Bride Quartet Collection (30 page)

“I suspect the pit of hell is shinier than yours.”

She puffed out a breath. “Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t argue.”

“Get in, turn it over.”

“Turn what over? Kidding,” she said.

“Ha. If and when it starts, don’t turn it off.”

“Got it.” In the car, she held up crossed fingers, turned the key. The engine coughed, hacked—made him wince—then rumbled to life.

She stuck her head out the window and beamed at him. “It worked!”

He had an errant thought that with that much power, her smile could have sparked a hundred dead batteries. “We’ll let it juice up a few minutes, then I’ll follow you home.”

“You don’t have to do that. It’s out of your way.”

“I’ll follow you home so I know you didn’t conk out on the way.”

“Thanks, Jack. God knows how long I’d’ve been out here if you hadn’t come along. I was cursing myself for going to that damn party when all I wanted to do tonight was zone out with a movie and go to bed early.”

“So why’d you go?”

“Because I’m weak.” She shrugged. “Sam really didn’t want to go alone, and, well, I like a party, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to meet him there and hang out for an hour.”

“Uh-huh. How’d it work out with him and the blonde?”

“Sorry?”

“The blonde you palmed him off on.”

“I didn’t palm him off.” Her gaze slid away, then rolled back to his. “Okay, I did, but only because I thought they’d like each other. Which they did. I’d’ve considered that good deed worth coming out tonight. Except I ended up broken down on the side of the road. It seems unfair. And mildly embarrassing since you noticed.”

“On the contrary, I was impressed. That and the salsa were my favorite parts of the evening. I’m going to take the cables off. Let’s see if she holds a charge. If we’re good, wait until I’m in my car before you pull out.”

“Okay. Jack? I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do.” He gave her a grin before he walked off.

When her car continued to run, he shut her hood then his own. Once he’d tossed the jumper cables back in his trunk, he got behind the wheel and flashed his lights to signal her to go.

He followed her through the lace of the light snow, and tried not to think of that moment under the hood when her breath had brushed warm over his lips.

She gave a friendly toot of her horn when she reached the private road for the Brown Estate. He eased over, stopped. He watched her taillights shimmer in the dark, then disappear around the bend that led to the guest house.

Then he sat a little while longer, in the dark, before turning the car around and heading home.

I
N HER REARVIEW MIRROR, EMMA SAW JACK STOP AT THE MOUTH of the drive. She hesitated, wondering if she should’ve asked if he wanted to come down, have some coffee before he doubled back and drove home.

She probably should have—least she could do—but it was too late now. And all for the best, no question.

It wasn’t wise to entertain a family friend who banged a booming ten on your spark o-meter, alone, late at night. Especially when you still have some belly vibes going from a ridiculous moment under the hood of a car when you’d nearly humiliated yourself by moving on him.

That would never do.

She wished she could go by and talk over the whole stupid mess with Parker or Laurel or Mac—better yet, all three of them. But that, too, wouldn’t do. Some things couldn’t be shared even with the best friends in the world. Especially since it was clear Jack and Mac had gotten snuggly once upon a time.

She suspected that Jack got snuggly with a lot of women.

Not that she held it against him, she thought as she parked. She liked the company of men. She liked sex. Sometimes one led to the other.

Besides, how could you find the love of your life if you didn’t look for him?

She turned off the car, bit her lip, then turned the key again. It made very unhappy noises, seemed undecided, then fired.

That had to be a good sign, she decided, then switched it off again. But she’d take it into the shop as soon as she could. She’d have to ask Parker about mechanics, as Parker knew everything.

Inside the house, she got herself a bottle of water to take upstairs. Thanks to Sam and the stupid battery she wouldn’t make it to bed by the righteous hour of eleven, but she could get there by midnight. Which meant she had no excuse to miss the early workout she’d planned for the morning.

No excuse, she lectured herself.

She set the water on her bedside table by a little vase of freesia and started to undress. Then realized she was still wearing Jack’s jacket.

“Oh, damn it.”

It smelled so good, she thought. Leather and Jack. And that wasn’t a scent that was going to give her quiet dreams. She carried it across the room, laid it over the back of a chair. Now she had to get it back to him, but she’d worry about that later.

One of the girls might be going into town for something and could drop it off. It wasn’t cowardly to pass the task off. It was efficient.

Cowardice had nothing to do with it. She saw Jack all the time.
All
the time. She just didn’t see the point in making a special trip if someone else was already going. Surely he had another jacket. It wasn’t like he needed that particular one immediately. If it was so important, why hadn’t he taken it back?

It was his own fault.

And hadn’t she said she’d worry about it later?

She changed into a nightshirt then went into the bathroom to begin her nightly ritual. Makeup off, skin toned and moisturized, teeth and hair brushed. The routine and her pretty bathroom usually relaxed her. She loved the happy colors, her sweet slipper tub, the shelf of pale green bottles that held whatever flowers she had handy.

Miniature daffodils now, to celebrate spring. But their cheerful faces seemed to smirk at her. Irritated, she flipped off the light.

She continued the ritual by removing the small mountain of throw pillows from the bed, setting aside the embroidered shams, fluffing up her sleep pillows. She slid under the duvet, snuggled in to enjoy the feel of smooth, soft sheets against her skin, the dreamy scent of freesia perfuming the air, and . . .

Shit!
She could still smell his jacket.

Sighing, she flopped over on her back.

So what? So what if she had lusty thoughts about her best friend’s brother’s best friend? It wasn’t a crime. Lusty thoughts were absolutely reasonable and normal. In fact, lusty thoughts were good things. Healthy things. She
liked
having lusty thoughts.

Why wouldn’t a normal woman have lusty thoughts about a sexy, gorgeous man with a great body and eyes that were like smoke wrapped up in fog?

She’d be crazy not to have them.

Acting on them, now
that
would be crazy. But she was perfectly entitled to have them.

She wondered what he’d have done if she’d moved in that last inch under the hood of the car and planted one on him?

Being a man, he’d have moved in right back, she imagined. And they’d have spent a very interesting few minutes smolder ing on the side of the road in the lightly falling snow. Bodies heating, hearts pounding with the snow showering over them and . . .

No, no, she was romanticizing it. Why did she always do that, always move from healthy lust to romance? That was her problem, and certainly rooted in the wonderfully romantic love story of her parents. How could she not want what they had?

Put it aside, she ordered herself. She wasn’t going to find happy ever after with Jack. Stick with lust.

So they’d have gotten all hot and tangled on the side of the road. But. After that impulsive and no doubt spark-loaded kiss, they’d have been awkward and embarrassed with each other.

Then they’d have had to apologize to each other, or try to make some kind of a joke out of it. Everything would be weird and strained.

The simple fact was it was too late to act on the lust. They were friends, the next thing to family. You didn’t hit on friends and family. She was better off, tons better off, keeping her thoughts to herself and continuing to look for the real thing. For love.

The sort that lasted lifetimes.

CHAPTER THREE

F
ILLED WITH RESENTMENT AND SELF-PITY, EMMA TRUDGED UP to the home gym at the main house. Its design reflected Parker’s efficient style and unassailable taste, both of which Emma bitterly detested at that moment.

CNN muttered away on the flat screen while Parker, her phone’s earbud in place, racked up her miles on the elliptical. Emma scowled at the Bowflex as she stripped off her sweatshirt. She turned her back on it and the recumbent bike, on the rack of free weights, the shelf of DVDs with their perky or earnest instructors who might take her through a session of yoga or pilates, torture her with the exercise ball, or intimidate her with tai chi.

She unrolled one of the mats, sat down with the intention of doing some warm-up stretches. And just lay down.

“Morning.” Parker glanced at her as she continued to pump along. “Late night?”

“How long have you been on that thing?”

“You want it? I’m nearly done. I’m just hitting my cooldown.”

“I hate this room. A torture chamber with shiny floors and pretty paint is still a torture chamber.”

“You’ll feel better after you do a mile or two.”

“Why?” From her prone position, Emma threw up her hands. “Who says? Who decided that people all of a sudden have to do miles every damn day, or that twisting themselves into unnatural shapes is good for them? I think it’s the people who sell this hideous equipment, and the ones who design all the cute little outfits like the one you’re wearing.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at Parker’s slate-colored cropped pants and perky pink and gray top. “How many of those cute little outfits do you own?”

“Thousands,” Parker said dryly.

“See? And if they hadn’t convinced you to do miles and twist yourself into unnatural shapes—and look good doing it—you wouldn’t have spent all that money on those cute little outfits. You could’ve donated it to a worthy cause instead.”

“But these yoga pants make my ass look great.”

“They really do. But nobody’s seeing your ass but me, so what’s the point?”

“Personal satisfaction.” Parker slowed, stopped. Hopping off, she plucked out one of the alcohol wipes to wipe down the machine. “What’s wrong, Em?”

“I told you. I hate this room and all it stands for.”

“So you’ve said before. But I know that tone. You’re irritable, and you almost never are.”

“I’m as irritable as anybody.”

“No.” Parker got her towel, mopped her face, then drank from her water bottle. “You’re nearly always cheerful, optimistic, and good-natured, even when you bitch.”

“I am? God, that must be annoying.”

“Hardly ever.” Moving to the Bowflex, Parker began to do some upper body exercise she made look smooth and easy. Emma knew it was neither. When she felt another pop of resentment, she sat up.

“I am irritable. I’m filled with irritable this morning. Last night—”

She broke off when Laurel came in, her hair bundled up, her trim body in a sports bra and bike shorts. “I’m switching off CNN,” she announced, “because I just don’t care.” She snagged the remote, switched from TV to hard, pounding rock.

“Turn it down at least,” Parker ordered. “Emma’s about to tell us why she’s full of irritable this morning.”

“Em’s never full of irritable.” Laurel got a mat, unrolled it onto the floor. “It’s annoying.”

“See?” Since she was already on the floor, Emma decided she might as well stretch. “My best friends, and all these years you’ve let me go around annoying people.”

“It probably only annoys us.” Laurel started a set of crunches. “We’re around you more than anyone else.”

“That’s true. In that case, screw you. God,
God
, do the two of you really do this every day?”

“Parker’s every day, as she’s obsessive. I’m a three-day-a-week girl. Four if I’m feeling frisky. This is usually an off day, but I came up with a design for the crying bride and it motored me up.”

“Have you got something you can show me?” Parker demanded.

“See, obsessive.” Laurel switched to roll-ups. “Later. Now I want to hear about the irritable.”

“How can you do that?” Being full of irritable, Emma snarled. “It’s like somebody’s pulling you up with an invisible rope.”

“Abs of steel, baby.”

“I hate you.”

“Who could blame you? I deduce irritable equals man,” Laurel continued. “So I require all details.”

“Actually—”

“Jeez, what is this? Ladies Day at the Brown Gym?” Mac strolled in, stripping off a hooded sweatshirt.

“I think it’s Snowcones in Hell Day.” Laurel paused. “What are you doing here?”

“I come here sometimes.”

“You look at a picture of here sometimes and consider that a workout.”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf. For my health.”

“Bullshit,” Laurel said, grinning.

“Okay, bullshit. I’m pretty sure I’m going with strapless for the wedding gown. I want amazing arms and shoulders.” Turning to the mirror, Mac flexed. “I have good arms and shoulders, but that’s not enough.” She let out a sigh as she wiggled out of sweat-pants. “And I’m becoming an obsessed, fussy bride. I hate me.”

“But you’ll be an obsessed, fussy bride who looks fabulous in her wedding dress. Here,” Parker said, “see what I’m doing.”

Mac frowned. “I see it, but I don’t think I’ll like it.”

“You just keep it steady and smooth. I’m going to cut back the resistance a bit.”

“Are you intimating I’m a weenie?”

“I’m avoiding all the moaning and crying you’d do tomorrow if you started at my level. I do this three times a week.”

“You do have really good arms and shoulders.”

“Plus I have it on good authority my ass looks great in these pants. Okay, smooth and steady. Fifteen reps, set of three.” Parker gave Mac a pat. “Now, hopefully that’s the last interruption. Emma, you have the floor.”

“She’s already on the floor,” Mac pointed out.

“Shh. Emma’s irritable this morning because . . .”

“I went over to Adam and Vicki’s last night—the MacMillians?—which I hadn’t planned on because yesterday was a full book and today’s another. I’d had a really good day, especially the last consult, and spent time writing up the contracts and notes, decided I’d make a little dinner, have a movie, an early night.”

“Who called and talked you into going out with him?” Mac asked as she frowned her way through the first set.

“Sam.”

“Sam’s the hot computer nerd who defies that oxymoron despite—or maybe because of—the Buddy Holly glasses.”

“No.” Emma shook her head at Laurel. “That’s Ben. Sam’s the ad exec with the great smile.”

“The one you decided not to date anymore,” Parker added.

“Yes. And it wasn’t actually a date. I said no to dinner, no to him picking me up. But . . . okay I caved on the party, and agreed to meet him there. I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him—full disclosure—two weeks ago. But I don’t think he believes me. But Addison was there—third cousin, I think, my father’s side. She’s great, and just exactly his type. So I got to introduce them, and that was good.”

“We should offer a matchmaking package,” Laurel suggested, and started on leg lifts. “Even if we launched it just with the guys Emma wants to brush off, we could double our business.”

“Brush off has negative connotations. I redirect. Anyway Jack was there.”

“Our Jack?” Parker asked.

“Yeah, which turned out to be lucky for me. I ducked out early, and halfway home, my car conks. Just cough, choke, die. And it’s snowing, and it’s dark, I’m
freezing
, and that stretch of road is deserted, of course.”

As the leg lifts didn’t look horrible, Emma shifted to mirror Laurel’s movements.

“You really need to get OnStar installed,” Parker told her. “I’ll get you the information.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of creepy?” Mac huffed a little, pumping through the third set. “Having them know exactly where you are. And I think, I really think, they can hear you, even when you don’t push the button. They’re listening. Yes, they are.”

“Because they love hearing people sing off-key with the radio. It must brighten their day. Who did you call?” Parker asked Emma.

“As it turned out, I didn’t have to call anyone. Jack came along before I could. So, he takes a look, and it’s the battery. He jumps it. Oh, and he lent me his jacket, which I forgot to give back. So instead of having a nice quiet evening, I’m dodging Sam’s lips, trying to redirect him, standing in the freezing cold on the side of the road when all I wanted was a big salad and a romantic movie. Now I have to get my car in the shop, and make a trip to Jack’s to return his jacket. And I’m completely swamped today. Just can’t do it. So, irritable because . . .”

She hedged, just a little, as she rolled over to do the other leg. “I didn’t sleep well worrying about getting everything done today and kicking myself for getting talked into going out in the first place.”

She huffed out a breath. “And now that I said all that, it doesn’t seem worth getting upset about.”

“Breakdowns are always a bitch,” Laurel said. “Breakdowns at night, in the snow? Serious pisser. You get a pass on the irritable.”

“Jack had to point out that it was my own fault, and it’s worse because, yes, it was, since I haven’t had the car serviced. Ever. And that was annoying. But he did save the day, plus the jacket. Plus, he followed me home to make sure I got here. Anyway, that’s all done. Now I have to hassle with having somebody check out the car and do whatever it is they do. I’ve got guys in the family who could probably take care of most of it, but I don’t want yet another lecture on how I neglect my car, blah blah. So, Parker, where should I take it?”

“I know, I know!” Mac puffed, then stopped her reps. “You should take it in to that guy who towed my mother’s car for me last winter. The one Del likes? Anybody who can basically tell Linda to stick it when she’s on a rant gets my vote.”

“Agreed,” Parker said. “And he does get the Delaney Brown stamp of approval. Del’s a maniac about who touches his cars. Kavanaugh’s. I’ll get you the number and the address.”

“Malcolm Kavanaugh’s the owner,” Mac added. “Very hot.”

“Really? Well, maybe a faulty battery’s not such a bad thing. I’ll try to get it in next week. Meanwhile, is anyone going into town, anywhere near Jack’s office? I really have to stick here today.”

“Give it back to him Saturday,” Parker suggested. “He’s on the list for the evening event.”

“Oh. Fine.” Emma looked with avid dislike at the elliptical. “Since I’m here, I might as well work up a sweat.”

“How about me?” Mac demanded. “Am I cut yet?”

“The improvement’s astounding. Biceps curls,” Parker ordered. “I’ll show you.”

B
Y NINE, EMMA WAS SHOWERED, DRESSED, AND WHERE SHE wanted to be. At her work counter, surrounded by flowers.

To celebrate their parents’ fiftieth anniversary, the clients wanted Emma to re-create the couple’s wedding and backyard garden reception. Then kick it up a notch.

She had copies of snapshots from the wedding album pinned to a board, had added some concept sketches and diagrams, a list of flowers, receptacles, accessories. On another board she’d pinned Laurel’s sketch of the elegantly simple three-tiered wedding cake ringed with bright yellow daffodils and pale pink tulips. Beside it was a photograph of the cake topper the family had commissioned, replicating the couple on their wedding day, down to the lace hemming the bell of the bride’s tea-length skirt.

Fifty years together, she thought as she studied the photos. All those days and nights, birthdays and Christmases. The births, the deaths, the arguments, the laughter.

It was, to her, more romantic than windswept moors and fairy castles.

She’d give them their garden. A world of gardens.

She started with daffodils, potting them in long, moss-lined troughs, mixing in tulips and hyacinths, narcissus. Here and there she added trails of periwinkle. A half dozen times she filled a rolling cart, wheeled it back to her cooler.

She mixed gallons of flower food and water, filling tall glass cylinders. She stripped stems, cut them under running water and began arranging larkspur, stock, snapdragons, airy clouds of baby’s breath, lacy asparagus fern. Soft colors and bold, she’d mass them at various heights to create the illusion of a spring garden.

Time ticked away.

She paused long enough to roll her shoulders, circle her neck, flex her fingers.

Using the foam holder she’d soaked, she circled it with lemon leaf to create a base she glossed with leaf shine.

She gathered roses for her holding bucket, stripped stems, barely bothered to curse when she nicked herself, cutting the stems to length to make the first of fifty reproductions of the bouquet the bride had carried a half century before.

She worked from the center out, painstakingly locking each stem in the form with adhesive. Stripping, cutting, adding—and appreciating the bride’s choice of multicolored roses.

Pretty, Emma thought, happy. And when she tucked the holder in the squat glass vase, she thought: lovely.

“Only forty-nine to go.”

She decided she’d start on that forty-nine after she took a break.