Bed of Roses tbq-2 Read online

  While they discussed details, choices of materials, he wondered what it was like to feel that connection with and that certainty about another person.

  No doubt in their minds, he mused, that this was the one. The one to make a home with, build a future with, maybe have kids with. Share a cat with.

  How did they know? Or at least believe enough to risk it?

  It was, for him, one of life’s great mysteries.

  “When can we start?” Mac demanded.

  “I’ll submit for permit tomorrow. Do you have a contractor in mind?”

  “Um . . . the company we used on the initial remodel was good. Are they still available?”

  “I ran it by him. I can contact him tomorrow, ask him to submit a bid.”

  “You’re the man, Jack.” Mac gave him a friendly punch in the arm. “Do you want to stay for dinner? We’re making pasta. I can call and see if Emma’s interested.”

  “Thanks, but we’re going out.”

  “Aw.”

  “Stop.” But he shook his head and laughed.

  “I can’t help it if I find it adorable that my pals are getting all cozy.”

  “We’re going to grab some dinner and catch a flick.”

  “Aw.”

  He laughed again. “I’m getting out of here. See you on Poker Night, Carter. Prepare to lose.”

  “I could just hand you the money now, save time.”

  “Tempting, but I prefer the satisfaction of skinning you at the table. I’ll get you that bid,” he added as he headed for the door. “You keep that copy of the plans.”

  He heard Mac’s “uh-oh” an instant before he spotted Del.

  They stopped, about five feet apart.

  “Wait!” Mac called out. “If you’re going to punch each other again, I want my camera.”

  “I’ll shut her up,” Carter promised.

  “Hey! Wait! I was serious,” she managed before Carter dragged her back inside.

  Jack jammed his hands into his pockets. “This is just fucking stupid.”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “Look, we punched each other, we each said our piece. We had a beer. According to the rules, that should about cover it.”

  “We didn’t take in a sporting event.”

  Jack felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. That was more like Del. “Can we do that tomorrow? I’ve got a date.”

  “What happened to bros before hos?”

  A smile spread amiably over Jack’s face. “Did you just call Emma a ho?”

  Del’s mouth opened and closed before he dragged a hand through his hair. “You see the complications here? I just called Emma a ho because I wasn’t thinking of Emma as Emma, and I was being a smart-ass.”

  “Yeah, well, I know that. Otherwise I’d’ve had to punch you in the face again. The Yankees have a home game tomorrow night.”

  “You drive.”

  “Uh-uh. We get Carlos. I spring for the car service. You spring for the tip and the beer. We split the dogs.”

  “All right.” Del considered a moment. “Would you punch me in the face over her?”

  “I already did.”

  “That wasn’t about her.”

  Point taken, Jack thought. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a good answer,” Del decided. “I’ll see you tomor row.”

  Since dinner—bistro fare—and a movie—action flick—worked so well, they made a second official Monday night date. Full schedules prevented any appreciable time together between, but they managed what they termed a friendly booty call and a few teasing e-mails.

  Emma wasn’t sure if their current relationship led off with sex or friendship, but it felt as if both of them were trying to find a happy balance between the two.

  She was nearly finished dressing for the evening when Parker came in and called up the stairs.

  “Be right down. I’ve got the flowers you wanted in the back, in a holding vase. Though I still don’t see why you have to go watch people make wedding favors.”

  “The MOB wants me to stop by, give it all the once-over. So I stop by, give it all the once-over. It shouldn’t take that much time.”

  “I’d have saved you some of that time and dropped them by, but I got hung up with my last consult of the day.” Emma dashed downstairs, stopped, did a runway turn. “How do I look?”

  “Gorgeous. One expects no less.”

  Emma laughed. “The hair up works, right? Just a little messy and ready to tumble.”

  “It works. So does the dress. That deep red really suits you. And let me add, the workouts are paying off.”

  “Yeah, I hate that part because it means I have to keep it up. Wrap or sweater?” she asked, holding a choice in either hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Art opening. Local artist, modern.”

  “The wrap’s more arty, and aren’t you clever?”

  “Am I?”

  “Most people will be in black, so that red dress is going to pop. You could give lessons.”

  “If you’re going to dress up, might as well get noticed, right? How about the shoes?”

  Parker considered the peep-toe spikes with their sexy ankle straps. “Killers. Nobody with a Y chromosome is going to look at the paintings.”

  “I’ve only got one Y chromosome in mind.”

  “You look happy, Emma.”

  “It’s hard not to, because I am. I’m involved with an interesting man who makes me laugh and makes me tingle, one who actually listens to what I have to say, and who knows me well enough I can be myself without any of the filters. And the same goes for him. I know he’s fun, funny, smart, not afraid to work, values his friends, is obsessed with sports. And . . . well, all the things you just know when you’ve been around someone for a dozen years the way we have.”

  She led the way to her work area. “Some people might think that takes the discovery or the excitement out of things, but it doesn’t. There’s always something new, and there’s the stability of real understanding. I can be comfortable and excited around him at the same time.

  “I went with the pink tulips and the mini iris. It’s cheerful, female, springy.”

  “Yes, it’s perfect.” Parker waited while Emma took them out of the vase, adjusted the sheer white ribbon.

  “I could add some lisianthus if you want it fuller.”

  “No, it’s great. Just right. Emma,” Parker began as her friend coned the arrangement in clear, glossy paper, “do either of you know you’re in love with him?”

  “What? No. I never said . . . Of course, I love Jack. We all love Jack.”

  “We all didn’t put on a red dress and sexy shoes to spend the evening with him.”

  “Oh, well that’s just . . . I’m going out.”

  “It’s not just that. Em, you’re going out with Jack. You’re sleeping with Jack. Which is what I figured was what, more or less. But I listened to you just now, I watched your face just now. And, honey, I know you. You’re in love.”

  “Why do you have to say that?” Distress covered Emma’s face. “It’s just the sort of thing that’s going to mess with my head, and make everything all sticky and awkward.”

  Brow lifted, Parker angled her head. “Since when have you thought of being in love as sticky and awkward?”

  “Since Jack. I’m okay with the way things are now. I’m better than okay. I’m in an exciting relationship with an exciting man and I don’t . . . I don’t expect it to be anything else. Because that’s not Jack. He isn’t the kind who thinks about what we’ll be doing five years from now. Or five weeks from now. It’s . . . just now.”

  “You know, it’s odd that you and Del, who are closer to him than anyone, both have such little confidence in him.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that in this particular area, Jack’s not looking for . . . permanent.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to enjoy the moment.” She said it with a decisive nod. “I’m no
t going to be in love with him, because we both know what’ll happen if I am. I’ll start romanticizing it, and him, and us, and wishing he’d . . .”

  She trailed off, pressed a hand to her belly. “Parker, I know what it’s like to have someone feel that way about me, when I don’t feel that way. It’s just as awful for the one who’s not in love as it is for the one who is.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not going there. We’ve only been seeing each other like this for a little while. I’m not going there.”

  “All right.” To soothe, Parker stroked a hand over Emma’s shoulder. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “I am.”

  “I’d better run. Thanks for putting these together.”

  “Never a problem.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Follow-up consult on the Seaman wedding.”

  “I’ve got it in my book. I know they want to walk around the gardens, see them now to project what they’ll want in those areas next April. I’m going to dress a couple of the urns with Nikko blue hydrangeas I’ve been coaxing along in the greenhouse. They’re lush, and should give a good show. I’ve got a couple other tricks up my sleeve, too,” she added as she walked to the door with Parker.

  “You always do. Have a good time tonight.”

  “I will.”

  Emma closed the door, then just leaned back against it.

  She could fool herself, she admitted. She could certainly fool Jack. But she could never fool Parker.

  Of course she was in love with Jack. She’d probably been in love with Jack for years, and simply convinced herself it was lust. The lust had been bad enough, but love? Deadly.

  She knew exactly what she wanted from love—from the down into the bones, rooted in the heart, blooming through the body love. She wanted forever.

  She wanted the day after day, night after night, year after year, the home, the family, the fights, the support, the sex, the everything.

  She’d always known what she wanted in a partner, in a lover, in the father of her children.

  But why did it have to be Jack?

  Why, when she finally felt all the things she’d waited all of her life to feel, did it have to be for a man she knew so well? Well enough to understand he was someone who wanted his own space, his own direction, who considered marriage a gamble with long odds?

  She knew all those things about him, and still she’d fallen.

  If he knew, he’d be . . . appalled? she wondered. No, that was probably too strong. Concerned, sorry—which was worse. He’d be kind, and he’d pull the plug gently.

  And that was mortifying.

  There was no reason he had to know. It was only a problem if she let it be a problem.

  So, no problem, she decided.

  She was as skilled at handling men as she was at handling flowers. They’d go on just as they were, and if it got to a point where it caused her pain instead of pleasure, she’d be the one to pull the plug.

  Then she’d get over it.

  She pushed away from the door to wander into the kitchen for a glass of water. Her throat felt dry and a little raw.

  She’d get over him, she assured herself. What was the point in worrying about that now when they were still together?

  Or . . . she could make him fall in love with her. If she knew how to keep a man from falling for her—or nudge him into falling out if he thought he was falling in—why couldn’t she make one fall in?

  “Wait, I’m confusing myself.”

  She took a breath, took a sip.

  “If I make him fall in love with me, is it real? God, this is too much to think about. I’m going out to an opening. That’s it, that’s all.”

  The knock on the door brought relief. Now she could stop thinking, stop worrying all this to pieces.

  They’d go out. They’d enjoy each other. Whatever happened next, happened.

  Chapter Twelve

  Satisfaction, Emma decided, went a long way to stamping out worry. The look in Jack’s eyes when she opened the door was exactly what she’d aimed for.

  “I need a moment of silence,” he told her, “to offer up thanks.”

  She gave him a slow, sultry smile. “Then let me say you’re welcome. Do you want to come in?”

  Closing the distance, he trailed his fingers over her shoulder, down her arm. Those smoky eyes stayed fixed on hers. “I’m just having this thought about how I come in and we forget about the opening.”

  “Oh no.” She nudged him back, and stepped out. Handing him the wrap, she turned her back, glanced around as he draped it over her shoulders. “You promised me strange paintings, lousy wine, and soggy canapes.”

  “We could go back inside.” He leaned down to nuzzle her neck. “I’ll sketch some erotic drawings, we’ll drink good wine, and call out for pizza.”

  “Choices, choices,” she said as they walked to his car. “Art opening now, erotic sketches later.”

  “If we must.” But he stopped at the car to draw her into a luxurious kiss. “I like the way you look, which is amazing.”

  “That was the plan.” She stroked her hand over the slate gray sweater he wore under a leather jacket. “I like the way you look, Jack.”

  “Since we look so good I guess we’d better go be seen.” When he got behind the wheel he sent her an easy smile. “How was the weekend?”

  “Jammed, as advertised. And successful, since Parker talked the clients into renting the tents for Saturday. When it rained, everybody stayed dry. Even better, we scrabbled around for more candles and some of my emergency supply of flowers so we had all this soft light and fragrance while the rain pattered on the tent. It was really lovely.”

  “I wondered how that worked out. I was out on new construction Saturday afternoon, and we didn’t. Stay dry, that is.”

  “I like spring rains. The way they sound, the way they smell. Not all brides feel the same, but we managed to make this one really happy. And how was Poker Night?”

  He scowled at the road as his headlights cut through the dark. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She laughed. “I heard Carter cleaned your clock.”

  “The guy hustled us with all that ‘I’m not much of a card player’ routine, and that open, honest face. He’s a shark.”

  “Yes, oh yes, Carter’s a real shark.”

  “You haven’t played cards with him. Believe it.”

  “Sore loser.”

  “Damn right.”

  Amused, she leaned back in the seat. “So, tell me a little about this artist.”

  “Ah . . . yeah, I should do that.” During a beat of silence, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “A friend of a client. I think I mentioned that.”

  “You did.” She’d meant the art itself, but she caught enough in his tone to zero in. “And a friend of yours?”

  “Sort of. We went out a couple of times. A few times. Maybe several.”

  “Ah. I see.” Though her interest spiked, she kept her tone casual. “She’s an ex.”

  “Not exactly. We weren’t . . . It was more we hooked up for a few weeks. More than a year ago. Closer to two, actually. It was just a thing, then it wasn’t.”

  His uneasiness struck her as both interesting and flattering. “If you’re looking at this as boggy ground, Jack, you don’t need to. I’ve had my suspicions you’ve slept with other women.”

  “It’s true. I have. And Kellye—she spells it with an ‘e’ on the end—is one of them. She’s . . . interesting.”

  “And artistic.”

  His lips twitched, intriguing her. “You be the judge.”

  “So, why did the thing stop being a thing, or is that too awkward a question?”

  “It got a little too intense for me. She’s an intense sort, and high-maintenance.”

  “Required too much attention?” Emma asked, with just a hint of cool.

  “

  Required is a good word for it. Anyway, it stopped being a thing.”

  “But
you stayed friendly.”

  “Not so much. But I ran into her a couple months ago, and we were okay. Then she got in touch about her opening, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go. Especially since you’re here to protect me.”

  “Do you often need protection from women?”

  “All the time,” he said and amused her again.

  “Don’t you worry.” She patted his hand on the gear shift. “I’m here for you.”

  After he’d parked, they walked through the cool spring evening in a breeze that fluttered the ends of her wrap. The little shops she enjoyed browsing were already closed, but the bistros did brisk business. A number of diners braved the chill for a chance to eat outside with candles flickering on tables.

  She smelled roses and red sauce.

  “You know what I haven’t done for you?” Emma began.

  “I have a list, but I figured I’d work up to some of the more interesting items.”

  She poked him with her elbow. “Cook. I’m a good cook when I have time. I’ll have to seduce you with my fajitas.”

  “Anytime, anywhere.” He stopped in front of the gallery. “Here we are. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather cook?”

  “Art,” she said, and breezed inside.

  No, not really, she thought immediately. The first thing she saw other than a number of people standing around looking intense was a large white canvas with a single, wide, blurry line of black running down the center.

  “Is it a tire tread? A single tire tread on a white road, or a division of . . . something?”

  “It’s a black line on a white canvas. And we’re going to need drinks,” Jack decided.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  While he left her to find some, Emma wandered. She studied another canvas holding a twisted black chain with two broken links titled Freedom. Another boasted what seemed to be a number of black dots, which on closer inspection proved to be a scattering of lowercase letters.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” A man in dark-framed glasses and a black turtleneck stepped up beside her. “The emotion, the chaos.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The minimalist approach to intensity and confusion. It’s brilliant. I could study this one for hours, and see something different each time.”