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“Why are you dressed already?”
“I’m going over early to help out.”
“I’m not wearing a suit.” He said it like a warning, maybe a threat.
“Why would you?”
“Willy B’s wearing one. With a vest. And a tie. I’m not.”
“All right. Since I’m ready, I’m going to go over and see what I can do.”
“I’d like to get ahold of you. I’d mess you up.”
“You can get ahold of me later.” She stepped to him, leaned—but not so far any grime transferred from his clothes to hers—and kissed him. “I’ll see you over there once you’re changed into not a suit, vest, and tie.”
“Yeah.” He saw her, he thought, even after she’d shut the door behind her. Sparkling and pulsing and more beautiful than anyone had a right to be.
MUSIC STREAMED OUT of the juke, beer poured from taps, and voices filled a space empty too long. Family and friends mixed and mingled over appetizers, sat and talked, talked, talked over entrées. And lifted glasses in toast to MacT’s.
Avery bustled from kitchen to dining room to bar and back, a redheaded dervish in a short green dress with a bubblegum ring bouncing from a chain around her neck.
Hope finally stopped her with a hard hug.
“It’s really good,” Avery told her. “Is it really good? We’ve got some glitches.”
“It’s really good, and they don’t show.”
“We’re working them out. Candles on the tables, music, good food. Good friends.”
“You hit the target, Avery, dead center. Just like you did with Vesta. You can expect to pack them in, day after day, night after night.”
“We’re booked solid for dinner tomorrow, and the day after. Did you see how people are stopping to look in the windows?”
“I did.”
“Look, Clare and Beckett are dancing, and my dad’s talking to Owen and Ryder at the bar. That’s my bar, you know.”
“It is indeed. And a beautiful bar it is.”
“And that’s my boyfriend sitting on one of my bar stools. He’s so cute. I think I’m going to marry him and live happily ever after.”
“I guarantee it. I’m so happy for you, Avery. So proud of you.”
“Everyone who matters to me is here, right here in this place. In my place. It doesn’t get better. Go, sit and have a drink. I need to check on some things.”
Don’t mind if I do, Hope thought and walked to the bar and Ryder. He slid off his stool, waved at it when she gave him a puzzled smile.
“Take it. Your ankles have to be crying by now.”
“My ankles are steel, but thanks.” She slid on.
“Give her some of that champagne you’ve got,” he told the bartender. “You look like champagne tonight.”
“Thank you. You look pretty good yourself.”
“I’m no Willy B.”
In his dark three-piece suit and polka-dot tie, Willy B flushed. “Oh now.”
“Where’s Avery?” Owen demanded.
“She went to check on something.”
“She needs to sit down for five minutes, whether she knows it or not. I’ll take care of it.”
When Owen walked off, Willy B smiled into his beer. “He sure loves my girl.” He sighed, looked around the bar. “Look what she did. My little girl. What you all did,” he amended and tapped his glass to Ryder’s.
“She’s the machine.”
“I’m going to go tell her I’m proud of her.”
“Again,” Ryder commented when Willy B lumbered off. “He’s not especially drunk, just really happy.”
“All he has to do is walk across the street to bed when he’s ready, so he can get a little drunk if he wants. It’s a big night for Avery. For Boonsboro. For all of us.”
“Yeah.” Ryder stared into her eyes. “A big one.”
They stayed until midnight, then gathered at the inn for post-party replay until after one in the morning. By the time she climbed the steps for the last time that night, Hope’s ankles of steel had begun to shed a few tears.
She thought of another perk of being female. Taking off heels, peeling out of a killer dress, removing every layer of makeup, and sliding into a bed mounded with pillows beside a hot, sexy man.
And when she stepped into E&D with Ryder she saw the bottle of champagne.
“Like I said, you look like champagne tonight. We could sit out on the porch awhile, have some.”
She’d take off, peel out, remove and slide just a little later, Hope thought.
“That sounds good.”
She went out with him, chose the wooden bench as she expected him to join her. Instead, once he’d shoved a glass in her hand, he walked to the rail, leaned on it.
No way she was joining him, she decided. She was finished standing in these shoes.
“I know it’s been said—many times, many ways—but it was a really fabulous party.”
“Yeah. Avery did good.”
He turned back, left it at that.
He thought about this. Thought long and hard, and he’d figured it out. But now, looking at her—pulsing, sparkling, a fancy glass of fancy wine in her hand, he wondered if he’d lost his mind.
Beauty queen, city girl. Sure, she was here, she was Hope, but those things were part of her. Like the scent, those smoldering eyes, the shoes that cost more than a decent table saw.
“I hate opera. I’m not listening to opera.” He didn’t know why he blurted that out. It just came to mind.
“Fine. I don’t like opera either.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’ve got those opera things.”
Over a sip of champagne, she gave him a puzzled frown. “What opera things?”
“Like the—t
he fancy binoculars?”
“The opera glasses.” She laughed. “Guilty, but they’re not just for opera. They’re also useful for spying on sexy construction workers on hot summer days when they strip off their shirts.”
His lips quirked. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And for ballet, and—”
His lips flattened. “I’m not going to any ballet either.”
“That’s too bad for you.”
“Or art films, foreign films, anything—anything with subtitles.”
She tilted her head. “And when have I ever suggested an art film?”
“Just putting it out there, in case. Or chick flicks.” With a firm nod, he swiped a hand through the air. “They’re off the table.”
She tilted her head the other way, considered. “I like a good romantic comedy. I’d be willing to bargain a romantic comedy for two action movies.”
“Maybe. If there’s partial nudity.”
God, he made her laugh. He made her tremble. She took a slow, deep breath. “I hate football.”
His face crumbled into the lines of a man in serious, physical pain. “Oh, man.”
“However, I have no objections to a man who enjoys spending a Sunday afternoon watching football on his enormous TV or at a stadium—as long as he doesn’t paint his face like some crazy person.”
“Have you ever seen my face painted?”
“Just putting it out there, in case,” she echoed. “I wouldn’t feel obliged to drag him to the ballet, which he wouldn’t like, and he shouldn’t feel obliged to drag me to a football game. I like basketball.”
Intrigued, he walked back, picked up the glass of champagne he’d poured himself and hadn’t thought he’d actually wanted. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I like the speed and the uniforms and the drama. I don’t have any serious objections to baseball. I’d need to withhold judgment until I’ve seen a game at a stadium.”
“Minor or major league?”
