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“I’m not nervous. I’m basking and using my handy tool while discussing cinema.”
“Avery.”
Having someone who knew your moods just that well, she thought, could be an upside or a downside, depending on the situation. Anyway, it saved time.
“I’m afraid your family sent you in here to tell me no way, no how on the new restaurant idea.”
“We haven’t decided either way. We looked over the space, kicked some things around. It looks doable—on our end—but Beckett needs to work on it some.”
“Doable—on your end.” She knew him, too. “But not so much on mine.”
“I didn’t say that. But I’m wondering how you’re going to manage your time, focus, energies. I’ve got a pretty good idea how much time and work you put in at Vesta.”
She zipped the next DVD. “What makes you think so?”
Because I’ve watched you, he thought, more than I realized.
“I eat there, have meetings there. I’ve been working across the street from your place virtually every damn day for more than a year. I’ve got a picture, Avery.”
“If you’ve got an accurate picture you’d see I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not saying otherwise. But what you’re talking about means doing it in two places. It feels like you’d be taking on more than one person could handle.”
Taking her time, she balled the trash, tossed it in the box beside her. “I get the feeling that your vote on this proposal’s coming in on the no side.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve known you, Owen, as long as you’ve known me.”
“None of us wants you to wear yourself out, or get yourself in a bind.”
Just in case she’d be tempted to throw it, Avery set the DVD zipper down. Carefully.
“Do you think I don’t know my capabilities and limits, and my potential? How many irons are in your fire, Owen? How many rental properties do you oversee? How many jobs have you got in various stages, how many clients on your list, people on your payroll, subcontractors to juggle?”
“There are a lot of us to handle it. There’s just one Avery.”
She shoved at her hair—currently the shade of glossy mahogany. “Don’t give me that. I know you take the lead on the rentals. You deal with the tenants. I know, because I am a tenant. You’re the detail man, Owen, and Montgomery Family Contractors has a hell of a lot of details. Ryder’s job boss, Beckett designs the space. Your mom handles the books, helps clients with interior design, and looks at the big picture. You tie all the little pieces together. And every one of you—including your mom from time to time—builds.”
“That’s true, but—”
“But nothing.” Temper rising, she snapped the words off. “You’ve worked across the street from my place for over a year. Well, right back at you. I’ve seen just what you’ve done, had to do, dealt with, figured out. You, Owen, individually as well as with the rest. If you told me you were planning to remodel the freaking White House I’d figure you could do just that. You ought to have the same faith in me.”
“It’s not a matter of faith,” he began, but she was shoving up to her feet.
“Listen, if the answer’s no, it’s no. It’s your property, and you’ve got a right to rent it to whoever you rent it to. I wouldn’t hold it against you, any of you. But the answer better not be no just because you don’t think I’m up for it.”
“Avery—”
“No. Just no. You should’ve asked to see my business plan, my scheduling outline, my menu, my P&L from Vesta, and my projected budget on the new restaurant. You should’ve treated me with the same respect as you would any other businessperson, any other prospective tenant. I’m not a dreamer, Owen, and I never have been. I know what I can do, then I do it. If you don’t get that, then you don’t know me as well as both of us thought.”
He knew her well enough not to follow her out when she walked away. She wasn’t just mad—that he could get around. But he’d managed to hurt her as well as piss her off.
“Good job,” he muttered. To give himself some time to think, he gathered up the DVDs she’d done, stacked them in the cabinet under the wall-mounted flat screen, automatically alphabetizing them as he went.
CHAPTER NINE
HE CONSIDERED APPROACH and timing, and gave a lot of weight to holiday spirit.
At five o’clock on Christmas Eve, Owen knocked on Avery’s door.
She’d dyed her hair—again—he noted, this time in a shade he thought of as Christmas Red. She wore skinny black pants that showed off the shape of her legs and a crisscrossing sweater as blue as her eyes. Her feet were bare, so he saw she’d married the Christmas Red hair with Christmas Green toenail polish.
Why was that sexy?
“Merry Christmas.”
“Not yet.”
“Okay. Merry Christmas Eve.” Working it, he added an easy smile. “Got a minute?”
“Not much more than. I’m going down to Clare’s for a while, then heading over to Dad’s. I’m staying there tonight so—”
“You can fix him Christmas breakfast, hang out before you both go to my mother’s for her Christmas thing.” He tapped his fingers to his temple. “Everybody’s holiday schedule, right here. Hope’s in Philadelphia, having the eve with her family, and heading back
tomorrow afternoon. Ry’s swinging by Clare’s, then we’re both figuring on staying the night at Mom’s.”
“So you can get Christmas breakfast and dinner.”
“It’s a big draw.”
“If you’re going to Clare’s, why are you here? I’ll see you in a half hour.”
“I wanted a few minutes. Can I come in, or are you still pissed at me?”
“I’m not pissed at you. I got over it.” She stepped back to let him in.
“You started unpacking,” he commented. By his gauge she’d reduced the stacks of boxes and tubs by more than half.
“Continued unpacking,” she corrected. “I was pissed. I cook when I’m mad or upset. My father has a freezer loaded with lasagna, manicotti, various soups. So I had to stop and shift the energy to more unpacking. Nearly done.”
“Productive.”
“I hate to waste a good mad.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, waved it off. “I have to finish getting dressed.” When she turned toward the bedroom, he followed.
He didn’t wince—no point making her mad again—but she’d obviously had some trouble deciding on the sweater and pants. Other choices, rejected, were scattered over the bed. He’d always admired the antique brass bed, the turned spindles, the old-fashioned charm of it. But it was tough to appreciate it buried under heaps of clothes, pillows, and her overnight bag.
She pulled open the top drawer of her dresser—where Owen figured most people stored underwear, but saw clearly the entire drawer of earrings.
“Jesus, Avery. How many ears do you have?”
“I don’t wear rings, a watch, bracelets—usually. They don’t do well with pizza dough and sauces. So I compensate.” After some study, she tried on silver hoops with smaller hoops dangling within the circle. “What do you think?”
“Ah . . . nice.”
“Hmm.” She took them off, changed them for dangles of blue stones and silver beads.
“I came by to—”
Her gaze whipped to his in the mirror. “I have something to say first.”
“Okay. You first.”
She moved to the bed, added a couple more things to the overnight bag, zipped it. “I may have overreacted a little the other day. A little. Because it was you, I think, and I expected you to believe in me.”
“Avery—”
“Not finished.” Moving quickly, she crossed to the bathroom, brought out a hanging bag. When she laid it on the bed, he saw through the clear front it was loaded with makeup and all those tools women used.
How did she have time to use that much makeup? When did she? He’d seen her face without all the stuff. It was a really good face.
“I should have expected you’d think of practicalities first. I guess I wanted you to think of what I wanted first. Still not finished,” she said when he opened his mouth.
She rolled the bag, tied it, set it in the overnight.
“Then after I’d cooked enough so that the town of Boonsboro will eat well should there be an unexpected famine, and unpacked stuff I’m not even sure why I have to begin with, I realized that while I’d be really upset if your family said no because they didn’t think I could handle it, I really don’t want you to say yes just because it’s me, and there’s a family-friendship history.”
She turned now. “I want to be respected, but I won’t be pandered to. Maybe that’s a hard line for you, Owen, but it’s my line. I’m not moving it.”
“It’s fair, and I’ll probably slip off the line sometimes. So will you.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but we need to try to stay on it.” She went to the closet, got out a pair of boots. Tall black boots, he noted, with high, skinny heels.
He’d never seen her wear them. Or really anything quite like them. She sat on the bench at the foot of her bed. His mouth went dry as she pulled them on, zipped them up.
“Um. So. I wanted to say . . .” He trailed off as she rose. “Wow.”
