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“You went with it?” Beckett asked.
“Sure. Why not? I got the picture, and I didn’t like the look of him. Or his suit. I figured she just wanted to give him the business, make him jealous. No skin off mine. Then after he left … She was shaking.”
“Goddamn it,” Beckett muttered.
“Most of it was mad. She was plenty mad. Insulted. But she was shaken up, too.”
Owen pulled out his phone. “Did you see his car?”
“This year’s Mercedes C63 sedan, black.” Ryder rattled off the license plate. “I don’t think he’ll be back—she hit him where it hurts—but it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out.”
“Exactly. Son of a bitch just got married and he’s trying to make Hope his … He did her a favor when he dumped her.”
“Yeah, she seems to get that.”
Beckett shot out a finger. “She made you the pie.”
Ryder grinned. “Good pie. She wanted to even the score, I guess. So I took it, then I put a move back on her. I like to be ahead in the game.”
“You kissed her again?” Owen demanded.
“The other times she started it. I was starting to feel cheap and used.”
When Beckett laughed, Owen punched his arm. “Hey.”
“It may not be funny. Are you starting a thing with Hope?”
Ryder took a lazy slug of beer. “That would come under the heading of none of your damn business.”
“She’s the innkeeper.”
“Avery’s a tenant. It didn’t stop you.”
“Yeah, but …” While Owen tried to work that out, Ryder shrugged.
“Relax. Jesus. Kissing a woman—an available, willing woman—is a man’s God-given right. It doesn’t mean I’m looking at bassinets. Plus, she kissed me first.”
“And she’s smokin’,” Beckett added.
“Married, father of three with two in the oven,” Ryder pointed out.
“I could be the father of twenty, I’d still have eyes. She’s smart, smokin’—former beauty queen, remember—and bakes pies. Nice job.”
“She’s got nice moves, too.”
Owen put his head in his hands and made Beckett laugh again. “He’s just got to worry about something.”
“She’s the innkeeper. She’s Avery’s and Clare’s best friend. She got dumped by the son of her boss.”
“You don’t want to put me in the same class as Wickham, bro.”
“I’m not. I’m just stating facts. Add one more. Mom’s crazy about her. So if you want to have sex with her, and she wants to have sex with you, great. Just don’t screw things up.”
“You’re starting to piss me off,” Ryder said mildly—always a dangerous sign. “Why don’t you give me the name of a woman I’ve screwed things up with?”
“She’s not just a woman. She’s Hope. And I feel sort of—”
“You’ve got a thing for her?” Ryder asked.
“Oh, just suck me,” Owen snapped back. “I’ve spent more time with her than either of you, dealing with the setup of the inn, and researching for our resident ghost. She’s sort of like a sister.”
“You’re sort of like my brother.”
“Yeah, so it’s weird. And Avery’s given me the down and dirty on the Wickham thing. He really did a number on her, Ry. The whole frigging family did. So, she’s, you know, maybe still a little tender.”
“What do you mean, the whole frigging family?”
“They knew. Wickham’s old man, his mother. He’s got a sister, too. They all knew he was stringing her, and whether they thought it was okay or not, they let it slide. She was managing their hotel, and she handled a lot of their personal event planning. They had her over to their house for dinner, had her up to their place in the Hamptons. Avery said they treated her like one of the family, so she felt like one of the family. So it was like getting dumped by the whole damn family and getting screwed over by Wickham, and being used by her employers. They fucked her over good.”
It spelled things out, clearly. Ryder decided the whole Wickham clan could go to hell. “I don’t fuck women over. Neither does my family.”
“No, you don’t. We don’t. But now you’ve got a better picture.”
“Yeah, I got the picture. If anything moves between us, and I’m not saying it will, I’ll be sure she’s got a clear one of her own. Satisfied?”
“Yeah.”
“And don’t go running to Mom.”
“Jesus, why would I? I’m no tattletale.”
“You told her I broke her cut-glass vase throwing the ball in the house, and hid the pieces,” Beckett reminded him.
“I was eight!” Genuine grief and insult vibrated in Owen’s voice. “How long are you going to hold that over me?”
“Forever. She took TV privileges away from me for three days—for hiding the pieces, and another day for throwing the ball in the house. I missed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
“Grow up and buy the DVD.”
“I did. Doesn’t clear you, dude. The Silence of Brotherhood is sacred.”
“I was eight.”
Since Owen’s mind was on something besides his potential sex life, Ryder pushed to his feet. “You girls work this out now, like ladies. I’m going home, get some rack time.”
“Material’s coming at eight,” Owen told him.
“I know it. I’ll be there.”
“I’m going to work in the shop on the panels for the bar. Text me if you need me to come in.”
“I can make it through one day without seeing your pretty face. You I can use.” He pointed at Beckett. “Seven a.m.”
“It’s going to be eight, eight thirty. Clare’s mom wants the boys tomorrow. I have to get them up, dressed, fed, and over there. Clare’s at the inn, remember.”
“Just get there. Let’s go, Dumbass.” He started out. “And don’t throw the ball in the house.”
He remembered the pie plate at the last minute, backtracked to grab it. With D.A. he drove the short distance home, winding out of the woods, down the road, back into the woods where his house sat tucked away.
He liked it tucked away, and private. Liked having his own space—and a lot of it. He’d hired a landscaping crew to do the grounds. His mother had tried to make a gardener out of him, but it just hadn’t stuck. He was fine digging a hole for a tree, the occasional shrub, but when it came to planting posies? He hired it out.
He liked the look of them, the different heights, textures, shadows in the walkway and deck lights.
Since Beckett had washed it, Ryder left the pie plate in the truck so he wouldn’t forget it. He let D.A. sniff and wander and do what a dog had to do while he stood in the quiet, under a sky full of stars.
He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, or wanting to. Not because he’d grown up here, though he imagined that played a role. But because this place—this air, these quiet night sounds—had a hold on him. And always had.
He’d chosen this spot, well back from the main road, to put down his own roots, to build his own place. He’d walked and wandered these woods all his life. He’d known his spot long before he’d become a man.
He went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen, flipped on the light. He’d designed the space, with Beckett’s help. Clean lines, simple, and roomy enough for a table. He put the cell phone he’d finally stopped resenting on the charger, grabbed a bottle of water.
He’d get that hot shower now, a hell of a lot later than planned.
The dog trotted upstairs with him, went directly to the big square of pillow he used as a bed. Circled once, twice, a third time, then with a huge sigh curled up with the ratty stuffed cat he loved. Still he watched Ryder, tail thumping contentedly as Ryder emptied his pockets, pulled off his belt.
He stripped down, tossed the clothes in the direction of the hamper, and walked naked into the big indulgent master bath.
A man who worked with his hands, with his back, deserved the king of showers. Especially if he was a contractor and
knew how to get it done.
It rivaled the baths they’d put in the inn—the tile work, in his case, in tones of stone gray, the long white counter, the stainless steel vessels. He turned the rainhead and body jets on full, and plenty hot, and let them beat the muscles tight from a long day of work, and play.
And as they loosened, he thought of Hope.
He wasn’t going to screw with her. And he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for her history with assholes.
She’d started it. He reminded himself of that because it was damn well the simple truth. He’d kept his distance, until recently. He’d kept it because there’d been something right from the jump. He hadn’t wanted something, not with a sloe-eyed, sharp-cheekboned beauty queen who probably paid more for a single pair of those stilts she wore than he had for every shoe in his closet combined.
Maybe the stilts made her legs go on forever, but that wasn’t the point.
She wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t hers. Hers wore designer suits and ties, probably went to art openings and galas. And liked it. Maybe even the opera. Yeah, the asshole had looked like the opera sort.
She’d started it, and if they finished it, he’d make sure they both laid their cards on the table first. He played fair. And since maybe Owen had a few valid points, he’d think about it awhile before deciding either way.
And if the time came when they both gave the nod, well, he’d play extra fair. No problem.
