“All he has to do is walk across the street to bed when he’s ready, so he can get a little drunk if he wants. It’s a big night for Avery. For Boonsboro. For all of us.”

“Yeah.” Ryder stared into her eyes. “A big one.”

They stayed until midnight, then gathered at the inn for post-party replay until after one in the morning. By the time she climbed the steps for the last time that night, Hope’s ankles of steel had begun to shed a few tears.

She thought of another perk of being female. Taking off heels, peeling out of a killer dress, removing every layer of makeup, and sliding into a bed mounded with pillows beside a hot, sexy man.

And when she stepped into E&D with Ryder she saw the bottle of champagne.

“Like I said, you look like champagne tonight. We could sit out on the porch awhile, have some.”

She’d take off, peel out, remove and slide just a little later, Hope thought.

“That sounds good.”

She went out with him, chose the wooden bench as she expected him to join her. Instead, once he’d shoved a glass in her hand, he walked to the rail, leaned on it.

No way she was joining him, she decided. She was finished standing in these shoes.

“I know it’s been said—many times, many ways—but it was a really fabulous party.”

“Yeah. Avery did good.”

He turned back, left it at that.

He thought about this. Thought long and hard, and he’d figured it out. But now, looking at her—pulsing, sparkling, a fancy glass of fancy wine in her hand, he wondered if he’d lost his mind.

Beauty queen, city girl. Sure, she was here, she was Hope, but those things were part of her. Like the scent, those smoldering eyes, the shoes that cost more than a decent table saw.

“I hate opera. I’m not listening to opera.” He didn’t know why he blurted that out. It just came to mind.

“Fine. I don’t like opera either.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’ve got those opera things.”

Over a sip of champagne, she gave him a puzzled frown. “What opera things?”

“Like the—the fancy binoculars?”

“The opera glasses.” She laughed. “Guilty, but they’re not just for opera. They’re also useful for spying on sexy construction workers on hot summer days when they strip off their shirts.”

His lips quirked. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And for ballet, and—”

His lips flattened. “I’m not going to any ballet either.”

“That’s too bad for you.”

“Or art films, foreign films, anything—anything with subtitles.”

She tilted her head. “And when have I ever suggested an art film?”

“Just putting it out there, in case. Or chick flicks.” With a firm nod, he swiped a hand through the air. “They’re off the table.”