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Harry looked down at the stick while his brothers stood beside him, all eyes.
“Why do you want to?”
“Because I love her. I love her, Harry. I love you guys, too, and I want us to be a family.”
“The bad man tried to hurt her,” Murphy said. “But you came, and you and Mom fought him and they took him to jail.”
“Yeah, and you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Are you going to sleep in her bed?” Liam wanted to know.
“That’s part of the deal.”
“Sometimes we like to, if there’s thunder or we have bad dreams.”
“Then we’ll need a big bed.”
He waited while they looked at each other. He knew how it was, the unspoken language of brothers.
“Okay, if she wants to.”
“Thanks.” He shook Harry’s hand, then pulled him in, pulled them all in for a hug. “Thanks. Wish me luck.”
“Luck!” Murphy shouted.
If he hadn’t been nervous, Beckett would have laughed all the way back to Clare.
“What was that?”
“Man talk.”
“Oh really, Beckett, you start all that business about bedrooms and paving, then you just walk off for man talk?”
“I couldn’t finish until I’d cleared it with Harry. We had a deal, and guys have to know you keep your word.”
“Well, good for you, but—”
“I had to get his okay before I asked you to marry me. He said it was okay if you want to. Please want to. Don’t make me look like a loser in front of the kids.”
The hand she’d lifted to push at her hair froze. “You asked my not-quite-nine-year-old son for his blessing?”
“Yeah. He’s the oldest.”
“I see.” She turned away.
“I’m messing this up. I love you. I should’ve started with that. I swear I trip up more with you than anybody. I love you, Clare. I always did, but it’s different loving who you are now. It’s so damn solid. You’re so solid, so steady, strong, smart. I love who you are, how you are. I love those boys, you have to know.”
“I know you do.” For a moment she stared at the trees, their bare branches soft in the shimmer of her tears. “I could love you if you didn’t, because love, sometimes, just is. But I couldn’t marry you unless you loved them, unless I knew you’d be good to them. I love you, Beckett.” Eyes dry again, she turned back. “You brought them dogs I didn’t think I wanted, and you were so busy talking me into it you didn’t see me fall at your feet. I love you, Beckett, without any doubt, without any worry. And I’ll marry you the same way.”
She threw her arms around him. “Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.”
“I bet I do.”
“We’re going to find out, because—What is that in your pocket? And don’t say you’re just happy to see me.”
“Oh, forgot.” He pulled out a small bag. “I got you a new hairbrush.”
For an instant she only stared. Then she cupped his face in her hands. “Is it any wonder?”
He scooped her in, swung her around. And holding her close shot a thumbs-up to the boys.
Her boys—his boys—their boys let out whoops and cheers, and ran toward him with dogs barking at their heels.
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KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
THE SECOND BOOK IN THE INN BOONSBORO TRILOGY
BY NORA ROBERTS
The Last Boyfriend
AVAILABLE IN MAY 2012 FROM BERKLEY BOOKS.
A FAT WINTER MOON POURED LIGHT OVER THE OLD STONE and brick of the inn on The Square. In its beams, the new porches and pickets glowed and the bright-penny copper of the roof glinted. The old and new merged there—the past and the present—in a strong and happy marriage.
Its windows stayed dark on this December night, prizing its secrets in shadows. But in a matter of weeks they would shine like others along Boonsboro’s Main Street.
As he sat in his truck at the light on The Square, Owen Montgomery looked down Main at the shops and apartments draped in their holiday cheer. Lights winked and danced. To his right, a pretty tree graced the big front window of the second-floor apartment. Their future innkeeper’s temporary residence reflected her style: precise elegance.
Next Christmas, he thought, they’d have Inn BoonsBoro covered with white lights and greenery. And Hope Beaumont would center her pretty little tree in the window of the innkeeper’s apartment on the third floor.
He glanced to his left, where Avery McTavish, owner of Vesta Pizzeria and Family Restaurant, had the restaurant’s front porch decked out in lights.
Her apartment above—formerly his brother Beckett’s—also showed a tree in the window. Otherwise her windows were as dark as the inn’s. She’d be working tonight, he thought, noting the movement in the restaurant. He shifted, but couldn’t see her behind the work counter.
When the light changed, he turned right onto St. Paul Street, then left into the parking lot behind the inn. Then sat in his truck a moment, considering. He could walk over to Vesta, he thought, have a slice and a beer, hang out until closing. Afterward he could do his walk-through of the inn.
He didn’t actually need to walk through, he reminded himself. But he hadn’t been on site all day, as he’d been busy with other meetings, other details on other Montgomery Family Contractors business. He didn’t want to wait until morning to see what his brothers and the crew had accomplished that day.
Besides, Vesta looked busy—and had barely thirty minutes till closing. Not that Avery would kick him out at closing—probably. More than likely, she’d sit down and have a beer with him.
Tempting, he thought, but he really should do that quick walk-through and get home. He needed to be on site, with his tools, by seven a.m.
He climbed out of the truck and into the frigid air, already pulling out his keys. Tall like his brothers, with a build leaning toward rangy, he hunched in his jacket as he walked around the stone courtyard wall toward the doors of The Lobby.
His keys were color coded—something his brothers called anal and he deemed efficient. In seconds he was out of the cold and into the building.
He hit the lights, then just stood there, grinning like a moron.
The decorative tile rug highlighted the span of the floor, added another note of charm to the softly painted walls with their custom, creamy wainscoting. Beckett had been right on target about leaving the exposed brick on the side wall. And their mother had been dead-on about the chandelier.
Not fancy, not traditional, but somehow organic with its bronzy branches and narrow, flowing globes centered
over that tile rug. He glanced right, noted The Lobby restrooms, with their fancy tiles and green-veined stone sinks, had been painted.
He pulled out his notebook, jotted down the need for a few touch-ups before he walked through the stone arch to the left.
More exposed brick—yeah, Beckett had a knack. The laundry room shelves showed ruthless organization—and that would be Hope’s hand. Her iron will had booted his brother Ryder out of his site office so she could start organizing.
He paused at what would be Hope’s office, saw his brother’s mark there: the sawhorses and a sheet of plywood forming his rough desk, the fat white binder—the job bible—some tools, cans of paint.
Wouldn’t be much longer, Owen calculated, before Hope kicked Ryder out again.
He continued on, stopped to admire the open kitchen.
They’d installed the lights, the big iron fixture over the island, the smaller versions at each window. Warm wood cabinets, creamy accent pieces, and smooth granite complemented the gleaming stainless steel appliances.
He opened the fridge, started to reach for a beer. He’d be driving shortly, he reminded himself, and took a can of Pepsi instead before he made a note to call about the installation of the blinds and window treatments.
They were nearly ready for them.
He moved on to Reception, took another scan, grinned again.
The mantel Ryder had created out of a thick old plank of barn wood suited the old brick and the deep, open fireplace. At the moment, tarps, more paint cans, more tools crowded the space. He made a few more notes, wandered back, moved through the first arch, then paused on his way across The Lobby to what would be The Lounge, when he heard footsteps on the second floor.
He walked through the next arch leading down the short hallway toward the stairs. He saw Luther had been hard at work on the iron rail, and ran a hand over it as he started the climb.
“Okay, pretty damn gorgeous. Ry? You up here?”
A door shut smartly, made him jump a little. His quiet blue eyes narrowed as he finished the climb. His brothers weren’t against screwing with him—and damned if he’d give either of them an excuse to snicker.
“Ooooh,” he said in mock fear. “It must be the ghost. I’m so scared!”
He made the turn toward the front of the building, saw that the door to the Elizabeth and Darcy suite was indeed closed, unlike that of Titania and Oberon across from it.
Very funny, he thought sourly.
He crept toward the door, intending to shove it open, jump in, and possibly give whichever one of his brothers was playing games a jolt. He closed his hand on the curved handle, pulled it down smoothly, pushed.
The door didn’t budge.
