The Perfect Hope (17 page)

“Avery, it’s going to be even better than I imagined.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet. They tiled the bathrooms.”

She kept dragging Hope, here, there—to see the tile, the fresh walls in the kitchen, through the now framed opening to the bar side.

“Oh, they’ve restored the siding. It’s fabulous!”

“Isn’t it?” Avery ran her fingers over the smooth wood. “This was the best surprise, and see my brick wall—it’s just right. They’re going to paint, and put in the lights, the bathroom fixtures, the kitchen . . . then the bar goes in. I may cry when the bar goes in.”

“I’ll bring tissues. Oh, here’s Clare. And look at the raised platform; the kids helped build it. I may cry now. Honey,” she said when she got a good look at Clare, “are you okay? You’re a little green.”

“It’s July,” Clare reminded her, and took slow little sips from her water bottle. “And it’s twins.”

“There’s a step stool in the kitchen. Stay right there.”

“I’m fine,” Clare began, but Avery was on the dash. “But I could sit.”

“You shouldn’t be out in this heat.”

“I’m not going to be for long. But pregnant or not, I have to live. Beckett’s dealing with the boys, the dogs, and the super-duper sprinkler.”

“You hit the jackpot there.”

“And I know it.” She didn’t argue when Avery came back with the stool, but sank onto it. “Thanks. It really looks good in here, Avery. Everything’s coming together just the way you imagined it.”

“Even better. There’s a fan back there. I’m going to get it.”

“Avery, stop. I’m fine. It’s a lot cooler in here than it is out there. I just got a little queasy. It’s passed.”

“I’m walking you to your car when you go, and if you’re not a hundred percent, I’m driving you home.”

“Deal. Now relax. There’s a lot of summer yet to get through. And don’t say anything to Beckett. I mean it.” Clare added a pointed finger. “He hasn’t been through this before. I have. I’d know if anything was off with myself or the twins. It’s just normal pregnant in high summer.”

“Times two,” Hope added.

“Boy, tell me. I’m getting huge and I’ve got months yet. They’re kicking,” she announced, pressing a hand to one side, then the other. “I swear I think they’re wrestling around already.”

“I have to feel,” Avery and Hope said together.

“Wow. Bump, bump, bump,” Hope said.

“It’s great, isn’t it? So lively. It’s worth going a little green. So, mid-August for your first baby,” she said to Avery.

“That’s the word, currently. I’m going to throw the best friends and family night, probably closer to September when I have it all perfect. Just wait.”

“Ryder sent me flowers.”

Avery blinked. “Sorry?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Surprised at herself, Hope tapped her temple. “Where did that come from? It’s working on my head.”

“Is there a problem with getting flowers from a man you’re involved with?” Clare wondered.

“No. I love getting flowers. It was sweet. He’s not usually sweet.”

“He is, under it,” Avery corrected.

“It was an apology, for the most part. Poking in about my work schedule.”

“Ah. Men will do this when it interferes with their sex.”

“No.” She shook her head at Avery, laughed a little. “It wasn’t that, because it’s really not. I guess I’m still making up for lost time, because I’m just fine for that even after a brutal day. Anyway, he sent me flowers. We didn’t even have an argument, not really.”

“Flowers to women are his thing,” Avery told her. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean it’s his go-to. His mom loves flowers, so it’s his go-to.”

“That’s simple then. But . . . there are some other things. I want other takes.”

“I have a take. Avery has a take.”

“Always.”

“Okay. When I thanked him for the flowers, he suggested we go out to the movies.”

“Oh my God.” Staggering, Avery clutched at her heart. “This is awful. What next? Will he suggest going out to dinner? Perhaps live theater. Run away. Go now.”

“Shut up. He hasn’t suggested going out before, not like that. We stay in. We get takeout or I throw something together—more often than not he just comes over after dinner. Late, when there are guests. And we have sex. What does it mean, a movie? Flowers? And he bought me a magic wand.”

“A what?” Clare said.

“One of those things they sell over by the park with the fireworks. It’s one of the light-up, singing wands, with a star on it.”

“Aww,” was Avery’s response.

“Yes. It’s adorable. Why would he buy me a magic wand?”

“Because it’s adorable,” Clare suggested. “And you couldn’t come down with the rest of us. It’s sweet.”

“There’s that word again. I don’t know what it means, if anything. We’re not dating.”

“Yes, you are,” Clare disagreed with a smile that came from sympathy and amusement. “Didn’t you get the memo? You’re in a relationship with Ryder.”

“We’re not. I mean, we are, of course, because we’re sleeping together. But . . .”

“People who sleep together fall into specific categories.” Avery began to tick off her fingers. “One-night stands, which doesn’t apply. Friends with benefits, which doesn’t fit either because you weren’t all that friendly before the benefits. Pay to play, and that’s out. Or two people who like each other, care about each other, who have sex with each other. That fits, and that’s a relationship. Deal with it.”

“I’m
trying
to deal with it. I have to understand it, and I’m not sure I do. I’m not going to go into this with expectations. I’ve done that.”

“You shouldn’t compare him to Jonathan,” Clare advised.

“I’m not. Not at all. It’s me. I have to take some responsibility for what happened with Jonathan. I built up expectations, and—”

“Hold it right there.” Avery threw up a hand. “Did Jonathan tell you he loved you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he talk to you about a future, the potential of one?”

“Yes, he did.”

“He’s a lying, scumbag dickhead. Ryder’s not. If he ever tells you he loves you, you can take it to the bank. I told you I know women he’s dated. He’s easy, he doesn’t commit—or hasn’t—but he doesn’t lie, cheat, or evade. My take? He cares about you. He’s being decent, and yeah, sweet. He
is
decent and sweet. He’s also cranky and abrupt. He has layers. Start peeling them if you want to understand.”

“What she said. And,” Clare added, “he brought you a silly toy because he was thinking about you. He asked you out because he wants to spend time with you, and give you time away from your workplace. If you don’t think about him or want to spend time with him outside sex, make it clear.”

“I would. I’d never do to anyone what Jonathan did to me. I do think about him. I’m just not sure what it means. Maybe I worry about what it could mean. I don’t know. I thought it would all be simple.”

“It’s never simple.” Avery slid an arm around Hope’s waist. “It shouldn’t be. Because being with someone should matter enough to be at least a little bit complicated. Are you going to the movies?”

“Actually, I suggested dinner and a movie at his place. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Stop second-guessing him and yourself.” Clare pushed to her feet. “Enjoy him, and yourself. Let it happen.”

“I’m lousy at that.”

“Try it. You may be better at it than you think.”

“If I’m lousy at it, I’m blaming you. I need to get back. Avery, I love this place.”

“Me, too. Come on, Clare, I’m walking you to your car, then giving my judgment.”

They parted ways outside. Clare took Avery’s hand as they crossed Main. “She’s falling for him.”

“Oh yeah, she is. We know you can’t resist a Montgomery man for long.”

“He bought her a magic wand, Avery. I’d say the falling’s mutual.”

“It’s going to be fun to watch.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A
FTER A LONG, BRUTALLY HOT DAY THAT INCLUDED A
go-round with an inspector he’d considered strangling with a bungee cord, a key crew member who had to be rushed to the ER for twelve stitches, and a screwup on a materials delivery, Ryder wondered why he didn’t end the day having a beer and take-out Warrior’s Pizza in his underwear.

But a deal was a deal, so he grabbed a quick shower, and took the time to shave.

He remembered to make the bed, a chore he rarely bothered with. Then, rolling his eyes, muttering curses in a way that had D.A. bellying into his own bed, Ryder unmade the bed by stripping off the sheets.

The least a man could do was provide fresh sheets if he planned on tossing a woman into them.

He knew the rules. And they included clean sheets, fresh bathroom towels, and a scrubbed-out sink. Women were fussy, and a woman like Hope—as he’d spent considerable time at her place and seen for himself—was fussier than most.

Fair enough.

Satisfied the bedroom would pass, he went downstairs, picked up a few things on the way through. He wasn’t a slob, he told himself. And he had Betts, his cleaning lady, in every other week. But between work and his time with Hope, things had gotten a little messy.

He wound through to the kitchen and tossed what he’d picked up into the utility room to be dealt with later. No problem with the kitchen, he mused. He kept that squared away because if his mother dropped by—and she did—she wouldn’t say a word. Oh no. She didn’t have to when she had that
look
if he had piles of dirty dishes or trash and recyclables around.

He got out the bottle of Cab he’d picked up, dug up a wineglass. Then muttering again, got out another. He didn’t mind wine, and drinking it with her was more sociable.

He knew the damn rules.

He had a clean house, pretty much. He had wine and decent glasses for it. He had a couple of steaks. He didn’t cook. He grilled and he nuked. So he’d grill the steak, nuke the potatoes, and dump the salad mix he’d picked up into a bowl.

If she didn’t like it, she should go to some other guy’s house for dinner.

Why was he acting nervous? He wasn’t nervous. That was ridiculous. He’d had women in his place before. Usually it was after they’d gone out somewhere, but he’d done the grill-and-nuke for women before.

They were fine with it. She’d be fine with it.

He dumped the bag of salad in a bowl and considered it a job well done. He scrubbed a couple of potatoes, opened the wine. He caught himself fiddling—turning on music, letting the dog out, letting the dog in.

Relief flooded when he heard the knock on the front door. He was better at doing than thinking about doing.

She looked amazing. Every time he saw her was another kick in the gut. “You cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” She lifted her hand to the short cap with long, spiky bangs. “I had some time, and it was driving me crazy. What do you think?”

“It looks good on you.” Everything did. It set off those smoky eyes that matched the smoky voice. She wore a dress, the kind that made him wish summer would never end. It bared her shoulders, and a lot of leg, and when she stepped in, he noted it bared a lot of back.

“Here you go.”

He hadn’t even noticed the flowers in her hand, and now just frowned down at them.

“Hasn’t anyone ever brought you flowers?”

“Can’t say they have.”

“Let me be the first. And I picked this up at the bakery. Have you had their brookies?”

“No. What are they?”

“Orgasmic.”

“I figured we’d be taking care of that ourselves.”

“Why stop there? Believe me, you’re in for a treat. I’ll put the flowers in water for you. Do you have a vase?”

“Ah . . . I don’t think so.”

“I’ll find something. And I didn’t forget you,” she said to D.A. while he rubbed against her legs. She opened her purse, produced a massive rawhide bone.

“What, did you take down a mastodon?”

Laughing, she pointed until D.A. managed to sit on his wagging tail. “It was a bitter battle, but I won.”

D.A. clamped it in his teeth, pranced over into the living room to collapse and gnaw.

Hope smiled up at Ryder. “So?”

“I’ve got some wine in the kitchen.”

“Just what I need after defeating a mastodon.”

She glanced around—discreetly—as she went back to the kitchen with him. She’d been in his home once, but hadn’t seen much more than the bedroom.

She liked his space, his use of color and comfort, and the detailing of the wood. She knew he and his brothers had built it, as they’d built Owen’s and Beckett’s.

If she ever found herself in the market for a house, she’d make sure it was a Montgomery Family Contractors project.

She loved his kitchen, the easy efficiency, the clean lines—dark woods, open shelving, glass-fronted cabinets.

“Is it all right if I look for something to put the flowers in?”

“Sure. I’ve probably got a jug or something.”

He poured the wine while she hunted. “I heard there was a glitch with the inspector at MacT’s.”

“Picking nits is all. We’ll deal with it.”

“I saw it the other day. God, it’s going to be fabulous.”

She found a clear pitcher, filled it with water.

“First round’s on Red Hots.”

“You can count on it,” Hope said as she arranged the flowers. “I love your house. It’s very you—and your brothers. Your mother, too, I’m betting with the landscaping. All the Montgomery family touches.”

“Nothing gets done that everybody doesn’t have a hand in.”

“It’s nice. We’re not very handy, my family. With the practical things, I mean. My mother’s creative and artistic, and my father can discuss any book or movie ever written or made, but neither of them can handle anything more complex than a screwdriver.”

“It’s people like that who keep us in business.”

“They have their repair people on speed dial. Personally, I like being able to do minor repairs myself.” She caught the smirk, narrowed her eyes. “I can and do make minor repairs. Do you think I call you or your brothers over every time something needs a hammer or screwdriver? I have my own tools.”

“Are they those pretty ones with flower handles?”

Now she drilled a hand into his stomach. “They are not.” She picked up her wine, touched to see it was her usual brand. “What can I do?”

“About what?”

“Dinner. How can I help?”

“Nothing much to do. We can go outside, and I’ll start the grill.”

He led the way through a dining room he currently used as an office. Here Hope’s innate organizational soul shivered. Papers unfiled, supplies jumbled, a desk all but trembling under the weight of undone tasks.

“Don’t start,” he said, seeing her look.

“Some of us handle tools, others handle office space. I can say, proudly, I’m reasonably adept with the first and a genius with the second. I could help you with this.”

“I—”

“Know where everything is,” she finished. “That’s what they all say.”

She stepped out onto a wide deck, breathed deep. His mother, she had no doubt, had spearheaded the charming country-cheer garden, the planters spilling with color. It all flowed into the green spread of woods and the rise of hill.

“This is wonderful. I’d want my coffee out here every morning.”

“There’s never much time for that in the morning.” He opened an enormous, shiny silver grill that struck her as intimidating. “I wouldn’t think the house in the woods would be your style.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’ve never had a chance to find out. From the ’burbs to the city, from the city to small town. I’ve liked all of it. I think I’d like the house in the woods, too. Which way is Clare? And which way is Avery?”

After he’d switched on the grill, he walked to her, stepped behind her. Lifting her arm with his, he pointed in one direction. “Avery.” Then angled her arm again. “Clare. And.” He turned her, pointed again. “My mother.”

“It’s nice to be close. But not too close.”

“I can see their house lights when the leaves fall. It’s close enough.”

She looked over her shoulder to smile, and found herself turned into him, pressed again him. His mouth took hers, hot and urgent. A surprise, as he’d seemed so casual. A wonderful surprise, she thought, as his need stirred her own.

He took her wine, set it aside. “We’ll eat after.” And grabbing her hand pulled her back into the house.

She scrambled to keep up. “All right.”

He made it to the stairs before he pushed her against the wall, tortured himself with her lips, her body. “Just let me . . .”

He found the short zipper that started halfway down her back, yanked it down. She barely had time to gasp before she was naked but for a thong, her heels, and a pair of dangling earrings.

“Christ. Damn it.” He’d sworn he’d keep his hands off her until after dinner—until after the movie, or at least until during. But the way she looked, smelled, sounded . . . It was too much. Just too much.

He filled his hands with her breasts, ravaged her mouth.

And she gave back—as eager, as desperate as he. She tugged his shirt up and off, tossed it away, scraped her nails up his bare back, and tied his guts into knots.

When he lifted her off her feet, she melted against him, hot, fragrant wax.

She felt weightless. He carried her up the stairs as if she were. She’d never been carried up the stairs before, and certainly not with her dress in a heap behind her.

Glorious.

She fed herself on his neck, his face, feasted on his mouth as he moved through the bedroom door.

“I can’t keep my hands off you.”

“Don’t.” She wrapped tight as they fell on the bed. “Don’t keep your hands off me.”

He wanted that warm, smooth flesh, the long, slim lines and curves. And the taste of her filling him as he worked his way down her body. She arched up, crying out.

He knew he was rough, tried to slow, tried to gentle, even a little. Tried to remember her delicacy and the hardness of his own hands. He brought his mouth back to hers, softer now, deep and lingering. The revving engine of her body went to purr.

Something turned inside her, a slow, liquid spin, and another, another, that left her dizzy, left her weak.

She breathed out his name as his lips slid over her, featherlight now. A drug seeping into her blood.

She reached for him again, her own hands stroking lightly, dreaming as sensations fell over her like tissue paper.

Now to savor rather than devour, to seduce rather than ravish, they moved together in the quieting light.

When she cupped his face in her hands, when their eyes met, she felt joy merged with desire.

He saw her lips curve before he lowered his to brush them. Felt her fingers thread through his hair. And now when she arched to him, when she opened, welcomed, he slid into her, into velvet heat.

Her breath caught, released, caught again. And those eyes held his as they rose and fell together. Deep, dazzled eyes that went dark and blind as he urged her up and up, and over.

Her body held, taut as a bow, and held quivering until it went slack with release.

He pressed his face into the curve of her throat, and took his own.

Dreaming still, she turned her head, brushed her lips over his hair as her hand trailed up and down his back, while they lay quiet. When he shifted, she curled against his side. His arm came around to wrap. Drifting, he didn’t make the connection that affection had tangled with heat, on both sides.

“I guess I should put those steaks on.”

“I could eat. But I think I’ll need my dress.”

“You look good without it, but it’s a nice dress. I’ll get it.”

“And my purse?”

“What for?”

“I need to make a few repairs.”

He frowned at her. “What for?” he repeated. “You look good.”

“It’ll take me five minutes to look better.”

She could already wring every beat out of a man’s heart, but he shrugged and went downstairs. The dress smelled like her, he thought, sniffing at it as he hunted down her bag in the kitchen.

D.A., the rawhide—worse for wear—still clamped in his teeth, gave him a look that said: I know what you’ve been doing.

“You’re just jealous.” He carted the dress and purse upstairs where she sat on the bed, knees drawn in. When she smiled, he wanted to jump her again.

“Thanks. I’ll be right down, give you a hand.”

“Okay, but it’s no big deal.”

He left her alone before he broke and climbed on her again.

True to her word, she was done in five. “I don’t see any difference except for the dress.”

“Good. You’re not supposed to.”

“How do you like your steak?”

“Rare.”

“That makes it simple.” He tossed a couple of enormous potatoes in the microwave, punched buttons, then pulled the salad out of the fridge.

“Would you like me to dress that?”

“I got a bottle of Italian and a bottle of blue cheese.”

Considering, she poked her head in the fridge, took stock. “I can do better, if you’ve got olive oil.”

“Yeah. Up there.” He pointed to a cabinet.

She opened the cabinet, found a couple other things that met with her approval and took them out. “Little bowl, a whisk?”