Bride Quartet Collection (48 page)

“I can’t think of why it wouldn’t be. You and Jack have been friends for years, and now you’re . . .”

“Yes, we are,” Emma said, deliberately bright. “Second problem? The two planters I bought weigh about fifty pounds each.”

“Chip’s in the back. I’ll send him out.”

“Thanks, Michelle,” Emma said as she took the keys. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She closed her hand around the keys as she started around to the back again. No point, she told herself, in feeling embarrassed. No point in feeling slighted that the man she’d been sleeping with for nearly three months—and had known for more than a decade—hadn’t bothered to give her a key.

It wasn’t symbolic, for God’s sake. He wasn’t locking her out. He was just . . .

It didn’t matter. She would forge ahead with her plans for the evening. Give him flowers, cook him dinner, and tell him she loved him.

And, damn it, she was going to ask for a key.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

S
HE SPENT A HAPPY HOUR PUTTING AWAY GROCERIES, ARRANGING the sunflowers she’d brought from her stock for his kitchen counter, then prepping the planters.

She’d been right, she thought, about how perfect they’d be flanking the door. Deep, bold spots of color, she decided as she tucked red salvia behind purple heliotrope. The combination of plants she’d chosen would give him color and bloom all season, and be even showier when the lobelia spilled and the sweet alys sum foamed over the lip.

A nice welcome home, she thought, every time he walked up the stairs. And, she thought with a little smile, a living reminder of the woman who’d laid out that welcome.

Sitting back on her heels, she studied the result. “Gorgeous, if I do say so myself.”

After stacking the empty pots and cell packs, she shifted to duplicate the arrangement in the second urn.

She wondered if he had a watering can, then decided probably not. She should’ve thought of that, but they’d make do until he got one. Happy to have her hands in dirt, she hummed along with the radio she’d switched on. His front entrance planters needed more zip, she mused as she worked. She’d try to pick up a few more things in the next week or so.

When she’d finished, she swept up the spilled dirt, then carried the plastic trays and pots, her gardening tools down to her car. Brushing off her hands she looked up to admire the work.

Flowers, she’d always thought, were an essential element of home. Now he had them. And, she’d always believed, flowers planted with love bloomed more beautifully. If true, these would be spectacular right up to the first hard frost.

When she checked the time, she dashed back up the stairs. She needed to wash up and start on dinner, especially since she’d decided to add an appetizer to the menu.

D
IRTY, SWEATY, AND STILL PISSED OFF DUE TO THE DISAPPEARING plumber and a rookie building inspector with an attitude, Jack turned toward the rear of his offices.

He wanted a shower, a beer, maybe a handful of aspirin. If the general contractor wasn’t going to fire the asshole plumber—who also happened to be his brother-in-law—then
he
could explain the delay to the client. And
he
could take on the building inspector who decided to throw his weight around because a doorway was a damn seven-eighths of an inch off.

Okay, maybe the aspirin, the shower, then the drink.

Maybe that would smooth out a day that had begun with a call at six A.M. from a client with a tape measure who’d gone ballistic because the framing for his service bar came in at five feet eight inches instead of six feet.

Not that he blamed the client. He’d felt ballistic himself. Six feet on the plans meant six feet on the job, not whatever the sub decided would do.

And, Jack thought as he tried to roll the worst of the tension out of his shoulders, the day had just gone downhill from there. If he was going to put in a twelve-hour day, at least he wanted to finish up feeling he’d accomplished something instead of just riding around the goddamn county putting out fires.

He made the last turn, telling himself to be grateful he was home, where, since the office was now closed, nobody—please God—was going to ask him to fix anything, negotiate anything, or argue about anything.

When he spotted Emma’s car he struggled to think past the headache. Had he mixed things up? Had they planned to meet in town, go from there?

No, no, dinner, maybe a movie—which he’d intended to switch to carry-out, possibly a DVD, and that
after
he’d had a chance to cool off and settle down. Except he’d forgotten to call her about that as he’d been hip-deep in crises and complaints.

But if she was in town somewhere, he could just . . .

His mind switched gears as he noticed his back door open to the screen, and the pots of flowers beside it. He sat where he was a moment, then tossed his sunglasses on the dash. When he stepped out of the truck, he heard the music pouring through the screen door.

Where the hell did the plants come from? he wondered as fresh irritation banged against an already full-blown headache. And why the hell was his door open?

He wanted air-conditioning, a cool shower, and five damn minutes to shake off the worst of the day. Now he had flowers he’d have to remember to water, music blasting, and somebody who’d require attention and conversation in his house.

He trudged up the steps, scowled at the plants, pushed through the screen door.

And there she was, singing along with the radio—which was blasting through his aching head, cooking something on his stove when he’d set his system on take-out pizza, and his spare keys sat on the counter beside a vase of enormous sunflowers that made his eyes throb.

She shook the frying pan with one hand, reached for a glass of wine with the other—then saw him.

“Oh!” She laughed when her hand jerked on the handle of the pan. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Not surprising, as you’re entertaining the neighborhood with . . . Jesus, is that ABBA?”

“What? Oh, the music. It is loud.” She gave the pan another shake before adjusting the heat under it. With an easy side step, she picked up the remote, lowered the volume on the stereo. “Cooking music. I thought I’d surprise you with a ready-made meal. These scallops just need another minute. The sauce is already done, so you can have a little something right away. How about a glass of wine?”

“No. Thanks.” He reached over her head into the cabinet for a bottle of aspirin.

“Hard day.” In sympathy, she rubbed a hand down his arm as he fought open the bottle. “Michelle told me. Why don’t you sit down for a minute, get your bearings?”

“I’m filthy. I need a shower.”

“Well, you’re right about that.” She rose on her toes to brush a light kiss on his lips. “I’ll get you some ice water.”

“I can get it.” He moved past her to the refrigerator. “Michelle gave you the key?”

“She said you were stuck out on a job, and having a bad day. I had the food out in the car, so . . .” She shook the pan again, turned off the flame. “I’ve got a flank steak marinating. Red meat ought to help your headache. You can just clean up and relax. Or I can hold dinner awhile if you want to stretch out until you feel better.”

“What is all this, Emma?” Even at the lower volume, the music scraped against his nerves. He grabbed the remote, turned it off. “Did you haul those pots up here?”

“Chip did the heavy work. I had the best time picking out the urns, the plants.” She sprinkled the scallops with a mixture of cilantro, garlic, and lime, poured on the sauce she’d prepared. “They really pop against the house, don’t they? I wanted to do something to thank you for New York, and when inspiration hit, I juggled a few things and hit the road.”

She set the empty bowl in the sink, turned. Her smile faded. “And I miscalculated, didn’t I?”

“It’s been a lousy day, that’s all.”

“Which I’ve added to, clearly.”

“Yes. No.” He pressed his fingers to the drill trying to bore through his temple. “It’s been a bad day. I just need to smooth out some. You should’ve called if you wanted to . . . do this.”

Without thinking, out of sheer habit, he picked up the spare keys and shoved them in his pocket.

He might as well have slapped her.

“Don’t worry, Jack, I didn’t hang anything of mine in a closet, put anything in a drawer. My toothbrush is still in my bag.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My trespassing only went as far as the kitchen, and it won’t happen again. I didn’t run out and make a copy of your precious keys, and I hope you won’t give Michelle any grief for giving them to me.”

“Give me a small break, Emma.”

“Give
you
a break? Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have to tell her I didn’t have a key? To know we’ve been sleeping together since April and I can’t be trusted.”

“It has nothing to do with trust. I just never—”

“Bullshit, Jack. Just bullshit. Every time I stay here—which is very rare because it’s
your
space, I have to make sure I don’t leave so much as a stray hairpin behind because, dear God, what’s next? An actual hairbrush? A shirt? Before you know it I’ll actually feel welcome here.”

“You are welcome here. Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Too bad, because I want to fight with you. You’re irritated because I’m here, because I invaded your space, made myself at home. And that tells me I’m wasting my time, I’m wasting my feelings, because I deserve better than that.”

“Look, Emma, all this just caught me at a bad time.”

“It’s not the time, Jack, not just the time. It’s always. You don’t let me in here because that’s too close to a commitment for you.”

“Jesus, Emma, I am committed. There’s no one else. There hasn’t been anyone else since I touched you.”

“It’s not about someone else. It’s about you and me. It’s about wanting me, but only on your terms, on your—your blueprint,” she said waving her hands in the air. “As long as we stick to that, no problem. But that’s not going to work for me anymore. It’s not going to work when I can’t pick up a quart of milk for you or leave a damn lipstick on your bathroom counter. Or give you some damn plants without pissing you off.”

“Milk? What milk? Jesus Christ, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not going to work when cooking you a fucking meal is like a criminal act.” She snatched up the plate of scallops, tossed it into the sink with a crash of stoneware.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t enough.” She whirled, shoved him back with both hands as tears of anger and heartbreak clouded her eyes, thickened her voice. “And I’m not going to settle for what isn’t enough. I’m in love with you, and I want you to love me. I want a life with you. Marriage and babies and a
future
. So this? This isn’t enough, not nearly. It turns out you were right, Jack. Absolutely right. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

“What? How? Wait.”

“But don’t worry, no need to run for the hills. I’m responsible for my own feelings, my own needs, my own choices. And I’m done here. I’m done with this.”

“Hold it.” He wondered his head didn’t explode. Maybe it already had. “Wait a damn minute so I can think.”

“Time’s up, thinking’s over. Don’t touch me now,” she warned when he started toward her. “Don’t even think about putting a hand on me. You had your chance. I’d have given you everything I had. If you’d needed more, I’d have found it, and given you that. It’s the way I love. It’s the only way I know how. But I can’t give where it’s not wanted and valued. Where I’m not.”

“Be pissed off.” He snapped it out. “Break dishes. But don’t stand there and tell me I don’t want you, don’t value you.”

“Not the way I want or need. And trying not to want, Jack? Trying not to love you the only way I know how to love? It’s breaking my heart.” She grabbed her bag. “Stay away from me.”

He slapped a hand on the screen door to stop her. “I want you to sit down. You’re not the only one with things to say.”

“I don’t care what you want. I’m done caring. I said stay away from me.”

She looked up at him then. It wasn’t temper or heat in her eyes. Those he would’ve ignored until they’d burned this out. But he had no power against her pain.

“Emma. Please.”

She only shook her head, and, pushing past him, ran to her car.

S
HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW SHE MANAGED TO DAM THE TEARS. SHE only knew she couldn’t see through them and she had to get home. She needed home. Her hands wanted to shake so she gripped the wheel tighter. Every breath hurt. How was that possible? How could the simple act of drawing breath burn? She heard herself moan, and pressed her lips together to hold back the next. It sounded like a wounded animal.

She wouldn’t let herself feel that. Not now. Not yet.

Ignoring the cheerful ringtones of her phone, she kept her eyes focused on the road.

The dam collapsed; the tears broke through when she turned into the drive. She swiped at them, a fast, impatient hand until she’d navigated along the curve, parked.