"That's all I can do tonight."

She shut down the laptop, walked through the apartment, checking lights and the door.

When she crawled into bed, she reviewed her to-do list for the next day. But fell asleep with the memory of that kiss in the parking lot. Ryder's hand fisted in her hair.

The smell of honeysuckle drifted over her. But this time she didn't feel the hand stroke her hair.

WHEN THE CREW knocked off the next afternoon, Ryder took advantage of the quiet to run through his checklist, make adjustments to the work a.s.signments for the next day.

Dumba.s.s snored under the plywood spanning the sawhorses, letting out occasional yips as he dreamed of chasing whatever dogs chased in dreams.

Long day, he thought. Long week. He wanted a cold beer and a hot shower, in that order.

He'd get the first at Vesta, with his brothers for company since their women were having a hen party at the inn. They'd go over progress, and he'd be pleased to report to Owen he could schedule the final on the bakery building. It looked like their new tenant could start loading in her equipment and furnishings over the weekend.

Another few weeks-maybe middle of August-and Avery could start planning her grand opening.

Then he could focus in on this place, he mused, looking around at the raw walls. If things went right-and he really wanted them to go right-they'd tear off that mother of a tar roof next week and start framing the pitch.

He knew his mother was already looking at tile and paint fans, and put that right out of his mind. He had to deal with the right now, and the right now included bringing in steel beams, cutting through cinder block, and installing a s.h.i.tload of new windows.

No, he corrected, that was tomorrow and into next week. The right now was that cold beer.

He toed the dog awake with his boot. "You can sleep in the truck, you lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

The dog stirred himself to yawn, sit up. And plop his head in Ryder's lap.

"No beer for you." Ryder scratched at the dog's ears, gave the homely face a rub. "You can't handle it. Remember last time? All you did was lap up half a spilled beer before I caught you, and what happened? You walked into walls and puked. You're a lousy drunk, Dumba.s.s."

"My grandmother had a cat who drank brandy."

This time she gave him a jolt. He shifted, watching Hope as she came in the St. Paul Street door. For a moment the light framed around her, caught at the ends of her hair.

She took a man's breath away, he thought. It just wasn't right.

"Is that so?"

"It is. Her name was Penelope, and she had a taste for Azteca de Oro. She had a thimbleful every night, and died at the age of twenty-two. The cat who wouldn't die."

"D.A. likes toilet water."

"Yes, I'm aware." She walked over, set the pie dish on the plywood. "Payment in full."

She'd done the fancy latticework for the top crust, he noted. He stuck a finger in a s.p.a.ce between, ignoring her appalled, "Don't! Oh, really." Scooping some out, he sampled.

It hit that perfect note between tart and sweet. He should've figured it. "It's good."

"It would be even better on a plate, with a fork."

"Maybe. I'll try that out later."

"Don't," she repeated, and this time slapped his hand. Reaching in her pocket, she took out a Milk Bone for the dog. "He may drink out of the toilet, but by and large he has better manners than you do." She gave D.A.'s head a pat. "Is it all right if I take some pictures in here tomorrow?"

"Why?"

"I thought I'd update the inn's Facebook page, include some of what's happening. This, Avery's, the bakery. We're going to offer guests free day pa.s.ses, so some who're thinking about booking might be interested in the progress. Especially if I can add a projected opening date."

He circled a finger in the air. "Look around. Does it look like I can give you an opening date?"

"Projected."

"No. Take pictures if you want. You can put up the bakery's opening soon."

"How soon?"

"Ask the baker. We should get the final and U&O tomorrow, then it's up to her."

"That's great. I'll touch base with her." She hesitated. "It was nice of you to tell Avery I was upset yesterday."

"You'd moved out of p.i.s.sed off to broody. I figure that's girl territory."

Yes, she thought, more insightful than she'd given him credit for. And kinder.

"Close enough. I should get back. We don't have any guests tonight, so she and Clare are coming over."

"I got the bulletin." He got up, hefted the pie. "I'm going for a beer."

"I got that bulletin." She stepped out, and since it seemed polite, waited for him to lock up. "What color are you going to paint this place?"

"Something else."

"Already an improvement. Your mother's talking about a slatey blue, chrome accents, white trim, gray stonework along the base."

"That's her deal."

"She's good at it. Have you seen Avery's logo for the new place?"

"The pug pulling the tap. Funny."

"And charming. She and Owen are getting one this weekend-a pug, and apparently a Lab since they couldn't come to a full agreement."

He'd heard that, too. Owen had lists. "They're going to chew shoes, boots, furniture, and pee on the floor, and make Owen crazy. I'm all for it."

He put the dog in the cab, windows half down and-knowing D.A.-set the pie in the bed of the truck.