“I think that’s lovely, and special. The beds go in front of the windows?”
“Right. Cane headboards, and we’ll dress up behind them with treatments—for style and privacy. Cane benches with fancy fabric pads at the feet, fancy bedskirts. Some sort of big, ornate mirror for this wall as you come in. Cream walls and crown molding, soft blue ceiling.”
“A blue ceiling.” For some reason it struck her wonderfully romantic. She wondered why she’d never thought of painting her ceilings anything other than flat white.
She supposed she’d forgotten how to be romantic.
“It sounds very French. I never asked what you’re doing as far as dressing the beds.”
“After considerable, occasionally heated debate, we’re going with high-end sheets—white or what is it, ecru, depending on the room. Down alternative, all-weather duvet—covered by another sheet rather than spread or quilts or whatever. Lots of pillows, with neutral-tone linen shams, possibly a bedroll, and cashmere throw things.”
“Cashmere throws? I’m so booking a room. Peacock feathers.”
“Is that some sort of curse?”
“There should be peacock feathers somewhere. I know they’re supposed to be bad luck, but they just feel French, and opulent.”
“Note to self. Peacock feathers. It’s the most problematic space, but I think it’s going to turn out.”
“I love it already. Where’s the bath?” She managed to step in, over buckets, some lumber.
“Watch your step,” he warned, taking her arm. “No tub, but a big luxury shower. We’ll do the rain head, the body jets—ORB.”
“Orb?”
“Sorry. Oil-rubbed bronze. All the public areas have that accent. Crystal vessel bowl sink on an iron bracket. It’s big and it’s beautiful. Cream and pale gold tiles, fleur-de-lis accents.”
“Mais oui,” she said and made him grin.
“I found some iron wall shelves, scrolled. The code and the space equal some limitations.”
“That is not good copy. Something more like ‘special needs meet spectacular comfort. The grandeur of a bygone age with all the comforts—no, pleasures. All the pleasures of today.’ ”
She started to make more notes, backed up a step, rapped into a stack of paint cans.
“Careful.” He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her as she grabbed his arm to keep from overbalancing.
For the second time that day they stood close, bodies brushing, eyes locked. But this time the light was dim, filtered through the blue tarp. Something near to moonlight.
Being held, she thought, a little dazed. She was being held by a man, by Beckett, and in a way that didn’t feel friendly or helpful. In a way that made something coil inside her, a long, slow wind.
Something that felt exactly like lust.
It spread in a swamping wave as she watched his gaze slide down to her mouth, hold there. She smelled honeysuckle. Moonlight and honeysuckle.
Yearning, she eased closer, imagining that first touch, that first taste, that first—
His gaze snapped back to hers, jolted her out of what seemed like some strange dream.
My God, she’d nearly—
“I need to get back.” She didn’t squeak it out, but she knew it was damn close. “I have the . . . the thing to do.”
“Me, too.” He stepped back like a man moving cautiously away from a live wire. “I have the thing.”
“Okay, well.” She got out, out of the room with its false moonlight and air that had so suddenly smelled of wild summer vines. “So.”
“So.” He slid his hands into his pockets.
Safer there, she imagined, or she might jump him again.
“I’ll play around with some ideas for the rooms I’ve seen.”
“That’d be great. Listen, I can let you have the binder. We have a binder with cut sheets and photos of lighting and furniture, bath fixtures, like that. The one here has to stay on-site, but I have one at my place you could borrow for a couple days.”
“Okay.” She took a breath, settled a bit more. “I’d love to look through it.”
“I can drop it off at the bookstore, or by your place sometime.”
“Either’s fine.”
“And you can come back, when you’ve got time, if you want to go through more of the space. If I’m not around, Owen or Ry could take you through.”
“Good, that’s good. Well, I’d better go. My mother’s going to drop the boys off at the store in a little while, and I still have . . . things.”
“I’ll see you.”
“Yeah.”
He watched her go, waited for the door to close behind her with his hands still in his pockets, and balled into fists. “Idiot,” he muttered. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
He’d scared her so she could barely look at him, so she couldn’t wait to get away from him. All because he’d wanted—just wanted.
His mother liked to say, to him, to his brothers, they were old enough so their wants wouldn’t hurt them.
But they did. This kind of want left a jagged hole in the gut.
He’d stay away from her for a few days, until those jags smoothed out. And until she felt easier around him again. He’d have one of the men run the binder over to her—keep clear.
His wants might hurt, but he was old enough to control them.
He caught the scent of honeysuckle again and, he swore, the faintest whisper of a woman’s laugh.
“Don’t you start on me.”
Annoyed, he clomped upstairs to harass the crew.
NOT READY TO face the bookstore and her staff, Clare bolted to Vesta. Behind the counter, layering cheese on a pie, Franny, Avery’s second in command, shot her a smile.
“Hey, Clare. Where are my boyfriends?”
“With my mom. Is Avery here?”
“In the back. Is something wrong?”
God, how did she look? “No, nothing. Just . . . just want a minute with the boss.”
Striving for casual, Clare strolled around to the closed kitchen area where Avery cut fresh dough into tins for rising. Steve, the dishwasher, rattled around at the big double sink, and one of the waitstaff grabbed glassware from the wire shelves.
“I need to talk to you when you have a minute.?
?
“Talk. I’m not using my ears for anything right now.” Then Avery glanced over, saw Clare’s face. “Oh. Talk. Give me five. Go grab something cold out of the cooler for both of us. I need to get some supplies from downstairs anyway.”
“I’ll just go down and wait.”
She grabbed a couple of ginger ales and went out the door to the back stairwell. Outside again, and under the building—she could hear people talking and laughing on the porch above—and into the sprawling, low-ceilinged basement with its stacked cases of soft drinks, bottled beer, wine.
Cooler, she thought. Cooler here. And opened the ginger ale to drink long and deep.
Moonlight and honeysuckle, she thought in disgust. Just another fairy tale with her. She was a grown woman, a mother of three. She knew better.
But really, had she ever noticed, really noticed, how strong and wonderfully shaped Beckett’s mouth was? Gorgeous—she knew that, too. All the Montgomerys were, but had she ever noticed how deeply blue his eyes were in the moonlight?
“There wasn’t any moonlight, you idiot. It was an unfinished room crowded with paint cans and lumber and tarps. For God’s sake.”
She’d gotten caught up in the romance of it, that’s all. Buttery leather, blue ceilings, peacock feathers, and cashmere throws.
It was all so fanciful, so outside her own reality of practical, affordable, childproof. And it wasn’t as if she’d actually done anything. Wanting to for a minute wasn’t doing.
She paced, then whipped around when the door opened.
“What’s up?” Avery demanded. “You look like the town cops are hot on your trail.”
“I almost kissed Beckett.”
“They can’t arrest you for that.” Avery took the unopened can of ginger ale. “How, where, and why almost?”
“I went over to see a few more rooms, and we were in Marguerite and Percy—”
“Ooh-la-la.”
“Cut it out, Avery. I’m serious.”
“I can see that, sweetie, but almost kissing a very attractive, available man who’s got the hots for you doesn’t rate disaster status.”
“He doesn’t have the hots for me.”