The Last Boyfriend tibt-2 Read online

  “No, I saved that one for tomorrow.”

  She laughed again, made him grin with the quick, cheerful peal of it. “Can’t wait to see that one.”

  She took the box, shook. Got nothing. “You padded it.”

  “You’re a shaker. Everybody knows.”

  “I like to guess first, it adds to the suspense. Could be earrings,” she speculated. “As you were so appalled by my earring drawer, let me say, if so, trust me, you can never have too many.” She ripped away, tossing the ribbon and paper on her dresser.

  She opened the box, pulled off the cotton batting he’d used to pad it. And saw two keys.

  “For the building across the street,” he told her. “Both sides.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face, said nothing.

  “I looked over your business plan after you sent it to Mom. That, and your menu, the rest. It’s solid. It’s good. You’re good.”

  He let out a breath when she sat on the bench again, just stared at the keys in the box.

  “Full disclosure. Ryder gave you the thumbs-up from the jump. The Little Red Machine. You know he calls you that sometimes.”

  She nodded, didn’t speak.

  “Beckett came down on your side after he’d gone through the buildings again. Part of that, if you ask me, is because now he wants to design it, wants his hands in it. But the other part is because he believes in you. And Mom? You’re planning to do exactly what she wants in that space, more than she thought she could get. She doesn’t have any doubts.

  “As for me—”

  “If you’d said no, it would be no.”

  His brows drew together, his hands dug into his pockets. “Wait a minute. Wait. We don’t work that way.”

  “Owen.” Head down, she turned the keys over and over in the box. “They listen to you. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it or seem like it to you all the time. But on something like this? On business? They know you’re the go-to, and they respect that. The same as you all respect Beckett on design, and Ryder on the builds, on the hiring and firing of crew. You have no idea how much I’ve admired and envied your family over the years.”

  He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “You didn’t say no.”

  “It wasn’t a matter of not believing in you, Avery, not ever. You were right that I should’ve asked to see your projections and plans. But I wasn’t thinking of you that way. I wasn’t looking at you that way. I’m not used to thinking and looking at you, at this, at us, the way I am now. And we haven’t really started.”

  Still staring down at the keys, she said nothing.

  “You work so hard.”

  “I need to.” She pressed her lips tight together for a moment. “I’m not going to talk about that, the whole psyche thing, the issue thing, not now. Okay?”

  “Okay. Oh, man.” When she lifted her eyes to his, they were brimming—gorgeous, heartbreaking, shimmering blue. “Do you have to?”

  “I’m not going to cry. Goddamn it, I’m not going to ruin my makeup. I spent forever on my stupid makeup.”

  “You look great.” He sat on the bench beside her. “You look amazing.”

  “I’m not going to cry. I just need a minute to pull it back.” But she lost the battle on one single tear, then swiped it quickly away. “I didn’t know how much I wanted this, not until I opened that box. Maybe I didn’t let myself know, so I wouldn’t be crushed if you said no.”

  Still battling tears, she took another slow breath. “I’d rather be pessimistic than disappointed, so I didn’t tell anybody how much I wanted this, not even Clare. Not even my dad. I told myself it was just business, just a proposal. But it’s a lot more to me. I can’t explain it to you right now. I can’t screw up my makeup, and I’m going to be really happy in a minute anyway.”

  He took her hand, considered ways to flip the tears toward that happy. “What are you naming it?”

  “MacT’s Restaurant and Tap Room.”

  “I like it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And what does the famous MacTavish Gut Feeling say about it?”

  “That I’m going to rock it. Oh God, it’s going to be great. Oh God!” Laughing now, she threw her arms around him, then leaped up to bounce in those skinny, sexy boots. “Just you wait. I have to stop in downstairs, get a bottle of champagne. Two bottles.” She leaped into his arms when he rose. “Thank you.”

  “It’s business.”

  “Thanks are still appropriate.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And this is personal.” She pressed her lips to his, slid her fingers into his hair, swayed against him. “Thank you, so much.”

  “You’re not going to thank my brothers like that, right?”

  “Not exactly like that.” She laughed, hugged him again. “Neither of them was my first boyfriend.”

  She broke away, grabbed for her overnight bag. “We’re going to be late now. You hate being late.”

  “Tonight’s the exception.”

  “Make another? Don’t get that look on your face when we go over into the wrapping area to get the presents. I know it’s disorganized and messy.”

  “I’ll have no look.”

  He took the overnight bag while she swung on a coat, a scarf, pulled on gloves. And he manfully restrained his expression when she led him into the room full of presents, bags, wrapping, tangled ribbon.

  “All this?”

  “Some’s for tonight, some’s for Dad’s, some for your mother’s. I like Christmas.”

  “It shows.” He handed her back the overnight as it would be the lightest and easiest to carry. “Go ahead, get your champagne, I’ll start loading this.”

  “Thanks.”

  At least she’d stacked gifts into open cardboard boxes, he thought as he hefted the first of several. And because she’d left the room he let his eyes roll toward the ceiling.

  “I heard that look!” she called out, and her laughter echoed back as she hurried down the stairwell.

  * * *

  From the time she’d walked into Clare’s with presents for the kids, the dogs, her friends—with bottles of champagne and one of the trays of lasagna she’d made during her mad—until the time when she crawled into her childhood bed, Avery found Christmas Eve absolutely perfect.

  Since Clare had come back to Boonsboro, a young widow with two little boys and a baby growing inside her, Avery had spent a few hours of the night before Christmas with Clare and her children.

  But this year, the house brimmed full with Montgomerys.

  This year she’d watched little Murphy climb up Beckett’s leg, nimble as a monkey, while Beckett continued to talk football with Clare’s father.

  And Owen patiently helping Harry build some complex battleship out of what looked like half a million Legos. Ryder challenging Liam to a PlayStation tournament while Dumbass and the two puppies milled around, wrestled, and surreptitiously begged for food.

  She’d enjoyed listening to Justine and Clare’s mother talk about wedding plans. And she caught the twinkle in her father’s eyes when he looked at Justine—how had she ever missed it? Everything in her warmed at his big belly laugh when Murphy deserted Beckett to climb up the tree trunk of Willy B’s leg.

  There was magic yet in the world, she’d thought, because she’d seen it in three young boys.

  Still more magic, she decided now as she lay in bed watching the sun slowly tint the sky outside her window, when Owen had walked her out to her car. When he’d kissed her in the frosty air with the shimmer of lights, the smell of pine lingering.

  A wonderful night. She closed her eyes to hold it to her one more moment. And a wonderful day ahead.

  She slipped out of bed—quiet, quiet—pulled on thick socks, clipped her hair back. In the low light she pulled the bag out of her overnight before creeping out of the room.

  She tiptoed down—right on the fourth step since it creaked in the middle—and into the living room with its big, sagging sofa, its big, brig
htly decorated tree, and its little brick fireplace with two stockings hung.

  Hers bulged.

  “How does he do that?” she muttered.

  The stocking had been empty the night before. They’d gone up to bed at the same time, and she’d read for an hour to decompress from the evening.

  She’d heard him snoring in the next room.

  He managed it every year. No matter when she went to bed or how early she rose. He’d fill that stocking as he had every year of her life.

  Shaking her head, she filled his with the silly gifts, his favorite candy, a Turn The Page gift certificate, and the annual lottery ticket, because you never knew.

  She stepped back, smiling, hugged herself.

  Just two stockings, she thought, but they were full, they were close, and they mattered.

  In her thick socks and flannel pajamas, she went into the kitchen, one no bigger than the one in her apartment.

  She’d learned to cook here, she remembered, on the old gas stove. Out of necessity at first. Willy B could do a great many things, and do them well. Cooking wasn’t on the list.

  He’d tried, she remembered. So hard.

  When her mother walked out, he’d tried so hard to bridge that gap, to keep his daughter level, happy, to make sure she knew how much he loved her.

  He’d succeeded there, but in the kitchen? Burned pans, undercooked chicken, overcooked meat, singed vegetables—or vegetables cooked to mush.

  She’d learned. And what she’d begun out of necessity became a kind of love. And maybe a little compensation, she thought now as she opened the refrigerator for eggs, milk, butter.

  He’d done so much for her, been so much for her. Making a meal meant she could give something back. God knew he’d praised her early efforts to the skies.

  She prepared to fix him Christmas breakfast, as she had every year since she’d been twelve.

  By the time she had coffee brewed, bacon draining, the little round table in the dining room set, she heard his footsteps, and his booming Ho, ho, ho!

  Every year, she thought with a grin. As dependable as the sunrise.

  “Merry Christmas, my beautiful little girl.”

  “Merry Christmas, my big, handsome father.” She rose to her toes to kiss him, burrowed into his bear hug.

  Nobody, she thought, wallowing a little, but nobody gave hugs as wonderful as Willy B MacTavish.

  He pecked a kiss on the top of her head. “I see Santa came, filled the stockings.”

  “I saw that. He’s sneaky. Have some coffee. We’ve got OJ, fresh berries, bacon, and the griddle heating up for pancakes.”

  “Nobody cooks like my girl.”

  “Nobody eats like my dad.”

  He slapped his hand on his belly. “Big space to fill.”

  “That you are, Willy B. But you know, when a man has a girlfriend, he has to watch his figure.”

  His ears went pink. “Oh now, Avery.”

  Adoring him, she drilled him playfully in the belly, then sobered. “I’m happy for you, Daddy. For both of you, that you have each other. You know Tommy would be happy, too, that Justine has you, and you have her.”

  “We’re just . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is having each other. Drink your coffee.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He took the first sip. “Never tastes as good when I make it.”

  “You’re kitchen challenged, Dad. It’s a curse.”

  “It sure missed you. I like seeing you in here, baby. You were always a natural cook. And now you’re going to have two restaurants.”

  “And a pub.”

  “You’re a dynasty.”

  She laughed as she ladled batter on the hot griddle. “A tiny one, but I’m pretty excited. It’ll be a while, but I need a while to finish planning it out.”

  “Justine’s excited, too, and real pleased it’s you moving in there. She sets a lot of store by you.”

  “As I do with her, with all of them. Wasn’t it great being at Clare’s last night?” Happy as Christmas morning, she flipped the pancakes. “Seeing everybody there, seeing how the kids are with Beckett, with all of them. All that noise and sweetness and . . . family.”

  As she looked over at her father, her smile went wistful. “You wanted a big family.”

  “I’ve got the best family any man could have, right here in the kitchen.”

  “Me, too. But I wanted to say, I know you wanted lots of kids, and you’d have been great with a big family—just as great as you were with just me.”

  “What do you want, baby?”

  “It looks like I want two restaurants.”

  Willy B cleared his throat. “And Owen.”

  She flipped the pancakes onto a platter, glanced over her shoulder. As she suspected, her big guy blushed. “It looks like I want him, too. You’re all right with that?”

  “He’s a good boy—man. You always had an eye for him.”

  “Dad, I was five. I didn’t know what having an eye meant.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. I just . . . you let me know if he doesn’t treat you right.”

  “And you’ll crush him like a worm.”

  Putting on a fierce scowl, Willy B flexed his considerable biceps. “If I have to.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” She turned with the platter of steaming pancakes. “Let’s eat so we can go rip into those presents.”

  * * *

  It wouldn’t be Christmas to Avery’s mind without a crowd in the kitchen. She’d always appreciated Justine for opening her house, and the big kitchen in it, to her, to her father. And this year with the addition of Clare and the kids, Clare’s parents, and Hope, crowds milled everywhere.

  And kids, she mused. Clare’s boys, Carolee’s two granddaughters. Squeeze in Justine’s two dogs—who managed to do just that as often as possible—Ryder’s D.A., and the two puppies, and Christmas was, to Avery, as perfect as it got.

  She loved her one-on-one time with her father, but this—the noise, the overstimulated kids, the excited dogs, the smell of ham baking, sauces simmering, pies cooling—plucked a chord deep inside her.

  She wanted this, had always wanted this, for herself. For her own.

  She stopped mincing garlic long enough to take the glass of wine Owen offered her.

  “You look happy.”

  “If you’re not happy on Christmas, when?”

  Curious, he peered into the mixing bowl beside her. “Smells good.”

  “It’ll taste better when it’s inside the mushroom caps and baked.”

  “Stuffed mushrooms, huh? Maybe you can make some of those for next week.”

  She took another sip of wine, set down the glass, and went back to mincing. “I could do that.”

  “How about those little meatballs you do sometimes?”

  “Cocktail meatballs.”

  “Yeah, those.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I tapped Mom for a ham, thought I’d slice it up for sandwiches, maybe get a couple of party platters of cheese and dipping vegetables, like that. And—”

  “Don’t get platters. Just get the stuff. I’ll show you how to tray it.”

  He’d hoped she’d say that. “Okay. If you give me a list of what you need for the other stuff, I’ll pick it up.” D.A. snuck up, sat delicately on her foot to get her attention. Avery gave him as solemn a look as he gave her.

  “You don’t want this,” she assured him.

  She heard wild laughter—Harry’s?—roll up from the lower-level family room. “I’m number one! Number one, suckers!”

  “Wii.” Owen shook his head with mock sorrow. “Brings out the best or the worst in us.”

  “What are they playing?”

  “Boxing when I walked up.”

  “I can take the kid in that. I can take him.” She looked over where Clare layered a huge casserole for scalloped potatoes. “I’m taking your firstborn to the mat. It’s going to be a KO. I’ll show him no mercy.”

 
“He’s sneaky, and he’s been practicing.”

  Avery flexed her biceps much as her father had that morning. “Small, but mighty.”

  “He hits below the belt,” Ryder snarled as he came through. “You’re raising a ball-puncher,” he said to Clare.

  “Beat you?”

  “In three rounds—but he cheats.” Ryder opened the fridge for a beer, frowned. “What’s this fancy deal in here?”

  “Trifle.” Hope reached around him, took out a vegetable crudités.

  “A trifle of what? Looks pretty big to me.”

  “It’s a dessert, a double chocolate trifle. Here, you can take this downstairs.”

  He gave it the same suspicious sneer he’d given the trifle. “Kids don’t want carrots and celery and crap. They want chips—and the runt likes salsa. Hotter the better.”

  “They’re having carrots and celery and crap,” Clare told him. “And Murphy’s not having hot salsa and taco chips before dinner.”

  “Neither are you.” Justine didn’t spare him a glance as she checked her ham. “Owen, grab those pot holders and take this out for me. It’s heavy. Clare, the oven’s yours.”

  “How soon do we eat actual food?” Ryder qualified.

  “About an hour and a half.”

  “We’re men. Boxing, skiing, alien-fighting, football-playing, race car–driving men. We need real food now.”

  “Appetizers in thirty,” Avery called out and snagged his attention.

  “You making some of the stuff you make?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay.” He took the tray, his beer, started back downstairs. “Why do they call it trifle when it’s big?”

  “I’ll look that up,” Hope promised.

  “Do that. Come on, Dumbass. This is all we’re going to get.”

  A little mournfully, the dog followed Ryder down where Harry’s latest cheer burst out. “Still number one!”

  “All right, taking five.” Avery pulled off her bib apron, tossed it aside. “Somebody needs a spanking.” After rolling her shoulders, she marched downstairs.

  And marched back up five minutes later with Harry’s catcalls ringing behind her. “He beat the crap out of me.”

  She paused for a moment, scanned the kitchen, the women, the movements, heard her father’s big belly laugh rise up the stairs, and Justine’s and Carolee’s voices from the dining room.