The Next Always (23 page)

Beckett considered, went with impulse. “Do you remember Mr. Schroder?”

“I had him for U.S. history. I hated Mr. Schroder.”

“Everybody did. He was a dick. Clint and I, and some other guys TP’d his house.”

“That was you? Clint was in on that?” She sat back and laughed. “Oh my God, I remember that so well. You must’ve used a hundred rolls. It looked like a cargo ship of Charmin exploded.”

“No point in doing something if you do it half-assed.”

“You sure didn’t go half-assed on Mr. Schroder. And he was a dick.”

“Owen organized it, as you’d expect. Me, Owen, Ry. Two other guys whose names I must protect, as we swore an oath.”

“Clint never told me, and everybody talked about that hit for weeks.”

“An oath’s an oath. We had about fifty rolls, and it took forever to accumulate that much. If a bunch of guys walked into Sheetz or wherever and bought that much at a time, you’d be busted. So we bought a little at a time, in different places, snuck some out of the house, a roll or two each time. We had time lines and maps and lookouts, escape routes. It was a major campaign, and it was beautiful.”

“You were the unsung heroes of Boonsboro High. If we’d known we’d have thrown a party for you.”

“We had our own about a month later. Camped out in the woods near our place and got wasted on Budweiser and peach schnapps.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, it was. Good times.”

“Charlie Reeder.” She pointed, got an
aha
glimmer in her eyes that sparkled green. “One of the others had to be Charlie. He and Clint were tight.”

“I’m unable to confirm or deny.”

“Charlie Reeder,” she repeated. “He was always up for trouble back then. Now he’s a town cop. You just never know. He likes men’s adventure novels and black coffee with a shot of espresso.”

“I guess you get to know people by what they look for in the bookstore.”

“I also have secrets. I know, for instance, that all the Montgomery boys like to read—and what they like to read. That you all drink too much coffee. I know that you and Owen go for sentimental cards for your mom for Mother’s Day and her birthday, and Ryder goes for funny.”

Lifting her wine, she shot him a knowing glance. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“A side benefit of the small-town merchant.”

“You bet. And I know of at least half a dozen customers who are planning to book a night at the inn for a special occasion, even though they live locally. You’re going to have a hit, Beckett.”

“It’ll be nice for Lizzy to have company.”

“Who? Oh, your ghost. She’s Lizzy now?”

“Well, we’ve gotten close. How do you think Hope’s going to deal with that?”

“Hope deals, that’s part of who she is.” Ghosts, Clare thought, were fanciful nonsense—and deliberately shifted the subject. “How’s the apartment coming?”

“Should be ready next week. Lizzy could take lessons from Avery, as she’s been haunting the place. She nagged—let’s say she persuaded Owen that the place needed a little more than paint, so it’s taken a little longer.”

They talked throughout the meal. A nice next step, Beckett thought, in the slow-and-steady plan. Maybe he’d suggest a movie next time, with a casual meal after. Keep it easy and traditional.

“This was wonderful.” She made a quiet sound of pleasure as they walked back to the car. “I can’t think of the last time I had an adult dinner out.”

“We can do it again.” He opened the car door for her. “As soon as you want.”

Tomorrow, she thought, then felt a little pang of guilt. She couldn’t spend two evenings in a row away from her kids. So she’d better make the most of the one she had. “I’ll check the schedule, see what I can work out.”

She turned, giving him the perfect opening to kiss her. When he didn’t, she slid into the car.

Maybe the dinner had decided for him that he wanted to stay friends. Take her out now and then, be a pal to the kids when he had the time and inclination.

She couldn’t fault him for that. Dating was meant to let people figure out if they wanted a relationship, and what they wanted from one. And a relationship with her had multiple complications, she thought as they started the drive home.

Which she’d certainly reminded him of by talking about the kids. She’d probably talked about the kids too much. What guy wanted to hear a bunch of kid stories out on a date?

And all she’d told him about Clint. She’d hoped to give him a clear picture of why she’d gone, why she’d come back. Who she’d been, who she’d become. And to be honest with him about how deeply she’d loved Clint Brewster.

And what man wanted to hear about a woman’s dead husband on a date?

Why couldn’t she have talked about books? Well, they had, she remembered. But just books or movies, or anything breezy and datelike?

Maybe, if they did go out again, she’d think of a list of appropriate topics beforehand. It surprised her just how much she wanted more, from Beckett, with Beckett. He’d made her feel like a woman again, with all those nerves, all those needs.

Safe topics, she decided. Start now.

“I meant to tell you, I read a review copy of Michael Connelly’s latest.”

“Harry Bosch?”

“That’s right. I think you’ll love it. And I’ve got a debut thriller author booked for an event next month. You might want to check it out. She’s good, and we have a local author signed up for the event, too.”

They talked books all the way home. Better, Clare told herself. She’d work on her dating chops. She knew how to have conversations that didn’t involve her children.

She just didn’t have many opportunities for them.

When he pulled up at her house, she thought of the quiet. She could work on the website for an hour undisturbed. She could have the unspeakable luxury of a long bath. She could do absolutely anything she wanted to do without any other responsibility or concern.

“Nights are getting cool,” she murmured as he walked her to the door. “Almost chilly. Summers never last long enough.”

“And winter’s too long.”

“But this one will be special. The inn,” she said when he gave her a puzzled look. “It’ll open this winter.”

“That’s right. The way it looks, we’ll be freezing our asses off when we load in.”

“It’ll be worth it. I’d love to help. In fact, I’m dying to.”

“The more hands and asses, the better.”

“Then I’ll plan on it. I had the best time.”

“So did I.” He leaned in, a light touch on her shoulders, a long, slow, dreamy kiss.

No, oh no, she thought as her skin went to humming. A man didn’t kiss a woman like that when he just wanted to be good friends. She wasn’t that out of the loop.

“Better go in,” he said quietly, “before you get cold.”

She smiled at him, unlocked the door.

“I’ll call you.” She stared at him, flummoxed when he stepped back.

He wasn’t coming inside? Had
all
the signals changed while she’d been in dating retirement?

“Make sure you lock up,” he added.

“I will. ’Night.” She opened the door.

Wait a minute. Proactive, isn’t that what Avery said? Going in alone when she damn well didn’t want to be alone wasn’t being proactive.

“Um, Beckett, I’m sorry, and I know it’s silly, but would you mind coming in? Empty house.” She gave a helpless shrug that embarrassed her.

“Sure. I should’ve offered. Spooky bliss,” he added when he stepped inside. “I’ll check the back door.”

She’d manipulated him and she wasn’t sorry. She’d be sorry, she admitted, if she turned out to be wrong and he didn’t want to stay with her. To be with her.

She’d be humiliated.

But if she didn’t find out now, she’d go crazy wondering.

She hated wondering.

“All clear.” He walked back from the kitchen. “Not a bad guy in sight. But you should still get a dog. A house never feels empty with a dog. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. Can I get you a drink?”

“Better not. I should get going.”

“I have to ask you something.”

“What?”

“When you kissed me at the door, was that a let’s-have-dinner-again-sometime kiss, or was it something else? Because it felt like something else to me.”

“Something else?”

She slid her arms up his back, took his mouth as she wanted to.

“It felt like that.”

He dropped his brow to hers. “Clare.”

“Beckett, don’t make me ask you to come upstairs and check in the closets.” She laid her hands on his cheeks. “Just come upstairs.”

She stepped away, offered her hand. He took it, held firm. “I’ve wanted to be with you when I didn’t have the right to.”

“As long as you want to be with me now.”

They started up together.

“I didn’t want to rush you. I figured you’d need time to get used to the idea, to be sure.”

“I tend to make up my mind quickly.” In the bedroom, she turned to face him. “We’ve been friends a long time, but I have a confession to make. You know I can see the inn from my office window.”

“Yeah.”

“When we had that hot spell in the spring, you’d be working outside now and then, up on that scaffolding, on the roof. With your shirt off. I’d watch you.”

She laughed a little, her eyes on his. “And I’d think about you and wonder what it would be like. Now I can find out.”

She laid her hands on his chest. “Here’s something I haven’t done in quite a while.”

“It’ll come back to you.”

She laughed again, relaxed and easy. “That, too, but I meant it’s been a while since I undressed a man. Let’s see if I remember how this part goes.”

She slipped the jacket off his shoulders, eased it down his arms, then tossed it on the little chair beside her closet. “So far, so good,” she decided. She unfastened the first button of his shirt, the second.

And he found himself trapped between pleasure and desperation.

“I thought you’d be shy.”

She opened the shirt. “You did?” She angled her head. “I haven’t been fifteen and innocent for a long time either.”

“It’s not that, or not just.”

“Ah, the mother of three, the young widow.” She drew the shirt off, tossed it over the jacket. “You’ve probably heard how little boys are made.”

“Rumors.”

“I love my boys, so much.” She ran her hands slowly up his bare chest, closing her eyes at the sensation. “I really loved the process of making them.”

She turned, lifted the hair she’d left loose around her shoulders. “Would you mind?”

He drew down the zipper, inch by inch. It was like a dream, he thought, just that filmy and sweet. And like the most intense of realities. Hot and stirring.

She stepped out of the dress when it fell to the floor, turned to him again. And reached out for him.

No dream, no longer, but real and wanting him as he wanted her. No dream when he could, at last, feel that smooth skin, the way her heart beat strong and fast under his hand.

It was she who drew him to the bed. Her fingers combed through his hair, ran down his back while their lips clung. Under him she moved, sexy and sinuous, impossibly seductive. He’d thought he knew her, had been sure of it. But he never knew this open and eager woman lived inside her. That woman caught him by the throat, could have driven him to heaven or hell at her whim.

Alive. Everything in her alive and beating, and hungry. Those rough-palmed hands stroked over her, waking her skin, her pulse, her senses. She couldn’t get enough—the muscles in his arms, the press, the weight, the shape of his body. The way their breath mingled in another drowning kiss before he took his mouth to her breast.

Her breath exploded in a gasp. Delight, desire—she let herself go, fall heedlessly into both.

They stripped each other. Not a word, too frantic for words before they tumbled back down. She wrapped around him; rose to him. An offer. A demand.

When he buried himself in her she cried out, a sound of relief and release. He struggled for control as he felt her shudder, shudder, shudder. But she rose to him again, and in that single, powerful surge, snapped his will.

He took her, riding on that hot, rising wave of need until his own release ripped through him, emptied him.

She couldn’t get her breath, and wasn’t sure—if she ever did—if she’d let it out with weeping or cheering. She felt foolishly like doing both.

“I can do better,” he mumbled with his face buried in her hair.

“Hmm?”

“I can do better. I kind of rushed that.”

“No, I rushed it, and thanks very much for keeping up the pace. Oh my God, Beckett.” Ah, she realized, she let it out on a long purr. Even better. “Please don’t move yet. Stay.” She wrapped her arms around him to make sure he did.

He stayed—happy to—but rose up to his elbows. “Look at you, Clare Murphy—sorry, Brewster—all mussed and flushed. You’re so damn pretty.”

“I like feeling mussed and flushed and damn pretty. And look at you, Beckett Montgomery, all smug and pleased with yourself.”

“Sure. I just nailed the neighborhood bookseller and town sweetheart.”

She choked out a laugh, pinched his butt. “You’d better not go bragging to the crew.”

“I was going to take out an ad in the
Citizen
.”

She liked looking into his face, so relaxed now, into his eyes, so deep and blue. “Make sure you say I was amazing.”

“Nothing but the truth.” He bent down to kiss her. “You destroyed me.”

“It’s good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, to give himself a moment. He didn’t want to think of her with someone else, not even the man she’d married. Stupid of him, maybe; selfish, certainly. But right then and there, he just didn’t.

He lay quietly awhile until the feeling passed. “I want to see you tomorrow.”