“Why don’t we start up there, and the innkeeper’s apartment? You can meet the rest of the family.”
“Perfect.”
She felt a little tug from the left as they started the turn toward the third floor.
“Elizabeth and Darcy,” Justine told her when she hesitated. “Both these front rooms have access to the porch over Main Street.”
For a moment she thought she smelled honeysuckle, turned back to look inside. And jumped when Avery shouted from below. “Are you up there?”
“Heading to three,” Owen called back.
“Took longer than I thought.” Avery jogged up. “What do you think?”
“It’s big, and wonderfully thought-out. I’ve only seen the ADA room on the main level as far as guest rooms. We’re going up to three, working down.”
“You can check out your apartment.”
With an indulgent shake of her head, Hope continued up, gripping the temporary rail. Imagination, she thought as she pulled her hand away again. She could have sworn she’d touched smooth metal.
“The innkeeper’s apartment.” Justine gestured. “And The Penthouse, where somebody’s busy.”
Hope stepped in behind her. She heard the whoosh, thud of a nail gun before she saw him. Sunlight flashed through the window where he worked. For a second, she couldn’t see his face, only had the impression of strength and competence as the nail gun thudded again.
He ran his hand down the wood—the same type of panel she’d seen framing the windows downstairs. Then he lowered the tool, shifted.
He stared at her out of cool, assessing eyes. From somewhere nearby another nail gun thudded. Justine spoke, introducing them, but Hope’s ears buzzed. She barely heard his name, felt a quick and foolish relief that it wasn’t Beckett.
Ryder.
She shook his hand—one with a healing scrape on the back, felt the hard, calloused palm briefly before he dropped it again.
“How ya doing?”
“Fine, thanks.” But she wasn’t entirely sure. The heat rose, seemed to concentrate right on that spot. Her brain throbbed from an excess of details, images.
She wanted suddenly, desperately, to sit down and drink something—anything—very cold.
“Are you okay, honey?”
She looked at Justine, whose voice came down a long tunnel. “Ah . . . too much coffee this morning,” she managed. “I’m a little dehydrated.”
Ryder flipped open the lid of a cooler for a bottle of water. When she just stared at it, he twisted off the top. “So hydrate.”
“Thanks.” For the first time she noticed the dog—the wonderfully homely mud brown dog—who sat with his head cocked, studying her. “That’s a lovely detail,” she said to keep herself from gulping half the contents in one go. “The side panels.”
“Yeah, they turned out.”
“Shit, out of ammo. You got any—” Beckett sauntered in. “Oh, hey.”
“And here’s Beckett,” Justine announced. “We’re showing Hope around.”
“Yeah, hi. I think we met for about five seconds a couple years ago. Welcome to The Penthouse. I was just across the hall in what may be your apartment. So . . . Clare’s not with you?”
“I called her before I came over,” Avery said. “She had to stop by TTP, some Internet glitch.”
“Let’s show you the rest of this space before we go through the apartment.” Justine gestured. “This will be the parlor, third-floor porch access through the door at the end of the hall. The bedroom’s in the back, with the bath between.”
Hope followed her down a short hall, then goggled. “This is a huge space. I love the floating wall.”
“My son, the architect. Counter with double sinks on this side, shower there. The tub, and it’s a beauty, on the other side of the wall. We’re going for lush here, intricate tile work, some mosaic touches, crystal sconces with brushed-nickel accents. Contemporary with a touch of Old World.”
The Penthouse equaled luxury, Hope decided, with a big, ornately carved four-poster showcased in the bedroom, with fancy stools at the foot, a dainty side chair.
She had a sense they’d make the space worth the climb.
She felt steady again when they went through the apartment across the hall. The wonderful windows again. A small-scale kitchen, but Owen was right, she wouldn’t need bigger. It jogged off a living room she thought she could make both cozy and efficient. Not nearly the space she had now, even with the second bedroom, but access to the porch—and to the big, beautifully appointed inn.
It was certainly more than adequate, she mused as she wandered through. And more than twice the size of her first efficiency apartment.
Also a third-floor walk-up, she remembered.
Closet space wouldn’t be a problem. She’d just use the second bedroom for that as she’d have the office downstairs. If she wanted to have a guest, she could . . .
And when had she decided she wanted this job, wanted this place?
“It’s a good, practical space, and again well laid out.”
“If we come to terms, you can pick out any colors you like for the walls.” Justine smiled at her. “We can go out and see Westley and Buttercup, our other suite. It’s got its own outside entrance.”
“I’d love to see it.”
She loved it all, but she knew better than to leap into something without refining the details, negotiating terms, thinking it through.
This would be a major change—in geography, in lifestyle, in career. She couldn’t make a decision like this without giving it a great deal of thought.
“It’s going to be amazing.” She stood in The Lobby again, taking one last look around. “Every room is special, or will be. And the building has such character, such a good feel to it.”
“Could you love it?” Justine asked.
On a half laugh, Hope shook her head. “I think I already do.”
“Do you want the job?”
“Mom, we really have to—”
Justine simply waved Owen aside.
“We should both . . . Yes.” Saying it felt terrifying, and absolutely right. “I really do.”
“You’re hired.”
Avery let out a whoop, grabbed a shell-shocked Hope, and danced in a circle. Then she grabbed Justine and did the same. When she started for Owen, he threw up his hands.
“That’s a girl thing.”
So she punched him in the arm.
“I’m so happy. I’m so excited. Hope!” She grabbed Hope again, bounced.
“I—Mrs. Montgomery, are you sure?”
“Justine. We’re in this together now. I’m sure. Owen and his brothers will catch up. Now, why don’t you and I meet for lunch over at Vesta, say, about twelve thirty? We’ll have some wine and talk some more.”
“Yes, of course.”
Clare tapped on the door, pushed it open. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. I got hung up. If one thing didn’t go screwy this morning, three other things did. Did you already go through?”
“Every room,” Avery said, grinning like a maniac.
“Oh well.”
“I’ll take you through what you haven’t already seen if you like.” Justine set a hand on Hope’s shoulder. “But first, say hello to our innkeeper.”
“You—Really? Really? Oh, Hope!”
Hope told herself she felt giddy because Clare was squeezing the air right out of her. And not because she’d just made one of the biggest decisions of her life more on the basis of emotion and instinct rather than analysis and intellect.
Since the women were talking a mile a minute, Owen slipped out and headed back upstairs.
He found his brothers discussing the logistics of the sink counter in The Penthouse bath.
“Mom hired her.”
“Aesthetically, it plays better if we . . .” Beckett stopped in midstream. “Huh?”
“I said Mom hired Hope Beaumont.”
“What do you mean, she hired her?” Ryder shoved his measu
ring tape back in his tool belt. “She can’t just hire her.”
“Well, she did.” Owen raked a hand through his hair. “On the spot. I couldn’t get a word in with all the squealing and dancing, especially after Clare came in and joined the chorus.”
“Clare’s here?”
“Mind on the target,” Ryder snapped. “How the hell did you let this happen?”
“Hey, don’t blame me. Plus side, Hope’s more than qualified, but—”
“She’s qualified to flounce around some fancy hotel in D.C., where she’s got staff and money to burn. Jesus, she climbed a couple flights of stairs and looked like she was going to keel over.” Disgust laced Ryder’s voice. “Probably because she’s walking around a damn construction zone in shoes with five-inch spikes. She was wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, it was an interview.”
“She’s city. The innkeeper’s going to be key to whether this place gets off the ground. You and Mom talk to her for five minutes, and she’s on the fucking payroll.”