The Last Boyfriend

by Nora Roberts

  Moved around, Traci had said.

  The MacTavish Gut told her Traci had moved around most recently to Nevada. And was here trying to dip into the next well.

  She charged into the house.

  Willy B pushed out of his chair when Avery stormed in. Traci stayed in her seat, eyes drenched, fingers twisting a soggy tissue.

  “You’ve got some nerve. You bitch.”

  “Avery! You calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down.” She rounded on her father. “Has she got to the ‘can you make me a loan’ part yet, or is she still on the how fucking sorry she is?”

  “Just sit down and . . . What?”

  “Didn’t she mention she’d paid me a visit a couple days ago?”

  “No.” He put an arm around Avery, as much to restrain as to unify. “She didn’t.”

  “I was going to. I had to see Avery first, Willy B. I wasn’t even sure I could face you at all, and I wanted to see Avery, to tell her I’m sorry.”

  “And to hit me up for money.”

  “I’m broke. I’m in trouble. That doesn’t stop me from being sorry.” Her fingers trembled as she gave up on the tissue and knuckled a tear away. “I wish I’d done things different. I wish I’d been different. I can’t change any of it. We lost the house, right before Steve died. Everything went wrong. He had some deals in the works, and it all fell through. He didn’t have time to turn things around.”

  “You’ve got a shiny new Lexus in the drive,” Avery pointed out. “Sell it.”

  “It’s leased, and I’m going to lose that, too. It’s all I’ve got. I just need a stake until I can find a place, get some work.”

  “You took money from Avery?” Willy B demanded.

  Color flooded Traci’s face. “I just need a loan.”

  “How much?” When Traci shook her head and wept again, he turned to Avery. “How much?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Whatever was in my wallet. More than I usually carry because I was going out and wanted cash if I needed it.”

  Anger, so rare in her easygoing father, kindled in Willy B’s voice. “You walked away from my girl, Traci. Now you come back and take her money?”

  “She’s got her own business. She’s got a nice place. I did my best by her as long as I could.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He kissed Avery gently on the top of the head. “Have you talked to your mother, Traci?”

  “I . . . She helped me out some right after Steve died. Everything was a mess. I didn’t know he owed so much money. She helped me some, but she said that was all I’d get. She meant it. I went to see her before I came here, and she wouldn’t help.”

  “How much are you looking for?”

  “Daddy, don’t—”

  “You hush, Avery.”

  “But, you can’t—”

  “This is my business.” He didn’t raise his voice—he’d never had to. He simply stared Avery in the eye. “You hush. How much, Traci?”

  “If I could have five thousand, to get me settled. I’ll pay you back. I swear it. I’ll sign papers. I know I’ve got no right, but I’ve got no one else.”

  “Avery, you go up, get my checkbook. You know where I keep it.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You do what you’re told, and you do it now. You want to argue with me, we’ll do it later.” Now he laid a hand on Avery’s shoulders. “You can say your piece to me, but not now. That’s our business, not hers.”

  He rarely drew a hard line, but once he did, it didn’t budge. “All right, but it’s going to be a big, ugly piece.” She stomped upstairs, stomped back down.

  He sat, opened the checkbook. “I’ll give you the five thousand. It’s not a loan.”

  “But I’ll pay you back.”

  “I don’t want you to pay me back. Unless Avery has a change of mind, I don’t want to see or hear from you after you leave. You take the money, and go. I hope you find your way.”

  “I know you hate me, but—”

  “I don’t hate you. You gave me the light of my life, and I don’t forget it. Ever. So I’ll give you what you need, and we’re done.”

  A hard line, Avery thought again, and he’d drawn it for her.

  “I want you to send me your address or a phone number when you’re settled,” Willy B continued. “To me, Traci, not to Avery. You don’t contact her again. If she wants to talk to you or see you, she can come to me and I’ll give her what you send me.”

  “All right.”

  He folded the check, handed it to her.

  “Thank you. I . . . You kept the place real good. You’re a good man. I mean that.”

  “I expect you do.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Traci pressed a hand to her lips. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

  “I expect you are. You’d best go on now. It’s dark, and there might be weather coming in later tonight.”

  Gathering herself, Traci stood. “I guess you were the best thing I ever did,” she said to Avery. “And I did the worst thing to you. It’s hard knowing that.”

  When Traci left, Avery walked to the window, watched her drive away. “Why did you give her that money?”

  “Because she’s grieving. She lost someone she loved, and now she realizes she threw away something precious. She’ll never get it back, so she’s grieving over that, too. And because, for us, it closes the door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she’d come to see you?”

  “That’s why I came tonight. To tell you. I just . . . I couldn’t talk about it for a while. I should’ve told you, then you’d have been prepared. I should’ve called Grandma. I just closed up. It hurt, so I closed up.”

  “I know.” He went to her, folded her into his big arms.

  “But tonight when I saw her, it just made me mad. That’s better, isn’t it?”

  “For you? Always.” Holding her close, he swayed her side to side. “We’ll be all right, baby. You and me? We’re going to be just fine. Don’t you worry.”

  Soothed by his voice, his scent, the mere fact of him, she pressed her face to his chest. “You told me that then, and a lot of times between now and then. It’s always been true. I love you, so much.”

  “I’m bigger. I love you more.”

  She laughed a little, squeezed hard. “I made soup. The MacTavish cook-out-the-blues potato-and-ham soup.”

  “Sounds just right.”

  “I’ll go get it out of the car.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  OWEN OPTED TO work in the shop. It gave him time to think—okay, maybe brood was the word, but he felt entitled.

  Just as he started to take the next steps, she pulled back. What kind of sense did that make? While he makes the effort not to let things just slide, to be sure he wasn’t taking her for granted, to treat their relationship like a damn relationship, she’s suddenly too busy to spare ten minutes of her time.

  “What kind of bullshit is that?” he demanded of Cus, and got a sympathetic tail thump as an answer.

  He measured his board, marked it, and remeasured automatically before feeding it into the saw.

  “She likes being busy,” he continued over the scream of the blade. “She likes the freaking chaos of a crazy schedule. But out of the blue she doesn’t have time, not to go out, to stay in, to have a goddamn conversation.”

  He switched off the saw, stacked his board, pulled down his safety goggles. “Women are a pain in the ass.”

  But Avery never had been, wasn’t supposed to be. So it all made less sense.

  Something was up with her. Didn’t she get he could see it? Avoiding him, making excuses, closing off when she’d always been up front. She was acting like . . .

  “Uh-oh.”

  He’d started taking her out, making plans. Christ, he’d given her jewelry. He’d changed the balance—was that it? She didn’t want that next step. Everything had been fine, had been smooth until he’d started treating their thing like a thing.

 
; Casual and easy, all good. Add a few shades of serious, and she pulls the plug. Just sex, fine, but try a little—romance, he supposed—and she shuts the door.

  And made him look, made him feel, like an imbecile.

  Couldn’t she have told him if she wanted to keep things simple? Didn’t he, and a lifetime of friendship, rate that?

  Plus, fuck it, didn’t he have a say in the whole business?

  Damn right he did.

  “I’m not her damn sex toy.”

  “Words a mother longs to hear from her beloved son.”

  On a wince, Owen shoved his hands in his pockets. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Owen.” Justine closed the shop door behind her, rubbed her chilled hands together. “What’s going on?”

  “Just working on one of the built-ins for Beck’s place.”

  “You’re a good brother.”

  “Yeah, well. I had some time. I didn’t see your car when I came in.”

  “I just got back.” Both dogs wandered over to press against her, tails batting. “I was over at Willy B’s. I took him some dinner, gave him a sounding board. I’m surprised you’re being a good brother instead of doing the same for Avery.”

  “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.”