The Last Boyfriend

by Nora Roberts

  He grinned at that, then dipped his head to hers. “Avery.”

  He eased her into the kiss, a nice, slow slide that gained a little zip as it went.

  A very acceptable pace, she thought, adding some zip of her own.

  The back door burst open. Dumbass trotted in just ahead of Ryder. “Got your big-ass ham. If you guys are going to roll around on the floor here, I can dump it, grab a beer, and go.”

  “Christ, Ry.”

  “Sorry.” But his easy grin belied the apology. “I was under orders from Mom. Swing by, get the ham, bring it here—where she assumed you’d be busy making up for lost time, and not making time with Red Hots. Which you are, baby,” he said to Avery.

  “Which I am,” she agreed, and grinned back at him.

  “Orders included me slicing up the big-ass ham if you needed help. I figure since you’re busy making up for lost groping time,” he added, circling around to get the beer. “You don’t need my help with that particular to-do item.”

  He popped the top on the opener on Owen’s wall, took a good look at Avery. “Definitely Red Hots. If you’re going to muss her up, dude, at least take her upstairs.”

  “Shit,” was Owen’s comment.

  “I think the time has passed.” Avery gave Owen’s arm a pat, then put on her apron.

  “Sorry,” Ryder repeated. “Orders.”

  “Probably for the best. It’s a long list,” Avery added when Owen just looked at her. “And now you have another pair of hands because under the circumstances, Ryder’s going to pitch in. Big-time.”

  “Orders. But fine.” After he lowered the beer, he leaned in to Avery. “You smell good. Like exotic fruit and . . . honeysuckle.”

  “Pomegranate. Honeysuckle.” She sniffed at her own arm. “She must’ve transferred some. How can she do that? Elizabeth. I ran over to see Hope before I came, and Elizabeth popped down to say hi, or maybe Happy New Year.”

  “You saw her,” Owen demanded.

  “No, which is annoying, or a relief. I’m not sure which.” She got a wooden spoon, lifted the lid on her meatballs, mixed them around a little. “Caught the scent, then when Hope and I were talking about how you and Hope should start researching for this Billy she’s waiting for, she flipped the lights a few times, then boosted up the wattage. We both took that to mean she’d really like you to find Billy.”

  “No problem. I’ll just Google Billy, Dead Elizabeth’s friend, and nail that down.”

  “Between you and Hope, you’ll figure it out.” Avery lifted her eyebrows at Ryder’s frown. “What?”

  “How’s the innkeeper handling the situation?”

  “Hope doesn’t rattle easily. Or almost at all. I wouldn’t mind that glass of wine,” she said to Owen.

  “I’ve seen her rattled,” Ryder muttered.

  “The day Owen saw Elizabeth in the mirror? I’d say Hope was momentarily nonplussed. Nonplussed,” she repeated, liking the term.

  Ryder thought of the first time he’d seen Hope Beaumont, when his mother had brought the then-potential innkeeper upstairs where he’d been working. How she’d gone sheet pale and glassy-eyed, staring at him as if he were the ghost.

  But he shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “She spent the night in E&D, had a brief encounter, and went, practically as she’s a practical sort, to sleep. That’s Hope. Okay, I’ve got the spinach and artichoke dip, the stuffed mushrooms, the . . . pigs in a blanket? Really?”

  Owen hunched his shoulders. “People like them.”

  “They do. Owen you should set up the bar, and Ry, slice up that ham.”

  On the word ham, D.A.’s tail thumped.

  “Why didn’t he do that on spinach or mushrooms?” Avery wondered.

  “The only vegetable he’ll eat is french fries,” Ryder told her. “He’s a picky eater.”

  Avery only snorted, then got to work.

  Probably for the best. Owen echoed Avery’s words as he set up glasses, bottles, hauled ice into tubs. He’d never have gotten everything done if they’d . . . rung out the old. Much better to stick with the plan, especially since he didn’t have any choice with Ryder slicing ham while D.A. sat, adoring and hopeful, at his feet.

  By the time he’d finished the bar, the tubs, she had set out scrubbed vegetables, a cutting board, peeler, and knife for him.

  “Peel, slice, chop,” she ordered. “You’ve got everything, so I’m adding a pasta salad to your menu. Carbs are good since people will be drinking. Including me.”

  She lifted her glass to demonstrate.

  The heat from the stove flushed pink in her cheeks, and amusement sparkled the blue of her eyes.

  It occurred to him he’d seen her like this before, right here in his kitchen, lending a hand with a party, laughing with one or both of his brothers.

  But he hadn’t seen her exactly like this, as a woman he wanted. As a woman who wanted him.

  Had that one kiss, unplanned, impulsive, really changed the tone and direction of who and what they were to each other? Or had there always been something there, just waiting for that switch to flip?

  He saw her eyes change, amused sparkle to awareness as he moved to her, watched her lips curve as he drew her in and up for a kiss. Long and soft and sweet.

  “You don’t have to get a room,” Ryder said as he washed his hands off in the sink. “You’ve got one upstairs.”

  “This happens to be my room, too. Don’t you have to go pick up your date?”

  “I’m stag. I told you I couldn’t take the giggling.”

  “You canceled a New Year’s Eve date?” Avery demanded.

  “I’m sparing lives. If I hadn’t strangled her before the night was over, someone else would have. I figured if I went for another woman, the whole date on New Year’s Eve thing would add the big deal. I’m not in the mood for big deals, so I’m stag.”

  Avery got another knife. “Chop and slice,” she told Ryder. “And don’t pretend you don’t know how.”

  She went back to the stove, but sent Owen that sparkling look over her shoulder.

  He’d never before wanted a party over before it began.

  * * *

  STILL, IT WAS a good one. Plenty of people, plenty of food, groups spread throughout the house and out on the patio.

  At some point, someone turned the music up for dancing.

  He mingled, checked tubs, trays, platters, replenished, took a quick spin with some friends in the game room. And kissed his mother when he found her rinsing off an empty platter in the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “If I don’t, you will, and it’s your party. And it’s a good one.”

  He took the platter from her, set it down. “If it’s so good, why aren’t you dancing with me?”

  “Well.” She batted her eyes, fluffed at her hair. “I was waiting to be asked.”

  He pulled her out of the kitchen.

  Seeing them made Avery smile. She loved the way they looked together, moved together. Halfway through the dance, Ryder moved in, cut in.

  “He stole your girl,” Avery said to Owen when he joined her.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got a spare.”

  He plucked the glass out of her hand, set it down before he pulled her into the mix of dancers.

  “Nice moves.”

  “We’ve danced before,” he reminded her.

  “You’ve always had nice moves on the dance floor.”

  “I’ve got a few I haven’t tried out on you yet.”

  “Is that so?”

  He brought her close. “Later.”

  The single word shot a rocketing thrill through her. “Later. It’s almost midnight.”

  “Thank God.”

  She laughed, shook back her hair. “Are you going to open more champagne?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. I want to kiss you at midnight, so stay close.”

  “You can count on it.”

  She refilled platters and bowls while he popped more cork
s, and the year ran down to minutes. People swarmed back in from downstairs, from outside so the noise level spiked.

  He took her hands at the countdown—ten, nine, eight. She turned to him, rose up—seven, six, five. His arms came around her—four, three, two.

  “Happy New Year, Avery.”

  His lips met hers as cheers rang out, and the New Year began to tick.

  As Avery rose up, Hope slipped into the kitchen. She’d open another bottle or two, she thought, avoid the whole couples-kissing-the-New-Year-in ordeal.

  She twisted off a cork as partygoers shouted out the countdown.

  And Ryder walked in.

  She stopped. He stopped.

  “I’m just opening another bottle,” she began.

  “So I see.”

  Shouts of “Happy New Year!” burst out, rolled over them.

  “Well,” she said. “Happy New Year.”

  “Yeah. Happy New Year.” He lifted his brows when she started to offer her hand. “Seriously? The hearty handshake again?” He shook his head, stepped to her. “Let’s do it right.”

  He set his hands on her hips, cocked those eyebrows again, waited.

  “Sure.” With a half shrug, she laid her hands on his shoulders.

  Casually, on both sides, they touched lips.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders; his arm slid around her waist. Something broke, like light, through the simple contact, and left her breathless.

  He jerked away, stepped back—and so did she. For one long moment, they simply stared at each other.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Yes, okay.”

  He nodded, strode out.

  She let out the breath she’d barely gotten back, picked up the open bottle with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she liked.

  And that, she thought, had been a very stupid way to start the New Year.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THOUGH MIDNIGHT USHERED in the New Year, it was nearly three in the morning before Owen ushered out the last stragglers.

  He closed the door, turned to Avery. “Nobody’s passed out anywhere, right? That was the last of the last?”

  Signaling to wait, she peeked out the window and watched taillights blink up the lane.

  “And so we say good night to the last designated driver and his haul. I think we’re clear. Whew,” she added as she stepped back from the window. “The earmark of a good party is people don’t want to leave. It’s also the downside of a good party.”

  “Then we can safely say, good party. Planned and executed in just over a week.”

  “Don’t think one time makes you Mr. Spontaneity, but well done.”

  “You made most of the food.”

  “True.” She reached around, patted herself on the back. “So. Do you want to have some coffee—there’s some fresh left—and have the post-party analysis?”

  “Yeah. Over breakfast.”

  She grinned at him. “My thoughts exactly.”

  He held out a hand, took hers so they walked through the house together, switching off lights.

  “This doesn’t feel weird,” he decided.

  “Not yet.”

  Hand in hand, they walked up the steps. “Anyway, I’ve already seen you naked.”

  “A naked five-year-old doesn’t count.”

  “Actually, you were more like thirteen. Yeah, right about thirteen.”

  She stopped at the bedroom door. “And just how did you see me naked when I was thirteen?”

  “Remember that summer we all rented that house up in Pennsylvania for a couple weeks? In the Laurel Highlands, on the lake?”

  “Yeah.” The summer after her mother had walked out. She remembered it very well.

  “You snuck out of the house a few times, to go skinny-dipping in the middle of the night.”

  “I . . . did. You spied on me?”

  “It’s not my fault I happened to be sitting at the window, star-gazing through that little telescope I had when you did your Lady of the Lake deal.

  “Telescope?”

  “Yeah. I charged Ry and Beck a buck a minute to use it.” Now, that was a fond memory. “I seem to recall I made about twenty-eight dollars.”

  “You charged them by the minute so you could all spy on me.”

  “Spy’s a hard word. Let’s say observe.”

  “Enterprising.”

  “I’ve got a head for business. Plus, it was nice. The moonlight, the water. Your hair was long back then.” He combed his hand through it. “What color’s this?”

  “Red Alert, and don’t change the subject.”

  “It was romantic, though I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time it was wow, naked girl. That’s how it is with a teenage boy.”

  Her mind toggled back to that hot, hazy interlude on the lake. “You bought me ice cream that week. Twice.”

  “Maybe I was marginally guilty and felt you deserved part of my profit.”

  “And I thought you had a little thing for me.”

  “I did. I saw you naked. I was even going to ask you to the movies.”

  “You were not. Really?”

  “Then you started talking about Jason Wexel—remember him?—and how you were going out for pizza when we got back. I clutched.”

  She remembered she’d had a minor crush on Jason Wexel, though she couldn’t quite bring his face into focus now. “I did have pizza with Jason, and about fifteen other kids. It was somebody’s birthday. I don’t even remember whose. I made it sound like a date, because that’s how it is with a teenage girl.”

  “Opportunity lost.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now.” He framed her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers.

  Slow and easy, not impulsive or rushed as it might have been at any other time between them. Relaxed, she slid into the kiss, without nerves, without doubts. When his hands roamed down, over her shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the thrill gathered and beat, a strong, steady pulse.

  Like a dance, they circled toward the bed.

  “I really want to see you naked again.”

  Her lips curved against his. “It’ll cost you twenty-eight dollars.”

  She felt the laugh rumble through him as he eased down the zipper at her back. “Worth every penny.”

  “Better make sure,” she said and wiggled out of the dress.

  She stepped out of it, scooped it up, tossed it toward a chair.

  He didn’t even notice the dress slip off the arm of the chair to the floor. “I think my heart just stopped. Look at you.”

  And he was, she thought, for just a moment looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. Then his gaze lifted to hers again, and there was that click, that connection, the recognition before he drew her against him again.

  And the feel of his hands on her skin, warm against warm, layered thrill over thrill.

  She brought hers up, unbuttoning his shirt as their lips clung.

  Here was Owen, tall and gorgeous. Here was his heartbeat, racing fast under her fingers, her palms. Her Owen, because on some level he’d always been her Owen, with his heart beating against her hands.

  Here was the new.

  He lowered to the bed with her, with Avery—compact, curvy Avery. Bright hair, bright eyes, smooth skin white as moonlight. Sensations tumbled inside him—her scent, her taste, the rustle of the sheets as she moved with him. Everything about her so familiar, and still somehow unexpected.

  He linked fingers with her, pressed his face to her breast. Soft, scented, smooth.

  With that hum in her throat, she arched toward him, assent and invitation. His lips brushed the curve over the lace edge, then his tongue swept under, and her fingers tightened on his.

  He ranged himself over her, center to center, and again she rose to him as he kissed her, as he filled himself with the taste of her until her fingers went lax in his.

  He released her hands to take his over her, over skin and silk and lace, enraptured by the surprise of her, b
y each new discovery.

  Nuzzling at her throat, he flicked open the catch of her bra and, once again linking their fingers, he lowered his lips to her breast.

  Thorough. She should have known he’d be thorough, with his lips, his hands gliding and sliding over her skin. He fired her system with that slow, focused attention to her body, with the endless patience that was so much a part of him.

  Her blood swam, driving her pulse to a gallop, as he stroked her into sweet, soaking pleasure. Her breath ragged, she let herself rise, let herself open until there were no restraints, no barriers.

  Just Owen.

  She filled him, surrounded him with what she was, what she offered. Boundless, he thought, her energy, that quick response, that quick demand. Everything with her, so fresh, so new, yet so wonderfully familiar.

  Her breath caught, released with a moan when he slid into her, when he, in turn, filled her.

  Once again, it seemed his heart stopped—a stunning, breathless moment. He held here, staring down at her in a kind of wonder.

  She levered up, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her head fell back, and his dropped to her shoulder.