“No, you go home. You have to be back bright and early to help me make breakfast for this crowd. Civil War Bob’s bound to keep everybody entertained again.”

“He couldn’t entertain that one if he juggled fireballs naked. You call me if you want me to come back. I can even bunk in your spare room if you need me.”

“You’re the best.” Because she was, Hope drew her into a hug. “I’m on it. Don’t worry.”

She carried out more bar mix, another bottle of wine, and smiled easily when The Pill asked her for cocktail olives. Since she had some, she put them into a pretty bowl, carted them out. She chatted with those who wanted to chat, went back in to check on the guests in The Lounge.

And made the rounds until she could take a breath and offer up a prayer of thanks when The Pill and her husband went out to dinner.

Civil War Bob—bless him—talked his wife and two of the other couples into pizza delivery and games in The Lounge. She heard the good, satisfying sound of laughter and knew there would be no finger-snapping from that quarter.

She could get a little dinner herself, maybe do a little research while she ate—with that ear to the ground in case she was needed.

But first, she’d do a sweep of The Courtyard to gather up any dishes or napkins.

She stepped out into the balmy evening. Such pretty light, she thought, and quiet now that the Fit crew had knocked off. Next empty night, she’d treat herself to dinner in The Courtyard. She might even fix something fussy, just for herself, have a couple glasses of champagne. A little innkeeper indulgence, she thought as she gathered empty bottles for recycling.

Maybe he’d gotten noisier, or she more attuned, but she looked over just as Ryder stepped under the arch of wisteria.

“Some party,” he commented.

“We’ve got a full house, and some of them took advantage of the nice evening. You’re in town late.”

“Had some things. Meeting at Vesta.”

“All those irons in the fire require meetings.”

“So Owen claims.”

“He’s right.” She gestured toward the building under construction. “The roof’s looking good. I think I can imagine that part finished. It’s going to look so much bigger, and so much better.”

He took the tub she used for the bottles. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’ll get it,” he repeated, muscling it away. He carried it to the shed, dumped them in the recycling bin. Before she could pick up the bag of trash she’d finished filling, he took that as well.

“Thank you.”

He shut the shed door, turned to study her.

“Is there something—”

“Yes.”

After silence followed she lifted her eyebrows. “All right, what?”

“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m considering the idea.”