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“Snuck in once when we were in high school.” Avery studied the steps. “With Travis McDonald, a blanket, and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple. We made out up there.”
“Wild child.”
“My dad would’ve killed me, still would, so no telling. Anyway, it didn’t last long. He never made it to second before he got spooked. Doors and floorboards creaking. I wanted to check it out, but he was such a wimp about it. He never did make it to second.” She laughed as she started up. “He didn’t smell the honeysuckle, either—or never admitted it.”
“Honeysuckle?”
“Strong—heady, really—like I had my nose buried in a vine. I guess with all that’s going on here now, whoever—you know—walked the night’s moved on.”
“You believe that? In ghosts?”
“Sure. My great-times-three-grandmother is supposedly still haunting her manor house near Edinburg.” Stopping, Avery set her hands on her hips. “Wow. It sure didn’t look like this when I kissed Travis McDonald.”
Rough-framed doorways led off a hallway on the second level where the smell was dust from wood and drywall. They heard workers above on the third floor, below on the main. Clare stepped into the room on her left. The light, dim and faintly blue from the tarp blocking the front windows, washed over the unfinished floor.
“I wonder which room this is. We should probably find one of the Montgomerys. Oh, look, there’ll be a door leading out to the porch. I’d love that.”
“Talk about love.” Avery gestured. “Look at the size of this bathroom. From the looks of the pipes,” she said when Clare joined her, “you’ve got a tub here, shower over there, double sinks there.”
“It’s bigger than my bathroom and the boys’ combined.” Pure and undiluted bathroom envy washed through her. “I could live in here. Could they all be this big? I’ve got to know which room this is.”
She hurried across the bedroom space, and turned through the doorway. And ran straight into Beckett.
His hands came up to steady her. She wondered if she looked as surprised and flustered as he did. Probably more, she imagined, as the hammer slotted in his tool belt probably wasn’t jamming into his hip.
“Sorry,” they said in unison, and she laughed.
“Me, first. I wasn’t looking where I was going. The size of the bathroom in there put stars in my eyes. I was coming to find you.”
“Find me?”
“We probably should have before we came up, but everyone seemed so busy. I need to know which room this is before I move in.”
“Before you . . . Ha.” Jesus, his brain staggered under the scent of her, the feel of her under his hands, the misty lake color of her eyes. “You’d probably like it better when it’s finished.”
“Paint me a picture.”
For a half second he took her literally, and wondered if Owen had picked up the paint yet. Deliberately, he made himself step back. Obviously, his IQ dropped fifty points if he touched her. “Well . . .”
“It’s your design.”
“Mostly. Oh, hi, Avery.”
A laugh danced in her eyes. “I thought I’d swallowed an invisibility pill. I can’t believe the transformation here, Beck. The last time I was in here, it had broken windows, broken bricks, pigeons, and ghosts.”
“The windows and brick weren’t as big a chore as the pigeons, believe me. We’ve still got the ghost.”
“Seriously?”
He winced, adjusted his dusty ball cap. “Don’t spread that around, okay? Not until we figure out if she’ll be a liability or an asset.”
“She. Honeysuckle.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah. How do you know?”
“Years ago, brief encounter. It gets cooler and cooler.” At his expression, Avery zipped a finger across her lips, then her heart.
“Appreciate it. Anyway, this one’s Titania and Oberon.”
“The copper tub.” With a swish of skirt, Clare beelined for the bathroom space.
“The big-ass copper tub,” Beckett confirmed, following her. “Along the wall there. The tiles will accent it, play off it, with coppery and earthy tones. Heated floors. All the baths will have heated tile floors.”
“I’m going to cry in a minute.”
More at ease, he smiled at Clare. “Shower there. Unframed glass doors, oil-rubbed bronze fixtures. Heated towel rack there, another feature in all the baths. Two copper-vessel sinks, each on this kind of foresty-looking stand, copper drum table between. The lighting picks up the organic feel with a vine pattern. John over there.”
“The famed magic toilet,” Avery commented. “Word’s out on those. It’s like a bidet and toilet all in one,” she told Clare, “with automatic flush—and the lid lifts when you walk up to it.”
“Get out.”
“At your service.” Grinning, Beckett stepped back into the bedroom. “Bed there, facing out into the room. Iron, open-canopy four-poster, in copper and bronze tones with a vine and leaf pattern. She’s a beauty.”
“Like a bower,” Clare murmured.
“That’s the plan. We’re going to drape it some, or our fabric people are. Dresser there, flatscreen above. Whitewashed nightstands, and these woodsy lamps. We need a bench under the windows, I think. Soft green on the walls, something flowy on the windows—we’re doing dark wood blinds throughout for privacy, and we’ll work on window treatments. Toss in a few accessories, and that’s a wrap.”
Clare sighed. “A romantic bower for two, midsummer or midwinter.”
“You want to write our brochure copy? I wasn’t actually kidding,” he said when she laughed.
“Oh.” Obviously taken aback, Clare looked around the bare room. “I could help if you—”
“You’re hired.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “Then you’d better give us a very thorough tour. In stages,” she said with a glance at her watch. “I’ve only got a few more minutes right now.”
“I’d really like to see the kitchen space. I can’t help it,” Avery said. “It’s a sickness.”
“I’ll take you down. We’ll work our way up when you’ve got time,” he told Clare.
“Perfect. What’s this one?”
He glanced over as they stepped out. “Elizabeth and Darcy.”
“Oh, I love Pride and Prejudice. What are you—No, no, don’t tell me. I’ll never get to work.”
“Highlights,” he said as they started down. “Upholstered head- and footboard, lavender and ivory, white slipper tub, tiles in cream and pale gold.”
“Hmm” was Clare’s opinion. “Elegant and charming. Miss Bennett and Mr. Darcy would approve.”
“You’re definitely writing the copy.” He turned left at the base of the steps, came up short when he heard Ryder curse from the laundry room.
“Goddamn it.”
“It’s a problem,” Owen responded. “I’ll work the problem.”
“What problem?” Beckett demanded.
Owen shoved his hands in the pockets of his carpenter jeans. “Karen Abbott’s pregnant.”
“Didn’t your mom ever talk to you about safe sex?” Avery asked, ducking around Beckett’s arm.
Owen sent her a bland stare. “Funny. It’s Jeff Corver’s. They’ve been seeing each other since Chad started college last year.”
“Doing more than seeing,” Ryder muttered. “Jesus, she’s got to be forty-couple, right? What’s she doing getting knocked up at that age?”
“I note you don’t question how Jeff Corver could knock her up at his age,” Avery added.
“She’s forty-three.” Owen shrugged. “I know because we’ve been talking to her about the innkeeper position. We were pretty well set. Now she and Jeff are getting married and picking out baby names.”
“Damn it. Well, from our perspective,” Beckett said when Clare sent him a disapproving look. “We know Karen, and she and Mom and Owen were working out all the details. Hell, she’d picked out the paint colors for the innkeeper’s apartment on the third floor.?
??
“And she had hotel experience,” Owen put in. “Working at the Clarion. I’ll put some feelers out,” he began.
“I know somebody.” Avery held up a finger. “I know the perfect somebody. Hope,” she said, turning to Clare.
“Yes! She is the perfect somebody.”
“Hope who?” Owen demanded. “I know everybody, and I don’t know the perfect Hope.”
“Beaumont, and you met her once, I think, when she was up visiting, but you don’t know her. We went to college together, and we stayed pretty tight. She’s in D.C., and she’s thinking of relocating.”
“What makes her perfect?” Ryder asked.
“A degree in hotel management to start, and about seven years’ experience at the Wickham—ritzy boutique hotel in Georgetown. The last three as its manager.”
“That’s too perfect.” Ryder shook his head. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch with Hope. It’s the jerk she was involved with, whose parents own the Wickham. He dumped her for some bimbo with a pedigree and man-made tits.”
“She’s working out her contract,” Clare continued, “and that takes spine. Professional spine. She’s looking to move, considering her options.”
“From Georgetown to Boonsboro?” Ryder shrugged. “Why would she?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Avery countered.
