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“What? Why?”
“They . . . Hmm. Avery hasn’t talked to you about anything?”
“That’s exactly right.” Annoyed, he pulled off the goggles. “She hasn’t talked to me about anything. At all. Too busy, not enough time. What the hell is going on?”
“That’s a question for her. Go ask it.”
“Mom, come on.”
“Baby, this is something Avery should talk to you about. If she doesn’t, then I will. But she should tell you. The fact is, from where I’m standing, she should have talked to you already.”
“You’re starting to freak me out. Is she sick?”
“No, no. Stubborn, I’d say, and wrongheaded.” Moving to him, Justine sighed a little. “You’re a practical man, Owen. God knows how that happened. I don’t know whether to tell you to be practical or not when you talk to her, but I will tell you to try to be patient.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“No, but she’s troubled. Go, talk to her. And later, you and I, we’ll have a talk, too. Go on,” she said when he grabbed his coat. “I’ll get the lights.”
She watched him go, rubbing the heads of the dogs that leaned against either side of her. “He’s in love with her. It’s all over him. But he hasn’t figured it out yet, and she sure as hell hasn’t figured it out.”
Standing in the scent of sawdust, wood oil, Justine all but felt Tommy’s cheek against hers—and closed her eyes to hold on to it, for just a moment.
“It was easier for you and me, wasn’t it, Tommy? We didn’t do all that thinking. Ah well, come on, boys, let’s close up shop.”
* * *
HE CHECKED THE restaurant first. Dave worked behind the counter, tossing dough.
“Is Avery in the back?” Owen asked him.
“Out on deliveries. We haven’t got a delivery guy yet.”
“Are you closing tonight?”
“Avery is.”
“Will you close?”
Dave raised his eyebrows and a ladle of sauce. “Sure, if—”
“Good.” Owen pulled out his phone, stepped away from the counter as he punched Beckett’s number. “I need a favor.”
When Avery came in twenty minutes later, flushed from the cold, Owen was sitting at the counter nursing a beer.
“We got some flurries coming down,” she began. “Not sticking to the roads yet so we should be all right on deliveries for . . .”
He saw her spot him, saw her hesitate. And thought: Fuck this.
“Hey, Owen.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on deliveries.” She gestured with the insulated bags she carried before stacking them. “Let me just—”
He rose, left his beer. “Out here,” he said, and taking her hand, pulled her toward the stairway door.
“I’ve got to move the deliveries out.”
“Beckett’s filling in.”
“What? No, he’s not, I’m—”
“Going to have a conversation with me. Now.”
“I’ll have a conversation with you later. I’ve got deliveries, and I’ve got to close tonight, so—”
“Beckett’s on deliveries. Dave’s closing.”
He knew that light of battle in her eyes, and at the moment welcomed it.
“I run this shop. You don’t.”
“It’s running, and you can go back to it after we talk.”
“This is just bullshit.”
She started to push by him.
“Yeah, it is.” To simplify things, he boosted her up, over his shoulder, and started up the stairs.
“Have you lost your mind?” She bucked, shoved. “I’ll kick your ass.”
“Keep it up and I’ll end up dropping you on your head. It might be an improvement.” Clamping down on her legs, he pulled out keys with his free hand, juggled out his set to her apartment.
“Owen, I’m warning you.”
He shoved the door open, booted it closed.
He knew her temper all too well. She’d punch, kick, and wasn’t above biting. Since he didn’t want her teeth marks on him—again—and didn’t want to hurt her, he considered his options.
Superior weight and reach, he decided, and hauled her into the bedroom.
“Don’t you even think about—”
The rest of the words came out in a whooshing grunt as he dumped her on the bed, laid on top of her, and clamped her arms down.
“Just calm down,” he suggested.
“My ass!”
She could be quick as a snake and sneaky as a shark, so he kept all his body parts out of range of her teeth. “Calm the hell down and we’ll talk. I’m not letting you up until you promise not to hit or bite or kick—or throw anything.”
The light of battle escalated to an explosion of full-out war. “What gives you the right? Do you think you can come into my place, give orders, tell me what to do and how to do it? In front of my crew?”
“No, I don’t, and I’m sorry. But you didn’t give me much choice.”
“I’ll give you a choice. Get the hell out, now.”
“Do you think you’re the only one who’s pissed? I can stay like this all night, or you can pull yourself together and we’ll straighten this out like normal people.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“No, I’m not.”
Her chin wobbled. “My burn . . .”
“Shit.” Instinctively he loosened his hold.
It was all she needed.
Quick as a snake, sneaky as a shark. She sank teeth in the back of his hand.
He cursed, hissed in air as he wrestled her down again. “Jesus, you drew blood.”
“I’ll draw more in a minute.”
“Fine.” His hand ached like a bad tooth, infuriating him. “This is the way you want it. I’ll just hold you down while I do the talking. I want to know what’s wrong with you.”
“What’s wrong with me? You drag me out of my place of business, you manhandle me, shove me around—”
“I didn’t shove you. Yet. And I mean what’s been wrong with you, before this?”
Turning her head away, she stared daggers at the wall. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Exactly, and you haven’t been, essentially, for the better part of a week. If I screwed up I need to know it. If you don’t want to be with me the way we’ve been, or move forward on it, I deserve to know that, too. I deserve a goddamn conversation with you, Avery, one way or the other.”
“It’s not about you, or us, or that.”
But wasn’t it? she realized. On some level, wasn’t it—because she’d let it be.
She closed her eyes. She was sick of it. Sick of herself.
She’d hurt him. She could see that clearly enough now that she looked beyond her own bruises. And he’d done nothing to
earn it.
“Something’s wrong. You have to tell me.”
“Let me up, Owen. I can’t talk like this.”
He eased back, cautious, but she only shifted, sat up. Then dropped her head in her hands.
“Is it the pizza shop?” He couldn’t think of anything else. “If you’ve got some cash flow problems, or—”
“No. No. I’m doing all right.” She rose to pull off her coat and the rest of her outdoor gear. “You know my grandmother set up that trust for me after my mother left. I guess part of it was guilt, though she didn’t have anything to be guilty about. Still, I’m next in line, so . . .” She shrugged. “It meant I could open Vesta, and it means I can have the new place. I just have to make them work.”
“Is your grandmother sick?”
“No. Why . . .” He asked, she realized, because she stalled telling him the reasons. “No one’s sick. You didn’t screw up.”
“Then what?”
“My mother came to see me.”
