Bed of Roses (7 page)

“Oh, right. Sorry I forgot to give it back to you last night.”

“No problem. I had an appointment down the road.” He took another twirl of pasta. “Do you have any more of this? I missed lunch.”

“Yeah, sure. I owe you lunch at least. Sit down. I’ll get you a plate.”

“I’ll take it, and I wouldn’t mind a hit of caffeine. Hot or cold.”

“No problem.” Studying him, she pushed at hair that escaped pins. “You look a little whipped.”

“Busy morning. And I’ve got another site to visit in about forty-five minutes. You were between the two, so . . .”

“That’s handy. Be right back.”

He was whipped, he thought, and stretched out his legs. Not so much from the work, or the in-your-face with an inspector that morning. Which he would’ve handled better if he hadn’t been sleep-deprived. Tossing and turning and trying to block out sex dreams of a Spanish-eyed lady would whip anyone.

So, of course, he had to be stupid and masochistic, and drop by with the excuse of the jacket.

Who knew how sexy she looked when she slept in the sunlight?

He did, now. It wasn’t going to give him easier dreams.

The thing to do was get over it. He should make a date with a blonde or a redhead. Several dates with several blondes and/or redheads until he managed to put Emma back on the No Trespassing list.

Where she belonged.

She came out, his jacket over her arm, a tray in her hands.

She had, he thought, the kind of beauty that just slammed a man’s throat shut. And when she smiled, the way she did now, it blew through him like a bolt of lightning.

He tried to build a No Trespassing sign in his head.

“I had some of my aunt Terry’s olive bread,” she told him. “It’s great. I went with cold caffeine.”

“That does the job. Thanks.”

“No problem. And it’s nice to have company on a break.” She sat again. “What are you working on?”

“I’m juggling a few things.” He bit into the bread. “You’re right. It’s great.”

“Aunt Terry’s secret recipe. You said you had a job near here?”

“A couple. The one I’m heading to’s a never-ending. The client started out two years ago wanting a kitchen remodel, which moved into a complete reno of the master bath, which now includes a Japanese soaking tub, a sunken whirlpool, and a steam shower big enough for six friends.”

She wiggled her brows over those gorgeous eyes, then took a bite of pasta. “Fancy.”

“I kept waiting for her to ask if we could extend the addition a little more for the lap pool. But she turned her focus outside. She decided she wants a summer kitchen by the pool. She saw one in a magazine. She can’t live without it.”

“How does anyone?”

He smiled and ate. “She’s twenty-six. Her husband’s fifty-eight, rolling in it and happy to indulge her every whim. She has a lot of whim.”

“I’m sure he loves her, and if he can afford it, why not make her happy?”

Jack merely shrugged. “Fine by me. It keeps me in beer and nachos.”

“You’re cynical.” She pointed at him with her fork before she stabbed more pasta. “You see her as the bimbo trophy wife and him as the middle-aged dumbass.”

“I bet his first wife does, but I see them as clients.”

“I don’t think age should factor into love or marriage. It’s about the two people in it, and how they feel about each other. Maybe she makes him feel young and vital, and opened something new inside him. If it was just sex, why marry her?”

“I’ll just say a woman who looks like she does has great powers of persuasion.”

“That may be, but we’ve done a lot of weddings here where there’s been a significant age difference.”

He wagged his fork, then stabbed more pasta in a mirror of her move. “A wedding isn’t a marriage.”

She sat back, drummed her fingers. “Okay, you’re right. But a wedding’s a prelude, it’s the symbolic and ritualistic beginning of the marriage, so—”

“They got married in Vegas.”

He continued to eat, face bland as he watched her try not to laugh.

“Many people get married in Vegas. That doesn’t mean they won’t have many happy and fulfilling years together.”

“By a transvestite Elvis impersonator.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up. But even if you’re not, that kind of . . . choice shows a sense of humor and fun, which, I happen to believe, are important elements for a successful marriage.”

“Good save. Great pasta.” He glanced over to where Parker sat with potential clients on the main terrace. “Business seems to be clicking along.”

“Five events this week on-site, and a bridal shower we coordinated off-site.”

“Yeah, I’ll be here for the one Saturday evening.”

“Friend of Bride or Groom?”

“Groom. The bride’s a monster.”

“God, she really is.” Emma leaned back and laughed. “She brought me a picture of her best friend’s bouquet. Not because she wanted me to duplicate it, which she certainly did not. Hers is a completely different style, but she’d counted the roses, and told me she wanted at least one more in hers—and warned me she’d be counting them.”

“She will, too. And I can pretty much guarantee no matter how good a job you do, she’ll find fault.”

“Yeah, we’ve figured that out. It’s part of the job around here. You get monsters and angels and everything in between. But I don’t have to think about her today. Today’s a happy day.”

He knew she meant it. She looked relaxed, and had a glow about her. Then again, she usually did. “Because you have fifty bouquets to make?”

“That, and knowing the bride of fifty years is going to love them. Fifty years. Can you imagine?”

“I can’t imagine fifty years of anything.”

“That’s not true. You must imagine what you build lasting fifty years. Hopefully much longer.”

“Point,” he agreed. “But that’s building.”

“So’s marriage. It’s building lives. It takes work, care, maintenance. And our anniversary couple proves it can be done. And now I have to get back to them. Break’s over for me.”

“Me, too. I’ll get this for you.” He loaded up the tray, lifted it as they rose. “You’re working alone today? Where are your elves?”

“They’ll be here tomorrow. And there will be chaos as we start on the flowers for the weekend events. Today it’s just me, about three thousand roses, and blissful quiet.” She opened the door for him.

“Three
thousand
? Are you serious? Your fingers will fall off.”

“I have very strong fingers. And if I need it, one of the pals will come by for a couple hours and help strip stems.”

He set the tray on her kitchen counter, thinking, as he always did, that her place smelled like a meadow. “Good luck with that. Thanks for lunch.”

“You’re welcome.” She walked him to the door where he stopped.

“What about your car?”

“Oh. Parker gave me the name of a mechanic, a place. Kavanaugh’s. I’m going to call.”

“He’s good. Call soon. I’ll see you Saturday.”

He imagined her going back to her roses as he walked to his car. Of sitting, for hours, drenched in their scent, cleaning stems of thorns then . . . doing whatever it was she did, he decided, to make what women who took the plunge carried.

And he thought of how she’d looked when he’d come upon her, sitting in the sunlight, face tipped up, eyes closed, those luscious lips of hers just slightly curved as if she dreamed of something very pleasant. All that hair bundled up and slim dangles of silver at her ears.

He’d thought, briefly but actively, about just leaning down and taking that mouth with his. He could’ve played it light, made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. She had a sense of humor, so maybe she’d have gotten a kick out of it.

She also had a temper, he mused. She didn’t cut it loose often, but she had one.

It didn’t matter either way, he reminded himself, as he’d missed that opportunity. The bevy of blondes and redheads was a better idea than scratching this increasingly annoying itch where Emma was concerned.

Friends were friends, lovers were lovers. You could make a friend out of a lover, but you were on boggy ground when you made a lover out of a friend.

He was nearly to the job site when he realized he’d left his jacket on her patio.

“Shit.
Shit
.”

Now he was like one of those idiots who deliberately left something at a woman’s place so he had an excuse to go back and try to score. And that wasn’t it.

Was it?

Shit. Maybe it was.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
T TWO FIFTEEN ON SATURDAY, EMMA HAD HER TROOPS LINED up to transform the event rooms from the cheerful Caribbean themed daytime wedding into what she privately thought of as the Paris Explodes event.

“Everything goes.” Emma rolled to the toes of her move fast sneakers. “The bride wants all the remaining baskets, vases, centerpieces. We’ll help them load up whatever hasn’t already been given to guests. Beach and Tiffany, strip the garlands and swags, inside and out. Start with the portico, then move inside. Tink, you and I will start the changeover in the Grand Hall. When the portico’s ready to be dressed, let me know. The bride’s and groom’s suites have already been changed over. New bride’s due at three thirty for hair, makeup, dressing, and photos in her suite. We need the entrance, foyer, staircase complete by three twenty, and the Grand Hall complete by four. Terraces, pergola, and patios by four forty-five, Ballroom complete by five forty five. If you need extra hands get me or Parker. Let’s do this.”

With Tink beside her, Emma shot off like a bullet. Tink, she knew, was reliable when she wanted to be—which was about seventy-five percent of the time. But Emma only had to show her or explain something to her once. She was a talented florist, again when she wanted to be. And was, to Emma’s mind, almost spookily strong.

Tiny and toned, her wildly chopped boot-black hair liberally streaked with cotton-candy pink for spring, Tink attacked the mantel dressing like a whirlwind.

They stripped, boxed, dragged, hefted, and hauled candles of mango orange and surf white, garlands of bougainvillaea, pots of ferns and palm trees.

Tink snapped the gum she was never without and wrinkled her nose so the silver hoop in it glinted. “If you’re going to want palm trees and shit, why don’t you just go to the beach?”

“If they did, we wouldn’t get paid to create the beach.”

“Good point.”

When she got the signal, Emma deserted the hall for the portico. She twined and draped and swagged miles of white tulle, acres of white roses to create a regal entryway for the bride and her guests. Colorful pots of hibiscus and orchids made way for enormous white urns filled with a forest of lilacs.

“Bride and Groom One and all guests checked out,” Parker told her. She stood in her simple gray suit, her BlackBerry in one hand, her beeper hooked to her pocket, and her earbud dangling. “My God, Emma, this looks amazing.”

“Yeah, it’s coming along. She balked on the lilacs—too simple a flower, according to Monster Bride, but I found a picture that convinced her.” She stepped back, nodded. “Okay, yeah. Excellent.”

“She’s due in twenty.”

“We’ll make it.”

Emma hustled inside to where Tink and Tiffany worked on the staircase. More tulle, more white roses, these twined with fairy lights, with long swags of roses dripping down every ten inches. Perfect.

“Okay, Beach, entry and gift table arrangements. We can haul over the first of the Grand Hall pieces, too.”

“I can get you Carter.” Parker tapped her beeper. “I drafted him to help in the Ballroom, but I can spare him.”

“Handy to have Mac hooked with a strong, willing back. I’ll take him.”

With the gangly Carter and her fireplug Beach, Emma transported pots, vases, baskets, greenery, garland, swags, and candles.

“MB’s pulling in.” Parker’s voice sounded through Emma’s headset and made her snort. Monster Bride.

She put the finishing touches on the mantel, lush with white and silver candles, white roses, and lavender lisianthus, before making the dash to wade into the outdoor arrangements.

She set more lilacs in more urns, muscled enormous silver baskets filled with calla lilies in eggplant and snowy white, hung cones of flowers dripping with silver ribbon on the white-draped aisle chairs, and guzzled water like a dying woman.

“Man, is this the best you can do?”

Rubbing the aching small of her back, Emma turned to Jack.

He stood, hands in the pockets of a gorgeous gray suit jacket, eyes shaded against the beaming sunlight by Oakleys.

“Well, she wanted simple.”

He laughed, shook his head. “It looks amazing, and somehow elaborately French.”

“Yes.” She pointed a finger at him. “Exactly my plan. Wait!” Panic leaped in her chest like a terrier after a bone. “What are you doing here? What time is it? We can’t be that far behind. Parker would—” She broke off as she checked her watch. “Oh, thank God. You’re really early.”