The Last Boyfriend tibt-2 Read online

  “So far, so good. Lights there, there, there, warm tones. And I’m thinking a leather sofa—maybe dark brown—over there, coffee table. Some high tops in the front window, low tops there and there. And the pass-through to the restaurant will be right there.”

  “It’s going to be great. But before we get into color wheels and tables,” Hope added, “one must ask why you’re not bragging about said sex, or offering details to the one, sad one of us who isn’t having any.”

  “I might jinx it, and make you sadder.”

  “Please.” Hope flicked that away. “I saw Owen earlier, and his face also looks satisfied, relaxed, and happy. I’m not sure about smug, though he may have been masking that. Are you seeing him tonight?”

  “No. I’ve only got about an hour, then I’ve got to get over to the shop. I’m working. And he’s—all of them—are so busy right now. Prepping for the opening in a few days, working on the other building, planning for this one. We’ve been together almost every night since New Year’s, and I thought . . .”

  “You needed a break?” Clare suggested.

  “I thought I—we—should take one. You know how I can get. I always go into something like this thinking it’s casual, it’s fun, it’s natural. You like the guy, trust the guy, you’re attracted to the guy, so you go with it. Then, being me, I start wondering, is it more, should it be more, is this love—big L?”

  “Are you in love with Owen?” Clare asked.

  “I got the . . .” She fluttered a hand at her heart.

  “The MacTavish Heart.” Hope nodded.

  “It can’t be trusted. But the thing is, I’ve loved Owen forever. I love all the Montgomerys. It’s in the bone. So this could be that. Kind of a false positive. If it turns into the big L, it could mess things up.”

  “Why,” Clare demanded, “do you automatically assume he couldn’t big L you back?”

  “I don’t know, maybe that’s in the bone, too.” She let her shoulders rise, then fall. “I think part of it’s a mother issue, which is just depressing.”

  “You’re nothing like your mother.”

  “And I don’t want to be,” Avery said with a nod at Clare. “She cheated and lied and used. Sex was easy for her, it was sure as hell casual for her. So I think the part of me that can’t handle the thought of being anything like her takes the easy, casual sex and insists on making it more. Like a reflex. Or antidote. Then I switch it around because the big L hardly ever works. It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not,” Hope insisted. “It’s you.”

  “But now it’s me and Owen. Every time I’ve been involved with a man I end up making it more because, you know, flutter. Then the flutter stops, and I realize no, he’s not the one. He’s a perfectly nice guy—mostly they have been—but he’s not the one, if there really is a the one anyway.”

  “There is,” Clare insisted.

  “Maybe. Now I’ve got the flutter with Owen, and when it stops—”

  “Why when?” Clare shook her head. “It might not stop.”

  “Going by history it’s when, that’s all. I don’t want to make it more, then have to make it less again. Not with Owen. He matters more than the flutter or the mommy issue.”

  “I think you’re underestimating yourself, and him. But—” Clare checked the time. “I can’t go into depth on that as I’ve got to get home. But we will talk,” she finished, pointing a finger.

  “Fine by me. I’d better lock up. I can walk over to the inn with you, Hope, go over my part of the menu for the opening before I head to work.”

  “Okay.”

  They went out, parted ways with Clare heading across Main Street and Avery walking with Hope across St. Paul.

  “She’s in love,” Avery said. “Love like that makes an optimist out of you, helps you see other people riding the same optimistic train.”

  “Why shouldn’t you be optimistic?”

  “I’m not overly pessimistic—I don’t think. I’m more cautious.”

  “I’m not in love or riding the optimistic train, but I can tell you it’s really nice to see the way you and Owen are together.”

  She unlocked the door to Reception. “And I can also see how you—anyone—might take a short, thoughtful break. Sex can be easy and casual, and it can also cloud the brain. So clear your brain for a day or two.”

  “That’s it, exactly.” God bless practical-minded Hope, Avery thought. “Brain-clearing interlude.”

  “I’m going to make tea while we go over the menu.”

  “You’re making tea at the inn.” Avery boosted onto a stool at the island. “And we’re talking opening menu. A year ago, we weren’t even close to this. You weren’t even living in town.”

  “A year ago, I thought my future was the Wickham Hotel and Jonathan.”

  “Did your heart flutter?”

  “No.” Considering, Hope put the kettle on. “But I thought I loved him. I did trust him, admire him, enjoy him. And so, I thought I loved him. He knew that. Knew I trusted him, admired him, felt for him—and he knew I believed we were going to make a future together.”

  “Why wouldn’t you believe?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Hope agreed, without the taste of bitterness on her tongue she’d once swallowed too often. “We all but lived together. He said he loved me, he talked about the future with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Hope. Does it still hurt?”

  “No . . . maybe a little,” she admitted as she set out cups. “More pride than heart though at this point. He used me, and that—that just pisses me off. I don’t believe he intended to in the beginning. But in those last months, he lied to me and used me, and in the end made me feel like a fool. That hurts. Being made to feel like a fool.”

  “He’s the fool. I don’t ever want to hurt anyone like that.”

  “You couldn’t. You don’t have it in you, Avery.”

  She hoped not, but now and again, worrying over it kept her awake at night.

  * * *

  In her quiet, closed shop, Avery tied on her apron and began the opening process. She switched her ovens on, started coffee. She counted out her cash register, checked the level of her ice machine. Moving from open kitchen to closed and back again, she refilled her toppings trays, made a note to order more delivery boxes, opened a new tub of mozzarella.

  After transferring some dough pans to her under-counter cooler, she calculated she’d need to make more by noon. She hauled out her big pots of sauce, set them on low. Deciding she was lower on marinara than she liked, she gathered what she needed to make more.

  She paused at the knock on the door, and damn, there was that flutter when she saw Owen through the glass. He held up a key, and at her nod, used it to unlock the front.

  “You look busy.”

  “Not too. We’re low on marinara.”

  “Can I work here at the counter for a while? It’s too noisy at the job site, and they’re into the media tours at the inn.”

  “Sure. Want some coffee?”

  “I’ll get it in a minute.” He set down his briefcase and a long tube, shed his coat, pulled off his ski cap. Ran his hand through his hair.

  Then he walked around the counter, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Smells good.”

  “Best marinara in the county.”

  “I was talking about you, but the sauce isn’t bad. Do you want coffee?”

  “My hands are going to be full until I get this going. Aren’t you supposed to be part of the media stuff?”

  “Off and on.” He walked off to get a mug, lifting his voice when she opened a huge can of crushed tomatoes. “We’ve got a nice slate. Hope has contacts down in D.C., up in Philadelphia, so we drew some interest beyond the local. Nice for us.”

  “Very.”

  “Mom and Carolee are handling most of it with Hope, and the rest of us will do whatever, whenever.”

  “Exciting stuff.”

  He stood, w
atching her stir, add her herbs.

  “Don’t you have to measure?”

  “No,” she said simply.

  “I looked over the menu you’ve worked out for the new place. How do you know how to make all that?”

  She slanted him a look Hope would’ve termed smug. “I have many skills.”

  “I figure you need to test some of those dishes on a willing subject.”

  She glanced over. “Do you? And you’d be willing?”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Generous to a fault, that’s you.” But it actually wasn’t a bad idea, she mused. It was like testing out each room in the inn before opening. “I’m off Monday night.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Place your order.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “No, take another look at the proposed menu, place an order—salad, appetizer, entree. The works. When it’s real I’ll have a chef so I won’t do all the cooking, and I’ll have people working the line, but this would be a good indicator. I should try different dishes out on different people, too, make adjustments sooner rather than later.”

  “Speaking of adjustments. Are you about done there?”

  “I am done.” But she could make dough now, save time in the afternoon.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “Has to be quick,” she told him as she wiped off her hands. “I should go ahead and make dough while I have the time. And didn’t you have some work?” she added as she crossed to the cooler. Deciding she wanted her caffeine cold, she pulled out a Diet Coke.

  “This is part of it.”

  He opened the tube, took out a set of blueprints, unrolled them on the counter.

  “Is that the bakery building? I never did get a chance to . . .” She trailed off, momentarily speechless as she read the name.

  MacT’s Restaurant and Tap Room

  “MacT’s. It says MacT’s.”

  “That’s the name you said, right? You can always change it. You can change anything right on the blueprints. This is your copy. Beckett is tied up this morning, but he’ll go over them with you. For now, I can answer most questions, if you have any, explain what you don’t get.”

  “My blueprints.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hold on a minute.” She whirled away, danced around the dining room. Jumped, spun, kicked, reminding him of her cheerleading days at Boonsboro High.

  When she did a handspring, he jolted, then laughed. “Jesus Christ, Avery. You can still do that?”

  “Apparently.” On a woo-hoo, she launched herself at him.

  He caught her, staggered a little as she pumped her fists in the air.

  “I was hoping you’d have more enthusiasm.”

  “How’s this for enthusiasm?” She locked her arms around him, her legs around him, her mouth to his.

  “Not bad.” He turned them in a circle. “Not bad at all.”

  “I haven’t even seen them. I have to see them!” Wiggling down, she all but fell on the plans.

  “I can explain,” he began, but she brushed it away.

  “Do you think I can’t read blueprints? I practically slept with the ones for Vesta. It’s good, it’s good,” she muttered. “I’m going to want to move this cooler from here to here. It makes more sense for the flow, plus I’ll need a table here, beside the dishwasher.”

  He pulled a pencil out of his briefcase. “Mark it.”

  She marked it, made a couple small adjustments. “The opening here, that’s good. Easy pass-through from space to space for servers and customers. Sitting at the bar having a drink with a friend. Hey, why don’t we have dinner? Stroll right on over.”

  “It’s a big bar.”

  She gave a decisive nod. “Needs to make a statement.”

  “You need to tell me what you’re looking for there. The wood, the finish, the style, so I can work up a design for you.”

  She shifted her gaze over. “Are you building it?”

  “I figured on it. Why?”

  “I was going to sex you into it.”

  “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty busy.”

  On a quick laugh, she turned to wrap her arms around him. The hell with head-clearing breaks. “Owen.”

  “Maybe not that busy.”

  She held tight, squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not going to let you down.”

  “Nobody thinks that. Not for a minute.”

  She shook her head, looked up at him. It was more than a building, a business. It was Owen, and that flutter around her heart. “I’m not going to let you down.”

  “Okay.”

  Nodding, she laid her head on his chest again. Old foundations, she thought, new phases. Who knew what you could build?

  “I need to make dough.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  With a smile, she tipped up her head. “I need to make pizza dough so I can make the other kind and pay my landlord.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’m going to make some calls in the quiet.”

  He gave her a last squeeze. “About these.” He gestured to the blueprints. “It’s going to take a while. Making the changes, getting the mechanicals, then the permits. And we’re centered on the other building right now.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long it takes.” She thought of him, of them, the lifetime already shared. “It’s how long it lasts.”

  * * *

  Just after opening, Hope dashed in the door.

  Avery added pepperoni to a large. “Hey. How’s it going in Hollywood?”

  “It’s good. Pretty smooth so far. They’re doing some interviews and videos with the Montgomerys right now. I’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Have a seat.” Avery slid the large in the oven.

  “I thought I should run over and tell you rather than text. A lot of the crews asked about lunch, so we’ve been hyping Vesta.”

  “Your hype’s appreciated. Good thing I made that extra dough.”

  “The thing is, a couple of them got the idea to do some video and interviews around and about. Here to start. With you.”

  “Me?”

  “And maybe some photos.”

  “Of me? I can’t do that. Look at me. I have sauce on my apron. I didn’t wash my hair this morning. I have naked face.”

  “Sauce works, it’s the job. Hair’s fine. I’ve got nine minutes now. I can do makeup in six. Let’s go.”

  “But orders—shit. Chad. Two large in the oven for delivery. Deal with it. Back in five.”

  “Six,” Hope corrected.

  “Six,” Avery called as she ran for the door.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me this could happen? I wouldn’t have naked face.”

  “Six minutes, maybe less. The gods gifted you with gorgeous skin. We’ll just pump up the eyes, give you more color, less shine.”

  “I’m shiny!” Desperate, Avery shoved open her apartment door, raced to the bathroom. “I’m wearing an old shirt.”

  “The apron covers it.” Focused, Hope yanked open the drawer of the vanity.

  “The saucy apron.”

  “I’m telling you the sauce is good. It’s like a prop. Sit,” she ordered. “This is simple. It’s not a screen test for a major motion picture. It’s a few seconds on the evening news.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Quiet. Why can’t you organize your makeup into groups? Eyes, lips, cheeks?”

  “Don’t start on me when I’m having a nervous breakdown. Why did I use this color on my hair?”

  “Why do you use any color on your hair when you have gorgeous hair to begin with?”

  “It was because of the rut. It was the rut, but now it’s like an addiction. Help me.”

  “Shut up and close your eyes.”

  Hope swiped on shadow, blended, drew on liner, smudged. “Didn’t I tell you to buy an eyelash curler.”

  Wary, Avery opened one eye. “I fear them.”

  “Get over it. Look here.” She l
eveled a finger, then brushed on mascara.

  “Why do you always look so perfect?” Avery complained. “Why are you beautiful? I hate you.”

  “I can give you clown cheeks.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You have skin like porcelain. I hate you.” Deft and quick, Hope feathered on blush. “And for God’s sake buy an eyelash curler. And a lip liner. Relax your jaw.” She chose a lipstick from the two dozen jumbled in the drawer, dusted on translucent powder, blotted.

  “Done, and in four.”

  “My pizzas.”

  “Chad’s got them. Take a look.”

  Avery rose, studied the results in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes looked bigger, bluer, her cheeks more defined, her lips rosy. “You’re a genius.”

  “I am.”

  “But my hair.”

  “Leave it. Twenty seconds.” Hope tugged here, smoothed there. Nodded. “Unstudied, casual, and just a little sexy.”

  “The shirt—”

  “Is fine. Different earrings. Thirty seconds.”

  Hope made the dash, pulled open the earring drawer. A quick scan, eyes narrowed. “These. A little sparkle, a little dangle, and they’re from Gifts. Symbiotic.”

  She did one ear while Avery did the other.

  “Shouldn’t I—”

  “Done,” Hope declared, and grabbed Avery’s hand. “Switch focus. You want the reporters to mention the excellent food and fast, friendly service in a cheerful atmosphere, right?”

  “Right, right. Jesus, stupid. It doesn’t matter how I look. Of course it does, but I need to warn the staff. I should call Franny in.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. Gotta go.”

  “Thanks for the face. Really.”

  * * *

  By one she was too busy to worry about her shirt, the sauce on her apron, or if she’d chewed her lipstick off. She focused on pizzas, making pie after pie, and thanked God for Franny, who’d come in at her call and dealt with pasta orders, salads.

  She worked her way through it; in fact did two quick interviews while she stood at her work counter. Even tossed dough on request for a camera.

  And she thought of the lovely perk of having her place on a D.C. station for even two or three seconds.

  At three, with the madness over, Avery took her first break by collapsing in the empty back dining room with a bottle of Gatorade.