Some evenings he heard voices from below, and just let himself and D.A. into her place until she knocked off for the night.

And maybe he found himself taking more of an interest in the workings of the inn than he’d expected to, but he was in it more than he’d imagined, so that followed.

And those workings struck him as pretty well oiled. No surprise, since in a lot of ways she was Owen in a skirt.

She emailed herself, doing room checks with her phone, using the phone to email herself notes she turned into lists on her office desktop. Fresh batteries for the remote in N&N, more TP in W&B, fresh room packets or menus or lightbulbs wherever. Saved steps, he imagined, as she’d be up and down countless times a day—stocking the coffee supply in The Library, hauling up wine, sodas, water from the basement storage.

She lived and died by lists, to his way of thinking. And, again like his brother, by the sticky note.

He’d invariably find a few whenever he’d go into her place while she handled guests. Beer in the fridge—stuck on the fridge door as if he couldn’t open it and see for himself. Leftover pasta on warm if you’re hungry—stuck on the oven, as if ditto.

But he had to admit it was nice to have her bother.

He supposed he’d figured she’d be rigid—live and die by the schedule as much as her lists and sticky notes. But she flexed, and plenty, when things called for it, giving here, adjusting there, shoring up or letting go.

He could admit he’d expected her to start laying down rules or making demands about their . . . situation. Instead she rolled with it—and rolled plenty with him, he thought as he set the next replacement window in the fitness center.

Even as he thought of her she came out, helping the laundry service haul away a load of linens and towels.

She looked so damn fresh and pretty. He’d seen her mussed now—and done the mussing up himself—but she still managed to grab a man by the throat and the balls.

She turned as someone came out of The Lobby doors. She had a houseful, he knew, for the July Fourth weekend. He couldn’t hear her, but he could see her laugh and engage fully with the three women who came out.

“Problem with the window?”

“Huh?” He glanced around as Beckett came up behind him.

“Oh yeah, nice view. Clare said she’s got sixteen people in there, through the weekend.”

“It’s a holiday,” Ryder said and went back to installing the window.