The Perfect Hope (10 page)

“Most of it was mad. She was plenty mad. Insulted. But she was shaken up, too.”

Owen pulled out his phone. “Did you see his car?”

“This year’s Mercedes C63 sedan, black.” Ryder rattled off the license plate. “I don’t think he’ll be back—she hit him where it hurts—but it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out.”

“Exactly. Son of a bitch just got married and he’s trying to make Hope his . . . He did her a favor when he dumped her.”

“Yeah, she seems to get that.”

Beckett shot out a finger. “She made you the pie.”

Ryder grinned. “Good pie. She wanted to even the score, I guess. So I took it, then I put a move back on her. I like to be ahead in the game.”

“You kissed her again?” Owen demanded.

“The other times she started it. I was starting to feel cheap and used.”

When Beckett laughed, Owen punched his arm. “Hey.”

“It may not be funny. Are you starting a thing with Hope?”

Ryder took a lazy slug of beer. “That would come under the heading of none of your damn business.”

“She’s the innkeeper.”

“Avery’s a tenant. It didn’t stop you.”

“Yeah, but . . .” While Owen tried to work that out, Ryder shrugged.

“Relax. Jesus. Kissing a woman—an available, willing woman—is a man’s God-given right. It doesn’t mean I’m looking at bassinets. Plus, she kissed me first.”

“And she’s smokin’,” Beckett added.

“Married, father of three with two in the oven,” Ryder pointed out.

“I could be the father of twenty, I’d still have eyes. She’s smart, smokin’—former beauty queen, remember—and bakes pies. Nice job.”

“She’s got nice moves, too.”

Owen put his head in his hands and made Beckett laugh again. “He’s just got to worry about something.”

“She’s the innkeeper. She’s Avery’s and Clare’s best friend. She got dumped by the son of her boss.”

“You don’t want to put me in the same class as Wickham, bro.”

“I’m not. I’m just stating facts. Add one more. Mom’s crazy about her. So if you want to have sex with her, and she wants to have sex with you, great. Just don’t screw things up.”

“You’re starting to piss me off,” Ryder said mildly—always a dangerous sign. “Why don’t you give me the name of a woman I’ve screwed things up with?”

“She’s not just a woman. She’s Hope. And I feel sort of—”

“You’ve got a thing for her?” Ryder asked.

“Oh, just suck me,” Owen snapped back. “I’ve spent more time with her than either of you, dealing with the setup of the inn, and researching for our resident ghost. She’s sort of like a sister.”

“You’re sort of like my brother.”

“Yeah, so it’s weird. And Avery’s given me the down and dirty on the Wickham thing. He really did a number on her, Ry. The whole frigging family did. So, she’s, you know, maybe still a little tender.”

“What do you mean, the whole frigging family?”

“They knew. Wickham’s old man, his mother. He’s got a sister, too. They all knew he was stringing her, and whether they thought it was okay or not, they let it slide. She was managing their hotel, and she handled a lot of their personal event planning. They had her over to their house for dinner, had her up to their place in the Hamptons. Avery said they treated her like one of the family, so she felt like one of the family. So it was like getting dumped by the whole damn family and getting screwed over by Wickham,
and
being used by her employers. They fucked her over good.”

It spelled things out, clearly. Ryder decided the whole Wickham clan could go to hell. “I don’t fuck women over. Neither does my family.”

“No, you don’t. We don’t. But now you’ve got a better picture.”

“Yeah, I got the picture. If anything moves between us, and I’m not saying it will, I’ll be sure she’s got a clear one of her own. Satisfied?”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t go running to Mom.”

“Jesus, why would I? I’m no tattletale.”

“You told her I broke her cut-glass vase throwing the ball in the house, and hid the pieces,” Beckett reminded him.

“I was eight!” Genuine grief and insult vibrated in Owen’s voice. “How long are you going to hold that over me?”

“Forever. She took TV privileges away from me for three days—for hiding the pieces, and another day for throwing the ball in the house. I missed
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
.”

“Grow up and buy the DVD.”

“I did. Doesn’t clear you, dude. The Silence of Brotherhood is sacred.”

“I was eight.”

Since Owen’s mind was on something besides his potential sex life, Ryder pushed to his feet. “You girls work this out now, like ladies. I’m going home, get some rack time.”

“Material’s coming at eight,” Owen told him.

“I know it. I’ll be there.”

“I’m going to work in the shop on the panels for the bar. Text me if you need me to come in.”

“I can make it through one day without seeing your pretty face. You I can use.” He pointed at Beckett. “Seven a.m.”

“It’s going to be eight, eight thirty. Clare’s mom wants the boys tomorrow. I have to get them up, dressed, fed, and over there. Clare’s at the inn, remember.”

“Just get there. Let’s go, Dumbass.” He started out. “And don’t throw the ball in the house.”

He remembered the pie plate at the last minute, backtracked to grab it. With D.A. he drove the short distance home, winding out of the woods, down the road, back into the woods where his house sat tucked away.

He liked it tucked away, and private. Liked having his own space—and a lot of it. He’d hired a landscaping crew to do the grounds. His mother had tried to make a gardener out of him, but it just hadn’t stuck. He was fine digging a hole for a tree, the occasional shrub, but when it came to planting posies? He hired it out.

He liked the look of them, the different heights, textures, shadows in the walkway and deck lights.

Since Beckett had washed it, Ryder left the pie plate in the truck so he wouldn’t forget it. He let D.A. sniff and wander and do what a dog had to do while he stood in the quiet, under a sky full of stars.

He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, or wanting to. Not because he’d grown up here, though he imagined that played a role. But because this place—this air, these quiet night sounds—had a hold on him. And always had.

He’d chosen this spot, well back from the main road, to put down his own roots, to build his own place. He’d walked and wandered these woods all his life. He’d known his spot long before he’d become a man.

He went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen, flipped on the light. He’d designed the space, with Beckett’s help. Clean lines, simple, and roomy enough for a table. He put the cell phone he’d finally stopped resenting on the charger, grabbed a bottle of water.

He’d get that hot shower now, a hell of a lot later than planned.

The dog trotted upstairs with him, went directly to the big square of pillow he used as a bed. Circled once, twice, a third time, then with a huge sigh curled up with the ratty stuffed cat he loved. Still he watched Ryder, tail thumping contentedly as Ryder emptied his pockets, pulled off his belt.

He stripped down, tossed the clothes in the direction of the hamper, and walked naked into the big indulgent master bath.

A man who worked with his hands, with his back, deserved the king of showers. Especially if he was a contractor and knew how to get it done.

It rivaled the baths they’d put in the inn—the tile work, in his case, in tones of stone gray, the long white counter, the stainless steel vessels. He turned the rainhead and body jets on full, and plenty hot, and let them beat the muscles tight from a long day of work, and play.

And as they loosened, he thought of Hope.

He wasn’t going to screw with her. And he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for her history with assholes.

She’d started it. He reminded himself of that because it was damn well the simple truth. He’d kept his distance, until recently. He’d kept it because there’d been something right from the jump. He hadn’t wanted something, not with a sloe-eyed, sharp-cheekboned beauty queen who probably paid more for a single pair of those stilts she wore than he had for every shoe in his closet combined.

Maybe the stilts made her legs go on forever, but that wasn’t the point.

She wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t hers. Hers wore designer suits and ties, probably went to art openings and galas. And liked it. Maybe even the opera. Yeah, the asshole had looked like the opera sort.

She’d started it, and if they finished it, he’d make sure they both laid their cards on the table first. He played fair. And since maybe Owen had a few valid points, he’d think about it awhile before deciding either way.

And if the time came when they both gave the nod, well, he’d play extra fair. No problem.

He shut the shower off, grabbed a towel to scrub his hair dry. It made him think of Hope and her garden hose, and made him smile. Maybe it hadn’t struck him funny at the time, but it did now.

She wasn’t always perfect. She made mistakes, took missteps. He liked it better that way. Perfect? It could be boring, intimidating, or just outright annoying. He liked the chinks, and wondered if—
if
—things moved forward, he’d find a few more.

Taking time on it, he thought. He had enough on his mind, enough on his plate without adding her right now, straight off.

He walked naked back into the bedroom, pulled down the sheet he’d pulled up that morning—his method of making the bed.

His dog was already snoring, and his windows open to the night breeze, the night sounds. He didn’t bother to set the alarm. There was one in his head, and if it didn’t go off, D.A. would.

He thought about switching on the TV, winding the rest of the way down. He thought of Hope again, saw in his mind’s eye that look on her face—that post-kiss look.

And thinking of Hope, fell straight into sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

R
YDER UNLOCKED THE DOOR OF THE INN JUST BEFORE
seven a.m., while the early sun slanted over roses tumbling around the garden wall. He’d started the crew early, before the heat of the late June day drummed down on them. Already the sounds of hammers, saws, drills, echoed from the open windows across the lot.

The inn sat silent, which didn’t surprise him. He figured women who had the whole place to themselves with nothing to do but whatever women who hung out on their own all night did would sleep in.

He vaguely remembered what it was like to sleep in.

He went into the kitchen. Whatever women did on their own all night, they left the kitchen tidy, he noted. He set the empty pie plate on the counter, started to walk out again.

Turned back.

He’d been raised better, so opened a couple drawers hunting for something to write with and on. He hit on the third drawer, came up with sticky notes and a pen.

Good pie. We’re square.

He stuck it to the lip of the pan, then eyed the coffeemaker. Considered.

As he considered, Clare shuffled in, and let out a gurgling yelp.

“Easy.” In case the baby weight overbalanced her, he started around the island to grab hold of her arm. But she waved him off.

“You
scared
me.” She laughed when she said it, leaned back against the refrigerator, a hand resting on the mound of her belly as pregnant women seemed compelled to do. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone this early.”

“I just brought this dish back.” Her hair tumbled like the roses, and her face held a quiet glow. Being knocked-up looked good on her, he decided. “What are you doing up? I figured you’d all be down for the count after a night of female debauchery.”

“Habit, I guess. My body clock hasn’t switched to summer hours. Even with that, the boys are usually up by now.” She rubbed her belly. “These two are.”

The idea of a couple of entities rolling around in there made Ryder vaguely uneasy. “You should sit down.”

“Coffee first. Wonderful, warm, brain-clearing caffeine. I’m allowed one stingy cup a day.”

He tried to imagine getting through the day on one cup of coffee. It didn’t bear thinking about. “So sit. I’ll make it. I was thinking I’d grab some to take with me.”

Enjoying the idea of being served, she boosted onto one of the stools. “Thanks. It was nice of you and Owen to hang out with Beckett and the boys last night.”

“I got a meal out of it.” He glanced back at her as he started the coffee—Clare of the sunny hair, and the love of his brother’s life. “Your firstborn’s a killer at boxing.”

“And lets everyone know it. They love their Man Nights. Usually we coordinate them with book club night. When the twins are born I’ll take them with me, I think, so the tradition can continue until they’re old enough to join in.”

“Don’t trust Beck to ride herd on five?”

“He’s never started from the ground up. It’s a lot.”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“I know. He’s a wonderful father, just so natural and easy. He changed my life. I guess we changed each other’s.” She smiled as Ryder got a mug for her, a go-cup for himself. “The pie was good, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. It went fast.”

“Hope filled us in on Jonathan’s visit. I’m not naive. I know there are selfish, nasty people in the world. But it still surprises me he could treat her the way he has. The way he did.”

To Ryder’s mind, the giving and good-hearted were often outnumbered by the selfish and nasty. “He’s used to getting what he wants just by wanting it. That’s my take anyway.”

“I think you’re right. Hope deserves better. She always did.”

“Not a fan?”

“No. I mean, I barely know him, really, but I never liked him very much. Hope says it’s not like Sam.”

He thought of rushing into the bedroom of Clare’s little house down on Main Street, just after Beckett. Of seeing her, pale, dazed, swaying after that bastard Sam Freemont had been after her. And of Beckett pounding Sam’s face—after Clare had clocked him with the only weapon at hand: a damn hairbrush.

“Honey, it’s not. It’s not like that. Freemont’s a sick son of a bitch. Wickham?” He remembered Hope’s term. “He’s just a slimy bastard.”

“She convinced me, mostly. But, after you really understand how far some people will go, how obsessed they can be . . . Will you keep an eye out anyway?”

“It’s already done.”

She took the coffee he handed her. “Then I feel better.” And drew in the scent. “A lot better.”

“I’ve got to get going. Are you all right on your own?”

Her smile warmed as she patted her belly. “We’re fine.”

He went out, let D.A. out of the truck, and they walked over to MacT’s together. He might rag on Beckett about the husband and daddy deal, but he knew his brother had hit the jackpot with Clare. Ryder considered her one in a million.

They’d changed each other’s lives, as she’d said, but things were supposed to change. Change meant progress, improvements, the occasional happy surprise.

Like when they’d opened the wall between the restaurant side and bar side and discovered the old wood siding complete with two old windows.

Owen hit it big with Avery as well, Ryder mused. She’d taken one look at the old siding and instead of asking them to cover it up again, embraced it, appreciated the character and what it added to the building.

He imagined within a handful of years, Owen would be juggling kids and work and life. Owen might write up schedules, but wasn’t so stupid or rigid he wouldn’t adjust.

Change, he mused as he got another day’s work started, he was in the business of it.

He put in time with his tools, interrupted three times by the phone, which he started hating again. He crossed over to the fitness center to deal with a problem there, then back to the restaurant, where he found Beckett picking up where he’d left off.

“Owen met with the inspector,” Beckett told him. “Bakery’s good to go.”

“I heard.”

“He’s meeting with Lacy now,” Beckett said, referring to the baker. “Then he’ll go ahead and pick up the U&O. That’s a big check mark off the list.”

“Plenty left to go. Things are under control here.” Ryder looked around to be certain. “You can come with me.”

“Where?”

“We’re going to tear off that bastard roof.”

“We had that for midweek.”

“We’ve got a dry day, and it’s supposed to stay under ninety. Let’s get it done.”

It wasn’t the first tar roof they’d ripped off, but it would be the biggest. And Beckett remembered, not at all fondly, just how laborious, filthy, and downright nasty the job was.

“You don’t want to wait for Owen?”

Ryder just sneered at him. “Afraid of a little sweat, sweetheart?”

“Sunstroke maybe.”

“Find your balls, and let’s go get it done.”

IT WASN’T AS
bad as Beckett remembered. It was worse.

Slathered in sweat and sunscreen, he huffed through his breathing mask as he hacked with the tear-off shovel. His muscles burned as if covered with simmering hot coals. Laborers hauled away the waste in wheelbarrows and carts, or hauled up replacement coolers of ice water.

They drank like camels, and never quite kept up with the thirst as every ounce of fluid poured out in more sweat.

“How many son-of-a-bitching layers of this shit is on here?” Beckett shouted.

“It’s a miracle the whole goddamn thing didn’t fall in last winter.” As he broke up another section with a roof cutter, Ryder looked over and grinned. “She’s going now.”

“If she doesn’t kill us first. What are you grinning at?”

“I like the view.”

Beckett paused, swiping at sweat and looked out. The copper roof of the inn gleamed and glinted in the sun. He could see The Square, and the traffic passing, people walking into Vesta’s for lunch, and shifting, he looked down Main to Turn The Page.

“I’d rather look at the view from a shady porch, with a beer in one hand and my woman in the other.”

“Use your imagination.” Ryder stripped off his saturated mask, glugged down water. Since he couldn’t waste the jug, he imagined pouring that cold water over his head.

As he took a moment to roll his aching shoulders, he saw Hope come out onto the second-floor porch. She paused a moment, looking over and up, studying the work and workers. He knew the instant her gaze reached him; he’d have sworn he felt it like an arrow to the loins.

She stood for a beat, as he did, then unlocked the door to J&R and disappeared inside.

“Must have someone coming in,” Beckett commented.

“Huh?”

“Caught ya looking.”

Ryder picked up a fresh mask. “No law against it.”

“Not yet. Why don’t you ask her out?”

“Why don’t you put that shovel to work?”

“A little dinner, some conversation. Hell, she baked you a pie.”

“You had as much of it as I did. You take her to dinner and talk to her.”

“I have. Or Clare and I’ve had her over. You need a buffer, bro? We can have the two of you over, smooth the way.”

“Blow me,” Ryder suggested, and hacked away.

IT DIDN’T HURT
to look, Hope told herself. She went inside, unlocked Eve and Roarke. There she could open the blinds, just enough to see through, and across to the roof. Or what she imagined was left of it.

She’d had no idea how they’d intended to remove it. It seemed to involve a lot of sharp-bladed shovels, heavy bars, and some sort of saw. Along with a great deal of noise.

She imagined it miserable work, but it provided her with an interesting perspective.

Most of the men had stripped off their shirts. She hoped they’d made liberal and repeated use of sunscreen or they’d be hurting tonight.

She debated with herself a moment, thought, what the hell?

She hurried up to her apartment, grabbed her opera glasses, and jogged down again.

Definitely miserable work, she concluded as she brought that perspective close through the glasses. And oh my, my, the man was seriously built.

She’d seen it, when he had a shirt on, felt it the few times she’d been pressed against him. But . . . there was nothing quite like a full-on view of a sweaty man with muscles rippling.

No woman alive could deny a little buzz, even if the sweaty, ripply-muscle sort wasn’t her usual type.

She saw him glance over, pull down the mask to call out something to one of the other men. He had a damn good face, too—a little scruffy and unshaven over those strong bones, but damn good. And when he laughed, as he did now, another buzz zipped along inside her.

She made a little humming sound.

“Hope? I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do with . . .”

Hope turned. She nearly whipped the opera glasses behind her back, but she wasn’t quite that bad off. Instead she grinned, maybe a little sheepishly, as Carolee stopped at the door.

“I’m spying on the neighbors.”

“Really?” Wiggling her eyebrows, Carolee walked over. “What’s—Oh, the roof. God, they have to be hot and sweaty and—” She broke off, laughed. “And that’s the whole point. Let me have a look.”

She took the glasses, peered out through the slats of the blinds. “They are pretty, aren’t they? I only see two of the boys—Justine’s boys. Owen must’ve figured a way out. Horrible work. We should make them some lemonade.”