She started to grab his hair—God, she loved his hair—and clunked him in the head with the tape dispensers.
Laughing, she dropped her head to his shoulder.
He said, “Ow,” and made her laugh harder.
“Sorry, sorry.” She hugged him, nuzzled into his throat. “Owen.” She sighed, and thought—softer, warmer—Owen before she lifted her head to look at him. “It’s definitely worth thinking about.”
“Good thing you said so. Now I don’t have to drop you on your head.”
“Better put me down anyway.”
“I can make it up. Then we can wrap presents.”
“If we go up there, we won’t wrap presents.”
“That was code.”
“Ah.” Still, she eased down until she stood. “I think we should give this a few days, considering. Not to dis Ry’s opinion, but if we take a few days, it won’t just be impulse.”
“And here I was thinking I’ve never given impulse a fair chance.”
“I give it too many chances, so I guess we even out.” If she hadn’t been thinking about sleeping with him, she realized, she could ask him straight-out if he was seeing or sleeping with someone else. But to ask now felt like a demand.
Still . . .
“You probably have a date for New Year’s Eve.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“We’ve been pretty busy. I haven’t thought about it.”
She saw, clearly, he was now—and very likely along the same lines as her thoughts.
“Do you have a date?”
“Sort of. With Hope. You guys decided no work on or at the inn on New Year’s Day. So we were going to hang out, watch chick flicks, and talk about how we didn’t care we didn’t have a date.”
“We can have a date.”
Sweet, she thought. Sexy. And, unfortunately, impossible. “I couldn’t ditch Hope like that, not on a major date night.”
“I’ll have a party. My place.”
Avery stared at him as if he’d just spoken in tongues. “Do you mean this New Year’s Eve? The one in just over a week?”
“Sure.”
“Owen, that’s called spontaneity. You’re not really familiar with the concept.”
“I can be spontaneous.”
“It takes you six months to plan a party. You make spreadsheets and itineraries. This kind of spontaneity? You may hurt yourself.”
“Party,” he said firmly, ignoring the fact she spoke God’s truth. “My place. New Year’s Eve. And you’ll stay over. With me.”
With him. On New Year’s Eve. “You’re on. And if you actually pull this off, I’ll not only stay, I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Deal.” He wrapped around her again, kissed her until she went limp. “I’ll lock up the back.”
“’Kay.” She worked on getting her breath back as he walked down the stairs. “Owen?”
He turned, smiled at her, and her heart did a long, slow roll. Was it any wonder she’d fallen for him at age five?
“Thanks for the tape.”
“Anytime.”
She heard the lock click as she pulled her shaky legs up the stairs. No problem with a wrapping marathon now, she thought, despite the late hour. Not only did she have plenty of tape, but she’d never be able to sleep with Owen Montgomery on the brain.
* * *
OBVIOUSLY ALL THE blood had drained from his brain into his dick. Otherwise, Owen decided as he drove back from Hagerstown in the blustery afternoon, he’d never have scheduled a New Year’s Eve party.
He had an inn to open, Christmas to deal with, a new project in the works. How the hell could he throw a party in a week?
He supposed he’d find out.
He braked at a light, pulled out his phone to make a few notes on food, on drink. Checked his messages. Two from Ryder, he noted, both demanding—basically—Where the hell are you?
As he was two minutes away from Boonsboro, he didn’t bother to answer.
As he drove on, he let his mind flip from one party to another. The inn’s opening bash was more involved than his impromptu holiday party. Most of the details were already in place—and his mother, aunt, and Hope had a handle on the bulk of it.
Still, he had a fat file on it in his briefcase, and a couple of spreadsheets on his computer. And, okay, an itinerary.
He considered generating one for his own party, assuring himself it wasn’t obsessive. It was practical. A time and stress saver.
An obsessive time and stress saver, but so what?
He glanced over at Vesta, thought of Avery as he made the turn onto St. Paul. Why hadn’t he just suggested they go out to dinner—then jump into bed? he wondered as he swung into the lot behind the inn.
Because she’d brought up New Year’s Eve, and he’d had that brain drain going. It had all made sense at the time.
He got out of the truck, then just stood a moment in the cold, studying The Courtyard, the sweep of porches and pickets.
All that grace and charm, he thought, hadn’t come easy. He remembered the rubble, the mud, the debris. He remembered the serious nightmare of pigeon shit—and really wished he didn’t.
But they’d brought it back, and then some. If he could accomplish this, he could pull off a damn holiday party.
He headed in through The Lobby, stopped and grinned at the big, glossy table under the central chandelier, the straw-colored chairs against the exposed brick wall.
And then some, he thought again, and headed through the arch toward The Dining Room, and the voices.
He found Ryder and Beckett setting the huge, carved buffet in place under the window of exposed stone while his mother and Hope shifted the pretty wood tables around the space.
Dumbass lounged in the far corner, but lifted his head, thumped his tail when he saw Owen.
Idly Owen wondered if the dog saw him as a man-sized donut.
“Where the hell have you been?” Ryder demanded.
“I had some things. It looks great.”
“It does.” Justine beamed as she set a chair by the table. “We’re going to put the big mirror right there. You know, the antique. And we realized we’re going to need another server. It can go up there, under that window. I’ll measure the space and run down to Bast, see if they have something that works.”
“You have that piece you got at the fancy French place in Frederick,” Ryder reminder her.
“It’s warped.” Instantly, Justine’s face went stony. “One leg’s shorter than the other three. I should never have bought anything there.”
“I told you I shortened the other legs. You put enough stuff on it, you won’t see the warping.”
“They were rude,” Hope put in. “Any business that doesn’t make good on an obviously defective piece shouldn’t be a business.”
“It’s paid for, I fixed it. Get over it.”
“It was bought for The Lobby,” Hope insisted. “We’ve already found another piece at Bast for that space.”
“And if y
ou hadn’t had a stick up your butt, I’d’ve fixed it for The Lobby.”
Justine aimed a hard stare. “Just whose butt are you referring to, Ryder, as I’m the one who told you to take the defective piece down to the basement?”
“Where I fixed it,” he muttered. “I’m going to get it. Give me a hand,” he said to Beckett.
More than willing to get out of the line of fire, Beckett aimed for the basement.
“If it doesn’t work there, if you don’t like it, we’ll haul it out,” Owen promised. “It’s a good-looking piece.”
“Defective, and not worth what I paid for it. I got caught up,” Justine admitted, and rubbed the dog’s ears when he walked over to lean on her. “Well, we’ll see. Hope, that must be Carolee bringing in more kitchen things,” she added when she heard the footsteps on the main stairs. “Maybe the two of you can get the chafing dishes, the coffee urn. Let’s see how it all looks.”
“Sure.”
Owen opened his mouth, but a look from his mother cut off his offer to help. Justine held her tongue until Hope’s footsteps retreated. “I wanted her out of the room for a few minutes.” Then she folded her arms as Ryder and Beckett carried in the repaired server.
“Ryder Thomas Montgomery.”
Owen knew that tone, that look. Though it wasn’t aimed at him—this time—he felt his own balls shrink a little.
Head bowed, tail tucked, Dumbass slunk back over to his corner.
“Ma’am.”
“I didn’t raise you to be rude to people, to snarl at women, or to snap at employees. I expect you to be polite to Hope, whether or not you agree with her.”
He set down the server. “Okay. But—”