night, when the noise of nail guns, saws, radios, and voices ended, and the shadows took over. Something not altogether quiet, not altogether still. Something that brushed fingers over the back of his neck.
Something else he couldn’t resist.
He swept his light around the second floor, noted the brown-bag backing on the walls. As always, Owen’s report had been accurate. Ry and his crew had the insulation completed on this level.
Though he’d intended to go straight up, he roamed here with a grin spreading over his sharply boned face, the pleasure of it lighting eyes the color of blue shadows.
“Coming along,” he said into the silence in a voice gravelly from lack of sleep.
He moved through the dark, following his beam of light, a tall man with narrow hips, the long Montgomery legs, and the waving mass of brown hair with hints of chestnut that came down from the Riley—his maternal side.
He had to remind himself that if he kept poking around he’d have to get up before he got to bed, so he climbed up to the third floor.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” Pure delight scattered thoughts of sleep as he traced a finger down the taped seam of freshly hung drywall.
He played his light over the holes cut out for electric, moved into what would be the innkeeper’s apartment, and noted the same for plumbing in the kitchen and bath. He spent more time wandering through what would be their most elaborate suite, nodding approval at the floating wall dividing the generous space in the bath.
“You’re a frigging genius, Beck. Now, for God’s sake, go home.”
But giddy with fatigue and anticipation, he took one more good look before he made his way down the steps.
He heard it as he reached the second floor. A kind of humming—and distinctly female. As the sound reached him, so did the scent. Honeysuckle, sweet and wild and ripe with summer.
His belly did a little dance, but he held the flashlight steady as he swept it down the hall into unfinished guest rooms. He shook his head as both sound and scent drifted away.
“I know you’re here.” He spoke clearly, and his voice echoed back to him. “And I guess you’ve been here for a while. We’re bringing her back, and then some. She deserves it. I hope to hell you like it when she’s done because, well, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
He waited a minute or two, fanciful enough—or tired enough—to imagine whoever, or whatever, inhabited the place settled on a wait-and-see mode.
“Anyway.” He shrugged. “We’re giving her the best we’ve got, and we’re pretty damn good.”
He walked down, noted the work light no longer shone. Beckett turned it on again, switched it back off with another shrug. It wouldn’t be the first time the current resident had messed with one of them.
“Good night,” he called out, then locked up.
This time he didn’t wait for the light, but crossed diagonally. Vesta Pizzeria and Family Restaurant spread over another corner of The Square, with his apartment and office above. He walked down the sloping sidewalk to the back parking lot, grabbed his bag from the cab of his truck. Deciding he’d murder anyone who called him before eight a.m., Beckett unlocked the stairwell, then climbed past the restaurant level to his door.
He didn’t bother with the light, but moved by memory and the backwash of streetlights through the apartment. He stripped by the bed, letting the clothes drop.
He flopped facedown on the mattress, and fell asleep thinking of honeysuckle.
THE CELL PHONE he’d left in his jeans pocket went off at six fifty-five.
“Son of a bitch.”
He crawled out of bed, over the floor, dug his phone out of the pocket. Realized he was holding his wallet up to his ear when nobody answered.
“Shit.”
Dropped the wallet, fumbled out the phone.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Good morning to you, too,” Owen responded. “I’m walking out of Sheetz, with coffee and donuts. They’ve got a new clerk on the morning shift. She’s pretty hot.”
“I’ll kill you with a hammer.”
“Then you won’t get any coffee and donuts. I’m on my way to the site. Ry should be there already. Morning meeting.”
“That’s at ten.”
“Didn’t you read the text I sent you?”
“Which one? I’m gone two days and you sent me a million freaking texts.”
“The one that told you we rescheduled for seven fifteen. Put some pants on,” Owen suggested and hung up.
“Hell.”
He grabbed a two-minute shower, and put some pants on.