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“What?”
“I was just thinking when I watched you skinny-dipping all those years ago, I never figured on this.” He ran his hands down her body. “You’re all wet and warm.”
“You’re wet.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But a little chilly.”
“It’s cold out there, doing man work.”
Laughing, she tipped her head back. “You’ve got man work to do in here, too.”
“Then I’d better get started.”
He took her mouth while water rained hot and steam plumed, letting his hands roam that wet, slippery skin as she hooked her hands around his shoulders, rose up.
No, he’d never figured on this, on the ease of it, the excitement of it. Never imagined the odd discovery of someone he’d known all of his life.
Smooth and curvy, firm and agile, and so willing to touch and be touched, to take and be taken.
She smelled of his soap now, something else to make the familiar the new.
She lathered it over him, enjoying the play of muscle. She rarely thought of his strength as it was his mind, his kindness, his Owenness she thought of first. But now, running her hands over him, exploring those ridges, those ripples, reminded her he was, at the core, a man who worked with his hands, his back, his brawn as well as his brain.
And those hands, far from smooth, incited fresh needs, new wants, deeper desires.
He made her tremble, made her breath snag and tear, meeting those needs, exploiting more until her body seemed to gather into one aching pulse.
Water sluiced over her, slicking her hair back. Her eyes, brilliantly blue now, stared into his, then went opaque as she shuddered.
“I don’t . . . We can’t.” She struggled to regain her balance, to find purchase. “You’re too tall.”
“You’re too short,” he corrected, then gripping her hips, lifted her off her feet. “So you’d better hang on.”
“Owen—”
He braced her against the wet wall, and drove into her.
“Oh.” Her eyes flew open, intense now, focused on his. He plunged again, ripping a cry of pleasure from her, and still her eyes remained open and on his. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go.”
“You either,” he managed an instant before she pulled his mouth to hers.
They both held on.
Later, she sprawled facedown, naked, on his bed. “I’m going to get up and get dressed in a minute.”
“Take your time,” he told her, admiring her thistle. “I like the view.”
“What is it with guys and tattoos on girls?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think it’s the Xena factor. Female warrior.”
“You don’t have a two-piece black leather warrior suit, do you?”
“It’s at the cleaners.“ She pillowed her head on her arms. “Maybe I should get another tattoo.”
“No.” Then studying her butt as he dressed, he considered. “Like what? Where? Why?”
“I don’t know, have to think about it. The problem with the butt location is I hardly ever see it, and it seems like the person who goes through the process ought to be able to see the results easily. Added to it, hardly anybody else sees my butt either, so what’s the point? Unless I consider it some secret ritual of teenage rebellion, which it pretty much was.
“This would be mature.”
“A mature tattoo.”
“Anyway.” She rolled over, sat up. “I really like your shower. I really like you in your shower.” On a long, lazy sigh, she reached for her blue-checked robe. “I need to check the soup.”
“Stay tonight.”
With the robe half on, she stopped to blink at him. “Tonight? We both work tomorrow.”
“We both work tomorrow anyway. After snow wars and soup and most probably fights over football, come back with me. Stay tonight.”
She wrapped the robe around her, belted it. Looked up again. “All right. I’m going to check the soup before I get dressed.”
“Okay.”
As she walked downstairs she wondered what to do about the flutter around her heart. She recognized it; she’d felt it before.
She’d been five.
Falling in love with Owen—again—was very likely as foolish now as it had been then. But the MacTavish Gut knew what it knew. She just wasn’t so sure about the MacTavish Heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EARLY IN THE new year, armed with a thick binder, Avery did yet another walk-through of what she firmly thought of now as MacT’s. But this time she had Hope and Clare as sounding boards.
“The bar along there. Dark wood, something that makes a statement. I’m going to try to sweet-talk, cajole, beg, and sex Owen into making it.”
“How’s that going?” Clare wondered. “The sex part.”
“Look at this face.” Avery pointed her thumbs at her own face.
“Satisfied, relaxed, happy. And just a little bit smug. So question answered.”
“So far, so good. Lights there, there, there, warm tones. And I’m thinking a leather sofa—maybe dark brown—over there, coffee table. Some high tops in the front window, low tops there and there. And the pass-through to the restaurant will be right there.”
“It’s going to be great. But before we get into color wheels and tables,” Hope added, “one must ask why you’re not bragging about said sex, or offering details to the one, sad one of us who isn’t having any.”
“I might jinx it, and make you sadder.”
“Please.” Hope flicked that away. “I saw Owen earlier, and his face also looks satisfied, relaxed, and happy. I’m not sure about smug, though he may have been masking that. Are you seeing him tonight?”
“No. I’ve only got about an hour, then I’ve got to get over to the shop. I’m working. And he’s—all of them—are so busy right now. Prepping for the opening in a few days, working on the other building, planning for this one. We’ve been together almost every night since New Year’s, and I thought . . .”
“You needed a break?” Clare suggested.
“I thought I—we—should take one. You know how I can get. I always go into something like this thinking it’s casual, it’s fun, it’s natural. You like the guy, trust the guy, you’re attracted to the guy, so you go with it. Then, being me, I start wondering, is it more, should it be more, is this love—big L?”
“Are you in love with Owen?” Clare asked.
“I got the . . .” She fluttered a hand at her heart.
“The MacTavish Heart.” Hope nodded.
“It can’t be trusted. But the thing is, I’ve loved Owen forever. I love all the Montgomerys. It’s in the bone. So this could be that. Kind of a false positive. If it turns into the big L, it could mess things up.”
“Why,” Clare demanded, “do you automatically assume he couldn’t big L you back?”
“I don’t know, maybe that’s in the bone, too.” She let her shoulders rise, then fall. “I think part of it’s a mother issue, which is just depressing.”
“You’re nothing like your mother.”
“And I don’t want to be,” Avery said with a nod at Clare. “She cheated and lied and used. Sex was easy for her, it was sure as hell casual for her. So I think the part of me that can’t handle the thought of being anything like her takes the easy, casual sex and insists on making it more. Like a reflex. Or antidote. Then I switch it around because the big L hardly ever works. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not,” Hope insisted. “It’s you.”
“But now it’s me and Owen. Every time I’ve been involved with a man I end up making it more because, you know, flutter. Then the flutter stops, and I realize no, he’s not the one. He’s a perfectly nice guy—mostly they have been—but he’s not the one, if there really is a the one anyway.”
“There is,” Clare insisted.
“Maybe. Now I’ve got the flutter with Owen, and when it stops—”
“Why when?” Clare shook her head. “It might not stop.”
/> “Going by history it’s when, that’s all. I don’t want to make it more, then have to make it less again. Not with Owen. He matters more than the flutter or the mommy issue.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself, and him. But—” Clare checked the time. “I can’t go into depth on that as I’ve got to get home. But we will talk,” she finished, pointing a finger.
“Fine by me. I’d better lock up. I can walk over to the inn with you, Hope, go over my part of the menu for the opening before I head to work.”
“Okay.”
They went out, parted ways with Clare heading across Main Street and Avery walking with Hope across St. Paul.
“She’s in love,” Avery said. “Love like that makes an optimist out of you, helps you see other people riding the same optimistic train.”
“Why shouldn’t you be optimistic?”
“I’m not overly pessimistic—I don’t think. I’m more cautious.”
“I’m not in love or riding the optimistic train, but I can tell you it’s really nice to see the way you and Owen are together.”
She unlocked the door to Reception. “And I can also see how you—anyone—might take a short, thoughtful break. Sex can be easy and casual, and it can also cloud the brain. So clear your brain for a day or two.”
“That’s it, exactly.” God bless practical-minded Hope, Avery thought. “Brain-clearing interlude.”
“I’m going to make tea while we go over the menu.”
“You’re making tea at the inn.” Avery boosted onto a stool at the island. “And we’re talking opening menu. A year ago, we weren’t even close to this. You weren’t even living in town.”
“A year ago, I thought my future was the Wickham Hotel and Jonathan.”
