafts—maybe a mix of local stuff. Classy.”

  Because nobody stopped her, Avery took a breath, and plowed through.

  “For lunch, you offer a wide variety of salads, sandwiches, soups, and you’re open for lunch, every day—which was a problem before. You keep the prices reasonable, the service friendly and welcoming.”

  “Which was also a problem before,” Beckett commented.

  “Yeah, it was.” She gave him a nod, plowed on. “For dinner, you add entrees. A good steak, fish, chicken, some interesting appetizers. As much as you can, you stay local for the produce, for the meat. You make it fun, and you don’t forget you’re on The Square in Boonsboro. I know the town, I know what people want.”

  “I bet you do,” Justine murmured.

  “I’ve written up a business plan. I’ve drafted out a menu, price points. I know it involves some work for you, reconnecting the two spaces, fixing up the pub area, but it’d be worth it.” She took a breath. “I’d make it worth it.”

  “How long have you been thinking about this?” Owen asked her.

  “About two years—when I could see the other place just wasn’t going to work, and why. It’s not impulse,” she insisted, knowing that look. “I know I can be impulsive, but not when it’s business. You trusted me when I came to you about opening Vesta in your building.”

  “We were right to.” Beckett considered her. “I want to take another look at the space before we make any decisions—one way or the other.”

  “Sure. I’ll send you the business plan, the sample menu, and so on.”

  “Good.” Justine nodded. “I want to see what you’ve laid out. Still, we’re going to need to talk this over, Avery, my boys and I.”

  “I know that. And if it’s no, well . . . I’ll try to convince you to change your mind. So. I’d better get going.” She rose, automatically bussed her dishes. “Thanks again for letting me test the room. It was a night to remember.”

  “We’ll talk soon,” Justine promised her, then considered the coffee she’d let go cold as Avery went out. “Thoughts?”

  “Running a restaurant is a lot of work,” Owen began. “Running two? She’d have to manage two crews, two menus, and add this pub she’s talking about, it’s basically three businesses to manage.”

  “She’s the Little Red Machine.” Ryder shrugged as he got up to get more coffee for his mother. “My money’s on her.”

  “I need to look at the space, make sure it can be done.”

  Justine just smiled at Beckett. “Anything can be done. The first advantage, for us, would be having someone in there we know, can trust, and who has a good, solid, innovative idea. Her concept’s pretty damn perfect.”

  “I like the idea.” Still Owen hesitated. “My concern would be having one person, having Avery, trying to do it all.”

  “That’s concern for her. You’re worried she’d run herself ragged, take on too much. A friend’s concern,” Justine added. “With some ‘when would we have time together now that we’re thinking about spending time together’ mixed in.”

  When Owen shifted his gaze, coolly, toward Ryder, Ryder threw up his hands. “Not a word. Not from me.”

  “Please.” Justine let out a snort, flicked a hand in the air. “Do you think I have to be told? Foolish, foolish boy. You still don’t comprehend my powers?” She smiled again, smugly, when Owen only shifted in his chair. “I understand that concern. I have some of my own. But like Ry, I’d put my money on Avery to make this work—to put something on that corner that would be a boost to the town. To the inn,” she added. “And the other businesses.”

  She sat another moment, nodded to herself. “Let’s take a look at the space, then you boys can think about how it could be done, if it should be done, and what’s involved. We’ll look over her business plan, see what kind of menus she’d project. After that, we’ll talk to Avery again. Okay?”

  “Works for me,” Ryder said and got a nod from Beckett.

  “We’ll check it out,” Owen decided. “Go from there.”

  * * *

  Later, Owen hunted up Avery in The Lounge. She sat on the floor, surrounded by DVDs, busily slitting open the packaging with a little tool.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Just basking on the beaches of Saint-Tropez.”

  “Are you wearing sunscreen?”

  “With this skin? I use a force field.”

  He sat on the brown leather bench. “Isn’t this your day off?”

  “Yeah, which is why I’m at the beach. While I’m basking, I get to play with the movies. Hope gave me this opener thing. I didn’t know they made this opener thing for DVDs. All those cumulative hours of fighting with the stupid sticky deal and the wrapping, when all I had to do was zip. I’m making up for it, opening all the inn’s complimentary DVDs while Hope and Carolee have a powwow. Did you ever see this?”

  She held up a DVD of Love Actually.

  “No.”

  Head tilted, she gave him a wise-owl stare. “Because you think it’s a chick flick.”

  “It is a chick flick.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Does anything blow up?”

  “No, but there’s nudity and adult language. It’s not a chick flick, it’s just a really excellent movie. I have my own DVD of this one. And this one.” She held up a copy of The Terminator.

  “That’s a movie. Why are you nervous?”

  “I’m not nervous. I’m basking and using my handy tool while discussing cinema.”

  “Avery.”

  Having someone who knew your moods just that well, she thought, could be an upside or a downside, depending on the situation. Anyway, it saved time.

  “I’m afraid your family sent you in here to tell me no way, no how on the new restaurant idea.”

  “We haven’t decided either way. We looked over the space, kicked some things around. It looks doable—on our end—but Beckett needs to work on it some.”

  “Doable—on your end.” She knew him, too. “But not so much on mine.”

  “I didn’t say that.
But I’m wondering how you’re going to manage your time, focus, energies. I’ve got a pretty good idea how much time and work you put in at Vesta.”

  She zipped the next DVD. “What makes you think so?”

  Because I’ve watched you, he thought, more than I realized.

  “I eat there, have meetings there. I’ve been working across the street from your place virtually every damn day for more than a year. I’ve got a picture, Avery.”

  “If you’ve got an accurate picture you’d see I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m not saying otherwise. But what you’re talking about means doing it in two places. It feels like you’d be taking on more than one person could handle.”

  Taking her time, she balled the trash, tossed it in the box beside her. “I get the feeling that your vote on this proposal’s coming in on the no side.”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ve known you, Owen, as long as you’ve known me.”

  “None of us wants you to wear yourself out, or get yourself in a bind.”

  Just in case she’d be tempted to throw it, Avery set the DVD zipper down. Carefully.

  “Do you think I don’t know my capabilities and limits, and my potential? How many irons are in your fire, Owen? How many rental properties do you oversee? How many jobs have you got in various stages, how many clients on your list, people on your payroll, subcontractors to juggle?”

  “There are a lot of us to handle it. There’s just one Avery.”

  She shoved at her hair—currently the shade of glossy mahogany. “Don’t give me that. I know you take the lead on the rentals. You deal with the tenants. I know, because I am a tenant. You’re the detail man, Owen, and Montgomery Family Contractors has a hell of a lot of details. Ryder’s job boss, Beckett designs the space. Your mom handles the books, helps clients with interior design, and looks at the big picture. You tie all the little pieces together. And every one of you—including your mom from time to time—builds.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “But nothing.” Temper rising, she snapped the words off. “You’ve worked across the street from my place for over a year. Well, right back at you. I’ve seen just what you’ve done, had to do, dealt with, figured out. You, Owen, individually as well as with the rest. If you told me you were planning to remodel the freaking White House I’d figure you could do just that. You ought to have the same faith in me.”

  “It’s not a matter of faith,” he began, but she was shoving up to her feet.

  “Listen, if the answer’s no, it’s no. It’s your property, and you’ve got a right to rent it to whoever you rent it to. I wouldn’t hold it against you, any of you. But the answer better not be no just because you don’t think I’m up for it.”

  “Avery—”

  “No. Just no. You should’ve asked to see my business plan, my scheduling outline, my menu, my P&L from Vesta, and my projected budget on the new restaurant. You should’ve treated me with the same respect as you would any other businessperson, any other prospective tenant. I’m not a dreamer, Owen, and I never have been. I know what I can do, then I do it. If you don’t get that, then you don’t know me as well as both of us thought.”

  He knew her well enough not to follow her out when she walked away. She wasn’t just mad—that he could get around. But he’d managed to hurt her as well as piss her off.

  “Good job,” he muttered. To give himself some time to think, he gathered up the DVDs she’d done, stacked them in the cabinet under the wall-mounted flat screen, automatically alphabetizing them as he went.

  Chapter Nine

  He considered approach and timing, and gave a lot of weight to holiday spirit.

  At five o’clock on Christmas Eve, Owen knocked on Avery’s door.

  She’d dyed her hair—again—he noted, this time in a shade he thought of as Christmas Red. She wore skinny black pants that showed off the shape of her legs and a crisscrossing sweater as blue as her eyes. Her feet were bare, so he saw she’d married the Christmas Red hair with Christmas Green toenail polish.

  Why was that sexy?

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. Merry Christmas Eve.” Working it, he added an easy smile. “Got a minute?”

  “Not much more than. I’m going down to Clare’s for a while, then heading over to Dad’s. I’m staying there tonight so—”

  “You can fix him Christmas breakfast, hang out before you both go to my mother’s for her Christmas thing.” He tapped his fingers to his temple. “Everybody’s holiday schedule, right here. Hope’s in Philadelphia, having the eve with her family, and heading back tomorrow afternoon. Ry’s swinging by Clare’s, then we’re both figuring on staying the night at Mom’s.”

  “So you can get Christmas breakfast and dinner.”

  “It’s a big draw.”

  “If you’re going to Clare’s, why are you here? I’ll see you in a half hour.”

  “I wanted a few minutes. Can I come in, or are you still pissed at me?”

  “I’m not pissed at you. I got over it.” She stepped back to let him in.

  “You started unpacking,” he commented. By his gauge she’d reduced the stacks of boxes and tubs by more than half.

  “Continued unpacking,” she corrected. “I was pissed. I cook when I’m mad or upset. My father has a freezer loaded with lasagna, manicotti, various soups. So I had to stop and shift the energy to more unpacking. Nearly done.”

  “Productive.”

  “I hate to waste a good mad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, waved it off. “I have to finish getting dressed.” When she turned toward the bedroom, he followed.

  He didn’t wince—no point making her mad again—but she’d obviously had some trouble deciding on the sweater and pants. Other choices, rejected, were scattered over the bed. He’d always admired the antique brass bed, the turned spindles, the old-fashioned charm of it. But it was tough to appreciate it buried under heaps of clothes, pillows, and her overnight bag.

  She pulled open the top drawer of her dresser—where Owen figured most people stored underwear, but saw clearly the entire drawer of earrings.

  “Jesus, Avery. How many ears do you have?”

  “I don’t wear rings, a watch, bracelets—usually. They don’t do well with pizza dough and sauces. So I compensate.” After some study, she tried on silver hoops with smaller hoops dangling within the circle. “What do you think?”

  “Ah . . . nice.”

  “Hmm.” She took them off, changed them for dangles of blue stones and silver beads.

  “I came by to—”

  Her gaze whipped to his in the mirror. “I have something to say first.”

  “Okay. You first.”

  She moved to the bed, added a couple more things to the overnight bag, zipped it. “I may have overreacted a little the other day. A little. Because it was you, I think, and I expected you to believe in me.”

  “Avery—”

  “Not finished.” Moving quickly, she crossed to the bathroom, brought out a hanging bag. When she laid it on the bed, he saw through the clear front it was loaded with makeup and all those tools women used.

  How did she have time to use that much makeup? When did she? He’d seen her face without all the stuff. It was a really good face.

  “I should have expected you’d think of practicalities first. I guess I wanted you to think of what I wanted first. Still not finished,” she said when he opened his mouth.

  She rolled the bag, tied it, set it in the overnight.

  “Then after I’d cooked enough so that the town of Boonsboro will eat well should there be an unexpected famine, and unpacked stuff I’m not even sure why I have to begin with, I realized that while I’d be really upset if your family said no because they didn’t think I could handle it, I really don’t want you to say yes just because it’s me, and there’s a family-friendship h
istory.”

  She turned now. “I want to be respected, but I won’t be pandered to. Maybe that’s a hard line for you, Owen, but it’s my line. I’m not moving it.”

  “It’s fair, and I’ll probably slip off the line sometimes. So will you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, but we need to try to stay on it.” She went to the closet, got out a pair of boots. Tall black boots, he noted, with high, skinny heels.

  He’d never seen her wear them. Or really anything quite like them. She sat on the bench at the foot of her bed. His mouth went dry as she pulled them on, zipped them up.

  “Um. So. I wanted to say . . .” He trailed off as she rose. “Wow.”

  “It’s the boots, right?” Considering, she looked down at them. “Hope talked me into them.”

  “I love Hope,” he said as she pulled open the door of the closet, checked herself out in the full-length mirror on the back. “I’ve never seen you wear anything like that.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. I’m not working.”

  “You’re working for me.”

  She laughed, sent him a sparkling look. “Your reaction is noted and appreciated. I rarely get a chance to wear heels. Hope’s helping me fill in the wide, wide gaps in my shoe wardrobe. We’d better get going. Since you’re here you can help me haul down the presents so I don’t have to keep going up and down the steps in these boots.”

  “Sure, but I still need that minute.”

  “Oh, right, sorry. I thought it was about the thing, and we dealt with the thing.”

  “Not the whole thing.” He took a brightly wrapped box out of his coat pocket. “We have this tradition in my family about getting one present on Christmas Eve.”

  “I remember.”

  “So, here’s yours.”

  “Is this a I-better-make-up-with-her-or-she-won’t-sleep-with-me-next-week present?”