Bride Quartet Collection (33 page)

“I think what Em’s saying is: Sign me up.” Mac popped another grape. “I say ditto.”

“I’m right there,” Laurel added. “Is there any reason to change anything?” she asked Parker.

“Not from my perspective, but as Del advised—in his legal function—each of you should read over the agreement again, and voice any reservations, make any suggestions before we renew.”

“I suggest we have Del draw up the papers, sign them, then open a bottle of Dom.”

Mac pointed at Emma in agreement. “Seconded.”

“And the ‘ayes’ have it,” Laurel announced.

“I’ll let him know. I’ve also had a discussion with our accountant.”

“Better you than me,” Laurel said.

“Much better.” Parker smiled and sipped some water. “We’ve had a strong first quarter, and are on track to increase our net profit by about twelve percent over last year. I’m advised we should consider rolling a portion of the net back into the business. So, if any or all of you have a need, whim, or selfish desire for additional equipment, or ideas on what Vows could use as a whole, we can work out what we should spend our money on, and how much we should spend.”

Emma shot her hand up before anyone could speak. “I’ve been thinking about this, especially after I looked at my books for the last quarter. We have our biggest event, to date, next spring with the Seaman wedding. The flowers alone are going to outstrip the capacity of my cooler, so we’ll need to rent another for several days. I may be able to find a used one for a cost that could make it more practical, in the long term, than renting.”

“That’s good.” Parker made a note. “Get some prices.”

“This may be the time,” Emma continued, “considering that event, and the increase we’re seeing in business, to buy some of the other equipment we usually rent. The additional outdoor seating, for instance. Then, when we do an outside event,
we
rent it to the client and pocket the fee. And—”

“You really have been thinking,” Mac commented.

“I really have. Since Mac’s already planning to add on to her place, increasing the upstairs living area to accommodate true love, why not add on to the work space, the studio space at the same time? She needs more storage space, a real dressing room instead of the little powder room. And while I’m rolling, the mudroom off Laurel’s kitchen is really redundant, as we have one off the main kitchen. If that was converted, she could have an auxiliary kitchen in there, another oven, another cooler, more storage.”

“We’ll just let Emma do the talking,” Laurel put in.

“And Parker needs a computerized security system so she can monitor all the public areas of the house.”

Parker waited a beat. “I think you’ve spent that net profit increase several times.”

“Spending money’s the fun part of earning it. You be Parker, and that’ll keep us from going wild. But I really think we ought to do at least some of those things, and put the others on the list for as soon as possible down the road.”

“Being Parker then, I’ll say the cooler makes sense. See what you can find. Since we’d need to talk to Jack on how to work the cooler into your space, we can ask him to give us an idea how to add on to Mac’s studio, and refit the mudroom.”

She made more notes as she spoke. “I’d thought of the furniture buy already, and I’ve started researching the cost there. I’ll get projections so we know where we stand on all of this, then we can decide which makes the most sense first.”

Nodding, she flipped over to the next order of business.

“Now, upcoming events that will help pay for our hopes and dreams. The commitment ceremony. They got their vows and the script for the ceremony to me today. Friday evening ceremony with, after a coin toss, Allison, now known as Bride One, arriving at three thirty, and Marlene, now Bride Two, at four. Bride One takes Bridal Suite, Bride Two Groom’s Suite. As they share a MOH, she’s going to float between the suites. Bride One’s brother is BM, so we’ll use the second floor family parlor for him, and the FOBs, as needed. BM will stand on B-One’s side during the ceremony, MOH on B-Two’s.”

“Wait.” Mac held up a finger as she keyed the details into her laptop. “Okay.”

“These ladies know exactly what they want and stick to a plan, so they’ve been extremely easy to deal with on my end. MOB-One and siblings of B-Two aren’t particularly happy with the formalization of this relationship, but are cooperating. Mac, you may have to work to get the shots the clients hope for that include them.”

“No problem.”

“Good. Emma, flowers?”

“They wanted unconventional, but feminine. Neither wanted to carry a bouquet, so we’ve gone with a headpiece for Allison and flower combs for Marlene. A halo for the MOH who’ll carry four white roses. They’ll exchange single white roses during the ceremony, right after the lighting of the unity candle. And each will give her mother a rose. White rose boutonnieres for the men. It should be very pretty.”

Emma scrolled over to arrangements as she sipped her Diet Coke. “They wanted an airy, meadowy look for arrangements and centerpieces. I’m using a lot of baby’s breath and painted daisies, Shastas and gerberas, branches of blooming cherry, wild strawberries, and so on. Minimal tulle, and garlands I’m doing like daisy chains. Bud vases for the roses during the reception.

“A lot of fairy lights and candles, Grand Hall and Ballroom, with a continuation of the natural look for arrangements. It’ll be simple and very sweet, I think. If one of you can help me transport, I can do the setup solo.”

“I can do that,” Laurel told her. “The cake’s the vanilla sponge with raspberry mousse filling, topped with Italian meringue. They wanted simple flowers there, too, echoing Emma’s. I don’t need to add those to the cake until around five, so I’m clear for setup. Otherwise, they want assorted cookies and pastel mints.”

“We have the standard Friday night itinerary,” Parker added, “excluding bouquet and garter toss. Rehearsal Thursday afternoon, so if there are any glitches, we’ll deal with them then. Saturday,” she began.

W
HENEVER EMMA THOUGHT OF HER PARENTS, HOW THEY MET, fell in love, it ran through her mind like a fairy tale.

Once upon a time there was a young woman from Guadala jara who traveled across the continent to the great city of New York to work in the business of her uncle, to tend the homes and children of people who needed or wanted their homes and children tended. But Lucia longed for other things, a pretty home instead of a noisy apartment, trees and flowers instead of pavement. She worked hard, and dreamed of one day having her own place, a little shop perhaps, where she would sell pretty things.

One day her uncle told her of a man he knew who lived miles away in a place called Connecticut. The man had lost his wife, and so his young son had no mother. The man had left the city for a quieter life—and, perhaps, Lucia thought, because the memories were too painful in the home he’d shared with his wife. Because he wrote books, he needed a quiet place, and because he often traveled, he needed someone he could trust with his little boy. The woman who had done these things for the three years since the sad death of his wife wished to move back to New York.

So Lucia took a great leap, and moved out of the city and into the grand house of Phillip Grant and his son, Aaron.

The man was handsome as a prince, and she saw he loved his son. But there was a sorrow in his eyes that touched her heart. The child had had so many changes in his short four years, she understood his shyness with her. She cooked their meals and tended the house, and looked after Aaron while the man wrote his book.

She fell in love with the boy, and he with her. He was not always good, but Lucia would have been sad if he had been. In the evenings, she and Phillip would often talk about Aaron, or books, or ordinary things. She would miss the talks—she would miss him—when he went away for business.

There were times when she looked out the window to watch Phillip play with Aaron, and her heart yearned.

She didn’t know he often did the same. For he’d fallen in love with her, as she had with him. He was afraid to tell her, lest she leave them. And she feared to tell him in case he sent her away.

But one day, in the spring, under the arching blooms of a cherry tree while the little boy they both loved played on the swing, Phillip took Lucia’s hand in his. And kissed her.

When the leaves of the trees turned vivid with autumn, they were married. And lived happily ever after.

Was it any wonder, Emma thought as she pulled her van into the crowded double drive of her parents’ home on Sunday evening, that she was a born romantic? How could anyone grow up with that story, with those people, and not want some of the same for herself?

Her parents had loved each other for thirty-five years, had raised four children in the sprawling old Victorian. They’d built a good life there, a solid and enduring one.

She had no intention of settling for less for herself.

She got the arrangement she’d made out of the van, and hurried across the walk for the family dinner. She was late, she thought, but she’d warned them she would be. Cradling the vase in the crook of her arm, she pushed open the door and walked into a house saturated with the color her mother couldn’t live without.

And as she hurried back toward the dining room, she moved into the noise as colorful as the paints and fabrics.

The big table held her parents, her two brothers, her sister, her sisters-in-law, her brother-in-law, her nieces and nephews—and enough food to feed the small army they made.

“Mama.” She went to Lucia first, kissed her cheek before setting the flowers on the buffet and rounding the table to kiss Phillip. “Papa.”

“
Now
it’s family dinner.” Lucia’s voice still held the heat and music of Mexico. “Sit before all the little piggies eat all the food.”

Emma’s oldest nephew made oinking noises and grinned as she took her seat beside him. She took the platter Aaron passed her. “I’m starving.” She nodded, gestured a go-ahead as her brother Matthew lifted a bottle of wine. “Everybody talk so I can catch up.”

“Big news first.” Across the table her sister, Celia, took her husband’s hand. Before she could speak, Lucia let out a happy cry.

“You’re pregnant!”

Celia laughed. “So much for surprises. Rob and I are expecting number three—and the absolute final addition—in November.”

Congratulations erupted, and the youngest member of the family banged her spoon enthusiastically on her high chair as Lucia leaped up to embrace her daughter and her son-in-law. “Oh, there’s no happier news than a baby. Phillip, we’re having another baby.”

“Careful. The last time you told me that, Emmaline came along nine months later.”

With a laugh, Lucia went over to wrap her arms around his neck from behind, press her cheek to his. “Now the children do all the hard work, and we just get to play.”

“Em hasn’t done her part yet,” Matthew pointed out and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“She’s waiting for a man as handsome as her father, and not so annoying as her brother.” Lucia sent Matthew an arch look. “They don’t grow on trees.”

Emma smirked at her brother and cut her first sliver of roast pork. “And I’m still touring the orchards,” she said sweetly.

She lingered after the others to take a walk around the gardens with her father. She’d learned about flowers and plants, had come to love them under his guidance.

“How’s the book going?” she asked him.

“Crap.”

She laughed. “So you always say.”

“Because it’s always true at this stage.” He wrapped an arm around her waist as they walked. “But family dinners and digging in the dirt help me put the crap aside awhile. Then it’s never quite as bad as I thought when I get back to it. And how are you, pretty girl?”

“Good. Really good. We stay busy. We had a meeting earlier in the week because profits are up, and all I could think was how lucky we are—I am—doing work we love, being able to do it with the best friends I’ve ever had. You and Mama always said to find what we loved, and we’d work well and happily. I did.”

She turned as her mother crossed the lawn carrying a jacket. “It’s chilly, Phillip. Do you want to catch cold so I have to listen to you complain?”

“You uncovered my plan.” He let his wife bundle him into the jacket.

“I saw Pam yesterday,” she spoke of Carter’s mother. “She’s so excited about the wedding. It’s lovely for me, too, having two of my favorite people fall in love. Pam was a good friend to me, always, and a champion when some were scandalized your father would marry the help.”

“They didn’t see how clever I was to get all the labor for free.”

“The practical Yankee.” Lucia snuggled up against his side. “Such a slave driver.”

Look at them, Emma thought. How perfectly they fit. “Jack told me the other day you were the most beautiful woman ever created, and he’s waiting to run off with you.”

“Remind me to beat him up the next time I see him,” Phillip said.

“He’s the most charming flirt. Maybe I’ll make you fight for me.” Lucia tipped her face up to Phillip’s.

“How about a foot rub instead?”

“We have a deal. Emmaline, when you find a man who gives you a good foot rub, look closely. Many flaws are outweighed by that single skill.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Meanwhile, I should go.” She opened her arms to embrace them both. “Love you.”

Emma glanced back as she walked away, and watched her father take her mother’s hand under the arching branches of the cherry tree with its blooms still tightly closed.

And kiss her.

No, she thought, it was no wonder she was a born romantic. No wonder she wanted that, some part of that, for her own.

She got in the van and thought about the kiss on the back stairs.

Maybe it was only flirtation or curiosity. Maybe it was just chemistry. But she’d be damned if she’d pretend it didn’t happen. Or let him pretend.

It was time to deal with it.

CHAPTER SIX

I
N HIS OFFICE ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE OLD TOWNHOUSE he’d remodeled, Jack refined a concept on his computer. He considered the addition to Mac’s studio after-hours work, and since neither she nor Carter were in any particular hurry, he could fiddle, reimagine, and revise the overall structure and every fussy detail.

Now that Parker wanted a second concept to include additions on both the first and second floors, he needed to revisualize not only the details and design, but the entire flow. It was smarter, in his opinion, to do it all at once, even if it did mean scrapping his original concept.

He toyed with lines and flow, the play of light as part of the increased space that would remain studio. With refitting the current powder room and storage and increasing the square footage of both, he could widen the bath, add a shower—something he thought they’d appreciate down the road—give Mac the client dressing area she wanted, and double her current storage space.

Carter’s study on the second floor . . .

He sat back, guzzled some water, and tried to think like an English professor. What would his wants and needs be for work space? Efficiency, and a traditional bent—it being Carter. Built-ins along the wall for books. Make that two walls.

Breakfronts, he decided, shifting in his own U-shaped work space to try a quick hand sketch. Cabinets beneath for holding office supplies, student files.

Nothing slick, nothing sleek. Not Carter.

Dark wood, he thought, an Old English look. But generous windows to match the rest of the building. Angle the roof to break up the lines. A couple of skylights. Frame out this wall to form an alcove. Add interest, create a sitting area.

A place a guy could escape to when his wife was pissed at him, or when he just wanted an afternoon nap.

Put an atrium door here, and add a terrace—small scale. Maybe a guy wanted a brandy and cigar. It could happen.

He paused a moment, tuned back in to the game he had on the flat-screen to his left. While his thoughts brewed in the back of his mind, he watched the Phillies strike out the Red Sox in order.

That sucked.

He turned back to the drawing. And thought: Emma.

Cursing, he tunneled a hand through his hair. He’d been doing a damn good job of not letting her in. He was good at compartmentalizing. Work, ball game, the occasional toggle over to check other scores. Emma was in another compartment, and that one was supposed to stay shut.

He didn’t want to think about her. It did no good to think about her. He’d made a mistake, obviously, but it wasn’t earth-shattering. He’d kissed the girl, that’s all.

A hell of a kiss, he thought now. Still, just one of those things, just one of those moments. A few more days to let the reverberations die down, and things could get back to normal.

She wasn’t the type of woman to hold it against him.

Besides, she’d been right there with him. He scowled, guzzled more water. Yeah, damn right she had. So what was she all bent out of shape about?

They were grown ups; they’d kissed each other. End of story.

If she was waiting for him to apologize, she could keep waiting. She’d just have to deal with it—and him. He and Del were tight, and he was friends, good friends, with the other members of the Quartet. Added to it, with the remodeling Parker was talking about, he’d be spending more time on the estate for the next several months.

He dragged his hand through his hair again. Okay, that being the case, they’d both have to deal with it.

“Hell.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, then ordered himself to push his brain back into work. Frowning, he studied the bare bones of his design. Then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.”

If he canted the whole thing, angled it, cantilevering the study, he’d create a back patio area, partially covered. It would give them the outdoor living space they lacked, privacy, a potential little garden area or shrubbery. Emma would have ideas on that.

It would add interest to the shape and lines of the building, and increase usable space without significantly adding on to the cost of the build.

“You’re a genius, Cooke.”

As he began to plot it out, someone knocked on the back door.

Mind still on the drawing, he rose to walk through the main living area of his quarters over his firm. And assuming it was Del or one of his other friends—and hoping they brought their own beer—he opened the door that led into his kitchen.

She stood in the glimmer of porch light and smelled like moonlit meadows.

“Emma.”

“I want to talk to you.” She breezed right by him, tossed her hair back, pivoted. “Are you alone?”

“Ah . . . yeah.”

“Good. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Give me a context.”

“Don’t try to be funny. I’m not in the mood for funny. You go flirty on me, jumping my car, rubbing my shoulders, eating my pasta, lending me your jacket, and then—”

“I guess I could’ve just waved as I passed you on the side of the road. Or let you shiver until you turned blue. And I was hungry.”

“It’s all of a piece.” She snapped it out then strode through the kitchen into his wide hallway with her hands waving in the air. “And you conveniently left out the shoulder rubbing and the ‘and then.’ ”

He saw no choice but to tag after her. “You looked stressed and knotted up. You were okay with it at the time.”

Spinning around, she narrowed those brown velvet eyes. “And then?”

“Okay, there was an ‘and then.’ You were there, I was there, so ‘and then.’ It’s not like I jumped you or you tried to fight me off. We just . . .”
Kissed
suddenly sounded too important. “Locked lips for a minute.”

“Locked lips. Are you twelve? You kissed me.”

“We kissed each other.”

“You started it.”

He smiled. “Are you twelve?”

She made a low hissing sound that had the back of his neck prickling. “You made the move, Jack.
You
brought me wine,
you
got all cozy on the stairs, rubbing my shoulders.
You
kissed me.”

“Guilty, all counts. You kissed me right back. Then you went tearing off like I’d drawn blood.”

“Parker beeped me. I was
working
. You poofed. And you’ve stayed poofed since.”

“Poofed? I left. You ran off like the hounds of hell were on your heels, and Whitney irritates the shit out of me. So I left. And, strangely, I have a job—just like you—and I’ve spent the last week working. Not poofing. Jesus, I can’t believe I said poofing.” He had to drag in a breath. “Look, let’s sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down. I’m too mad to sit down. You don’t just do that then walk away.”

Since she pointed an accusatory finger at him, he pointed right back. “You walked away.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Beeper, Parker, work.” She threw her hands in the air again. “I didn’t
go
anywhere. I just left because the MBB decided she had to inspect the tossing bouquet before she’d deign to toss it, and insisted it had to be right then and there. She irritates the shit out of everyone, but I didn’t just leave.”

She gave him a little shove, palm to chest. “You did. It was rude.”

“God. Are you going to scold me now? Wait, you already are. I kissed you. I confess. You have that mouth, and I wanted it—was pretty clear about that.” His eyes sparked, storm clouds full of thunder and electric light. “You didn’t scream for help so I took it. Hang me.”

“It’s not about the kiss. It is, but it isn’t. It’s about the why and the after that and the what.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“Yes! I’m entitled to some sort of reasonable answer.”

“Where, you forgot where, so I’ll insert that one. Where is the reasonable question? Find it, and I’ll do what I can with a reasonable answer. Thereto.”

She smoldered. He hadn’t known a woman could actually smolder. God, it was sexy.

“If you can’t discuss this like an adult, then—”

“Screw it.”

If he was going to be damned for it once, he might as well be damned for it twice. He grabbed her, jerking her forward and up to her toes. The sound she made might have been the beginning of what, or why, but before she could finish the word he plundered her mouth. He used his teeth, one quick, impatient bite, that had her lips parting in surprise or response. He wasn’t in the mood to care which, not when his tongue found hers, not when the taste of her sizzled along his senses like a wire in the blood.

His hands tangled in the wild glory of her hair, tugging so her head dipped back.

Stop. She meant to say it. She meant to do it. But it was like being drenched in summer. In the heat and the wet. Every sensible thought melted away as her body leaped from temper to shock to fevered response.

When he lifted his head, said her name, she only shook her head and dragged him back.

For one wild moment his hands were everywhere, inciting, igniting, until she could barely get her breath.

“Let me—” He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt.

“Okay.” She’d let him do pretty much anything.

When his hand covered her racing heart, she pulled him to the floor.

Smooth flesh, hard muscle, and a mouth mad with hunger. She arched under him, rolled over him. Yanked his T-shirt up and away to scrape her teeth over his chest. With a groan, he dragged her back up to ravish her mouth, her throat, with a frenzied desperation that matched the rush of hers.

Half mad, he flipped her onto her back, ready to rip her clothes away. Her elbow smacked the floor with a sound like a gunshot. Stars burst in front of her eyes.

“Oh! God!”

“What? Emma. Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry. Let me see.”

“No. Wait.” Dazed, tingling, and not a little stupefied, she managed to sit up. “Funny bone. Ha-ha. Oh, God,” she said again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Here.” He started to rub her forearm to help with the needles and pins he imagined were stabbing her, and struggling to steady his breathing, wheezed.

“You’re laughing.”

“No. No. I’m too overcome with lust and passion to draw a clear breath.”

“You’re laughing.” She jabbed him in the chest with the index finger of her good arm.

“No. I’m fighting manfully not to.” Which was, he mused, likely the first time he’d done so while sporting a massive hard-on. “Is it better? Any better?” he asked, and made the mistake of looking over, and into her eyes.

The laugh sparkled in them, like gold over brown. He lost the fight, simply collapsed and gave in to the belly laugh. “Really sorry.”

“Why? When you showed such exquisite finesse.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say. You’re the one who headed for the floor when I’ve got a perfectly good couch ten feet away, and a damn fine bed up those stairs. But no, you can’t control yourself long enough to let me get us to a soft surface.”

“Only a wimp requires a soft surface for sex.”

He shifted his gaze over with a slow, hot smile. “I ain’t no wimp, sister.” He sat up. “Let’s try take two.”

“Wait.” She slapped a hand on his chest. “Mmm, nice pecs, by the way. But wait.” Lifting her still tingling arm she pushed back her hair. “Jack, what are we doing?”

“If I have to explain it, I’m doing it wrong.”

“No, really. I mean . . .” She glanced down at her open shirt, and the lacy white bra perkily peeking out. “Look at us. Look at me.”

“Believe me, I was. Am. Want to keep doing that. You have this seriously crazy body. I just want to—”

“Yes, I get that. Back at you, but, Jack, we can’t just . . . We got off the track here.”

“Down the track, heading for home, from my viewpoint. Give me five minutes to mesh viewpoints. One. Give me one.”

“It would probably take under thirty seconds. But no,” she added when he grinned. “Really. We can’t just do this, like this. Or at all. Maybe.” Everything inside her hitched and sparked and
wanted
.

“I’m not sure. We need to think, muse, mull, maybe ponder and brood. Jack, we’re friends.”

“I’m feeling pretty damn friendly.”

Her eyes went soft as she reached out to lay her hand on his cheek. “We’re friends.”

“We are.”

“More, we have friends who are friends. So many connections. So as much as I’d like to say ‘what the hell, let’s try out that couch, then the bed and maybe take round three on the floor—’ ”

“Emmaline.” His eyes were deep, dark smoke. “You’re killing me.”

“Sex isn’t a kiss on the back stairs. Even a really great kiss on the back stairs. So we have to think and so on before we decide. I refuse to not be friends with you, Jack, just because right now I really want you naked. You’re important.”

He heaved a sigh. “I wish you hadn’t said that. You’re important. You always have been.”

“Then let’s take a little time and think this through.” She eased back and began to button her shirt.

“You don’t know how sorry I am to see you do that.”

“Yes, I do. About as sorry as I am to do it. Don’t get up,” she said, and got to her feet, picked up the purse she’d dropped when he’d grabbed her. “If it’s any consolation, I’m going to have a miserable night thinking about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t stopped to think.”