Bed of Roses (16 page)

“Give me a second, this is a moment. Okay, there’s the moment.” And Mac unhooked her pants. As she stripped down, Emma circled a finger.

“Turn your back to the mirror. You don’t want to see yourself putting it on. You want the
pow
effect once you’re in it.”

“Dropping your clothes where you stand.” Mrs. Grady shook her head as she scooped them up. “Just as you always have. Well, help her into it,” she ordered, and stood back, smiled.

“Oh. I’m going to cry.” Emma sniffled while Parker fastened the gown in place.

“They didn’t have your size, so it’s a little big.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Mrs. Grady picked up her pin cushion. “We’ll nip and tuck a bit here and there so it shows better on you. It’s a shame you’ve always been such an ugly thing.”

“Insult me, but don’t stick me.”

“That’ll do for now.” Mrs. Grady stepped around to fuss a little with the bodice, then reached up to smooth Mac’s bright red hair. “We have to work with what we’ve got.”

“Count to three, Mac, then turn and look.” Emma pressed both hands to her lips. “Just look at you.”

“Okay.” Mac took in a breath, let it out, then turned toward the cheval glass where she’d watched so many brides study their reflections. The only thing she could say was “Oh!”

“And that says it all.” Laurel blinked at tears. “It’s . . . it. You’re it in it.”

“It’s . . . I’m . . . Holy shit, I’m a bride.” Mac’s fingers fluttered up to her heart as she angled herself. “Oh, check out the back. It’s fun, and female, and I
do
have an ass.” In the glass, her gaze shifted to Parker’s. “Parks.”

“Am I good or am I good?”

“You’re the best. This is my wedding dress. Aw, Mrs. G.”

Mrs. Grady dabbed her eyes. “I’m just shedding a tear of joy that I won’t have four spinsters on my hands.”

“Flowers in your hair. A wide floral headband instead of a veil,” Emma suggested.

“Really?” Pursing her lips, Mac studied herself, imagined. “That could work. That could work well.”

“I’ll show you some ideas. And you know, I think with the lines of the dress, I’d like to see a long sweep of a bouquet, probably hand tied. Maybe arm-carried.” Emma angled one arm, swept her hand down to demonstrate. “Or a cascade, but with a waterfall effect. Rich, warm autumn colors, and . . . I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“No. God, we’re planning my wedding. I think I need that drink.”

Retrieving Mac’s flute, Laurel stepped to her. “It sure looks better on you than any of our old Wedding Day costumes.”

“Plus, it doesn’t itch.”

“I’m going to make you one hell of a cake.”

“Oh man, I’m watering up again.”

“Turn around, all of you,” Mrs. Grady ordered as she took a camera out of her pocket. “Our redhead’s not the only one who can take a picture. Glasses up. There’s my girls,” she murmured, and captured the moment.

 

 

 

W
HILE THE LADIES DRANK CHAMPAGNE AND DISCUSSED WEDDING flowers, Jack popped a beer and prepared to fleece friends at Texas Hold ’Em.

And tried not to think about Emma and her latest e-mail.

“Since it’s Carter’s first official Poker Night, let’s try not to humiliate him.” Del clapped a friendly hand on Carter’s shoulder. “Taking his money’s one thing, embarrassing him’s another.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Jack promised.

“I could just watch.”

“Now where’s the fun and profit in that. For us?” Del asked.

“Ha,” Carter managed.

They mingled around Del’s lower level. A boy’s dream space, in Jack’s opinion, with its antique bar that had once served pints in Galway, its slate pool table, its flat-screen TV—an auxiliary to the even bigger one in the media room on the other side of the house. It boasted a vintage jukebox, video games, and two classic pinball machines. Leather chairs, sofas that could take a beating. And a Vegas-style poker table just waiting for action.

No wonder he and Del were friends.

“If you were a girl,” Jack said to Del, “I’d marry you.”

“No. You’d just have sex with me then never call me.”

“You’re probably right.”

Since it was there, Jack snagged a slice of pizza. Skinning friends was hungry work. As he ate he considered the group. Two lawyers, the professor, the architect, the surgeon, the landscape designer—and as he watched the last player come through the door—the mechanic.

Interesting group, he thought. It fluctuated from time to time with a new addition, like Carter, or when one of them couldn’t make it. The tradition of Poker Night had begun when he and Del had met in college. The faces might change off and on, but the foundation remained.

Eat, drink, tell lies, talk sports. And try to win money from your friends.

“We’re all here. Want a beer, Mal?” Del asked.

“I’m breathing. How’s it going?” Mal said to Jack.

“Well enough. The new blood’s Carter Maguire. Carter, Malcolm Kavanaugh.”

Mal nodded. “Hey.”

“Nice to meet you. Kavanaugh? The mechanic?”

“Guilty.”

“You towed my future mother-in-law’s car.”

“Yeah? Did she want me to?”

“No. Linda Barrington.”

Mal narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Yeah. The BMW convertible. The 128i.”

“Um. I guess.”

“Nice ride. Interesting woman.” Mal smirked as he lifted his beer again. “Good luck with that.”

“The daughter doesn’t take after the mother,” Del put in.

“Lucky for you,” Mal said to Carter. “I met her—the daughter. Mackensie, right? She’s hot. She does the bride thing with the Cobalt I just serviced.”

“Emma,” Del added.

“Right. She ought to be arrested for vehicular abuse. I met your sister when she picked it up,” he told Del, and grinned. “She’s hot, too. Even when she gives you the deep freeze.”

“So . . . Emma didn’t pick up her car?”

Mal glanced at Jack. “No, the other one did.
Ms. Brown
.” He took a hit of his beer. “The one who says ‘excuse me’ and means ‘fuck you.’ ”

“That would be Parker,” Del confirmed.

“Does the car abuser look as good as the other two?”

“They all look good,” Jack murmured.

“Sorry I missed her.”

“Before I have to punch Mal for thinking lascivious thoughts about my sisters—biological and honorary,” Del said, “let’s play cards.”

“Be right there.” As the others wandered to the table, Jack pulled out his phone to check his e-mails.

 

 

 

I
T WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT WHEN EMMA GOT HOME. ONCE they’d started talking plans and ideas for Mac’s wedding, time whizzed.

She all but bounced into the house, energized by the evening, and just a little giddy on champagne.

Mac’s wedding.

She could already see how utterly perfect the bride would be in her gorgeous gown, a waterfall of flowers in her arms. And she, Parker, and Laurel, triple maids of honor. Russet for her, autumn gold for Parker, pumpkin for Laurel. And oh, the flowers she’d do with that rich palette of fall.

It would be a challenge, Emma thought as she started upstairs. Parker had been right to point that out so they could begin to plan how it could and would be done. Running a wedding was one thing. Running it and being part of it was another.

They’d need extra help, more subs, but they’d not only do it, they’d knock it out of the park.

Cruising on the mood, she began her nightly ritual. When her bed was turned down, she nodded, smoothed the sheets. There, she’d shown a very mature restraint. An evening with friends—business and pleasure—and no neglecting of her nighttime routine.

It proved she was a sensible adult.

Crossing the fingers of both hands, she dashed from her bedroom to her office to bring up her e-mail.

“There, I knew it.”

She clicked open Jack’s latest message.

“Oh,” she said, “my.”

“How about right now?”

She closed her eyes and imagined Jack slipping her out of the slick black coat she didn’t even own. In a room shimmering with candlelight. Music playing, low and hot—so you felt the bass beat in the blood.

His eyes, dangerous as hellsmoke, gliding over her until heat drenched her skin. Then his hands, strong, sure, slow, following that path of heat, easing the velvet on her elbows down until . . .

“That’s just silly.” She straightened in her chair.

Silly, maybe, she thought, but she’d managed to stir herself up. Or he had.

Time to respond in kind.

And other times I want those fingers, those hands, to just
rip
through the barriers. Fast and greedy, and maybe a little rough.

Not
if
any longer, she thought.

Just when.

 

 

 

W
ITH HER THREE TOPIARIES FINISHED AND TINK DEEP INTO processing another delivery, Emma took a quick look at her notes and sketches.

“Six hand-tied bouquets including the bride’s tossing bouquet for Friday’s event. Six pedestal arrangements, eighteen centerpieces, white rose ball, garlands, and swags for the pergola.” She muttered her way down the list. “I’ll need you at least three hours tomorrow. Four would be better.”

“I’ve got a date tonight, and I’m looking to get lucky.” Fingers busy, Tink snapped her gum. “I could be here around noon.”

“If you can stick till four, that ought to do it. Another four on Thursday. Five if you want it. I’ve got Tiffany coming in Thursday, and Beach can give me all day Friday. I can use whatever time you can give me Friday morning. We can start dressing for Friday’s event at three. Saturday’s another twofer. We need to start by eight for the first. That’s A.M., Tink.”

Tink rolled her eyes, and kept stripping thorns.

“We break down the first at three thirty, and need the second fully dressed by five thirty. Sunday, we have a big one, a single starting at four. So we’ll need to start at ten or ten thirty.”

“I’ll try to squeeze what there is of my life in there,” Tink said dolefully.

“You’ll manage. I’ll take what you’ve processed back to the cooler and get the stock we need for the arrangements.” As she picked up the first container and turned, Jack walked in.

“Oh . . . Hi.”

“Hi back. How’s it going, Tink?”

“Emma drives the slaves.”

“Yes, she is abused constantly,” Emma said. “You can there-there her while I haul these back to the cooler.”

God, she thought, he looked so
good
in his fieldwork clothes, the boots, the faded jeans, the shirt rolled up to the elbows.

She wished she could take just one quick bite.

“Why don’t I give you a hand?” He hefted another tub and started back to the cooler.

“We’re a little crazy this week,” Emma told him. “A midweek off site, and four events over the weekend. Sunday’s wedding is a monster—in a good way.” She set her tub down, gestured where Jack should place his. “Now I need to—”

He spun her around, boosted her up to her toes in one fast move. Her arms locked around his neck in a combination of instinct and answer even as his mouth laid claim to hers.

The wild, rich perfume of flowers saturated the air just as need and pleasure saturated her body. Greed and urgency swam through her blood.

Not just one bite, she thought, and not quick. She wanted gulp after gulp.

“Does that door lock from the inside?”

She tunneled her fingers through his hair to bring his mouth back to hers. “What door?”

“Emma, you’re killing me. Let me just—”

“Oh, that door. No. Wait. Damn it. Just one more.” She caught his face in her hands this time, let herself simply sink into the kiss, the perfume, the greed. Then eased back.

“We can’t. Tink. And . . .” Regretfully, she blew out a breath as she glanced around. “There really isn’t room in here.”

“When is she leaving? I’ll come back.”

“I don’t know, exactly, but . . . Wait.”

Now he took her face, met her eyes. “Why?”

“I . . . I can’t think of a good reason, but that may be because I lost many thousands of brain cells during that kiss. I can’t remember if I have any evening appointments. My mind’s wiped clean.”

“I’m coming back at seven. I’ll bring food. Unless you call me and say otherwise. Seven, here.”

“Okay. All right. I’ll check my book when I regain the power of cogent thought. But—”

“Seven,” he repeated and kissed her again. “If we need to talk, we’ll talk.”

“It may have to be in short, declarative sentences and words of one or two syllables.”

“We can do that.” His grin shot fresh heat straight to her belly. “Do you need anything out of here?”

“Yes, but I can’t remember what. Give me a second.” She pushed her hands through her hair, closed her eyes. “All right, yeah. Those, those. Then you’ve really got to go away. I can’t work if I’m thinking about you, this. Sex. Any of it.”

“Tell me about it. Seven,” he repeated, and helped her carry out the flowers.

“I’ll, uh, get back to you on that,” she told him when he set the flowers in her work area. “When I’m not so . . . busy.”