Bride Quartet Collection Read online

  “At this point, I feel like I should say I don’t make a habit of tossing back multiple glasses of wine before sundown. Usually I’d have channelled the frustration into work or I’d have gone over and dumped on Parker and company. I was too mad for either. And I didn’t feel like ice cream, which is also a personal crutch in trying times.”

  “I figured that out, except for the ice cream. My mother makes soup when she’s really upset or seriously mad. Big pots of soup. I’ve eaten a great deal of soup in my life.”

  “Nobody really cooks around here but Laurel and Mrs. G.”

  “Mrs. G. Mrs. Grady? Is she still here? I didn’t see her today.”

  “Still here, still running the place and everybody in it. Thank God for it. She’s on her annual winter vacation. She goes to St. Martin’s on January first, like clockwork, and stays until April. As usual, she made a freezer full of casseroles, soups, stews, and so on before she left so none of us would starve in the event of a blizzard or nuclear war.”

  She stopped by her front door, cocked her head at him again. “It’s been a day. You held up, Professor.”

  “It had some interesting moments. Oh, Sherry’s going for Number Three, with buffet.”

  “Good choice. Thanks for the walk, and the ear.”

  “I like to walk.” He pushed his hands in his pockets since he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’d better get going because driving in it’s a little trickier. And . . . school night.”

  “School night,” she repeated and smiled.

  Then she laid her pocket-warmed hands on his cheeks, brushed her lips to his in a light, friendly, close to sisterly kiss.

  He blanked. He moved before he thought, acted before he checked. He took her shoulders, pulled her in—pressed her back to the door as he took the simple brush of lips into the long and the dark.

  What he’d imagined at seventeen plunged into reality at thirty. The taste of her, the feel. That moment of lips and tongue, and the heat rising in the blood. In the quiet of snowfall, that elemental hush, the sound of her breath sighing out broke in his mind like thunder.

  A storm gathering.

  She didn’t nudge him back, push him away, protest his shoving open the door of her friendly gesture into the hot and wild. Her first thought was, who knew? Who knew the nice-guy English professor who walked into walls could kiss like this?

  Like he planned to drag you off into the nearest cave and rip off your clothes, while you eagerly ripped off his.

  Then thinking stopped being an option, and all she could do was try to keep up.

  Swept away. She’d never actually believed that one, but this was swept away.

  Her hands slid up from his face, forked through his hair. Gripped.

  The movement slapped him back. Now he did step away, nearly slipping on the snow that covered the path. She didn’t move an inch, but stared out at him from eyes that gleamed in the dark.

  God, he thought, God. He’d lost his mind.

  “I’m sorry.” He fumbled it as arousal and mortification warred inside him. “Sorry. That was—wasn’t—Just . . . really sorry.”

  She continued to stare as he hurried away, his strides made awkward by the fresh fall of snow. She heard, somewhere in the roaring in her head, the beep of his key lock, and watched him climb into his car in the overhead light after he wrenched open the door.

  He pulled out before she got her breath and her voice back. As he drove away, she managed a weak, “No problem.”

  Feeling a lot more buzzed than she had on wine, she let herself into the house. She went to the kitchen, poured his untouched wine down the sink, followed it with what was left in hers. After looking blindly around, she turned, leaned back on the counter.

  “Wow,” she said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SOME MORNINGS YOU JUST NEEDED MORE THAN A POP-TART and a hit of coffee, Mac decided. She figured she’d been spared the unhappiness of a hangover—thank you, Carter Maguire—but several fresh inches of snow meant she’d be hauling out the shovel. She wanted real fuel. Knowing where she’d find it, she pulled on her boots, dragged on her coat, and headed out.

  And went back inside immediately for her camera.

  The light, bold and bright, blasted out of the hard blue sky onto the still white sea. Untouched, untrampled, that sea spread over the ground, washed over it. Drowned it. Shrubs became hunched creatures crossing that frozen sea, and the rocks forming the lagoon of the swimming pool a tumbled barricade.

  Her breath drew in, the cold like tiny shards of glass, then expelled in frigid clouds as she framed in the winter palace of a grove.

  Landscapes and pictorials rarely gripped her imagination. But this, she thought, this black and white, with so many shades of each, the shadow and light under the almost savage blue sky demanded its moment. So many shapes, so many textures with branches buried and bark laced offered countless possibilities.

  And the grand and gorgeous house rose out of the sea, an elegant and graceful island.

  She worked her way to it, experimenting with angles, using the light, honing in on the sparkling cotton balls of azaleas that would burst into bloom come spring. A movement caught her eye, and as she turned to follow it she saw the cardinal take its perch on the snow-covered branch of a maple. It sat, a single spot of vivid red, and sang.

  Mac crouched, zoomed in rather than risk going closer and losing the shot. Was it the same bird who’d smacked into her kitchen window? she wondered. If so, he certainly seemed undamaged and unruffled as he sat like a single flame on the white-laced branch.

  She caught the moment then, taking three shots in rapid succession, slight changes in angles that coated her jeans with snow as she inched left.

  Then the bird took wing, swooped over the frozen sea, through the bright light, and was gone.

  Emmaline, beautiful Emmaline in her old navy coat, white cap and scarf trudged toward her through the snow. “I wondered how long I’d have to stand there until you finished or the damn bird took off. It’s cold out here.”

  “I love winter.” Mac swung the camera up again, and with Emma in the crosshairs, depressed the shutter.

  “Don’t! God, I look awful.”

  “You look cute. Gotta love the pink Uggs.”

  “Why did I buy them in pink? What was I thinking?” She shook her head as she joined Mac, and both continued to the house. “I thought you’d already be inside, nagging Laurel to make breakfast. Wasn’t it you who called me and said pancakes nearly an hour ago?”

  “It was, and now we can both nag her into it. I got caught up. It’s amazing out here. The light, the tones, the texture. And that damn bird? Bonus round.”

  “It’s twenty degrees, and after pancakes, we’re going to be shoveling this snow and freezing our asses off. Why can’t it always be summer?”

  “We hardly ever get pancakes in the summer. Crepes maybe, but it’s not the same.”

  As she stomped snow off her pink Uggs, Emma slid her baleful gaze toward Mac, then opened the door.

  Mac scented coffee instantly. She dumped her gear, set her camera carefully on top of the dryer, then strode in to give Laurel a rib-crushing squeeze. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “I saw you playing nature girl out the window, and figured you were coming over to whine for pancakes.” Hair clipped back, sleeves rolled up, Laurel measured out flour.

  “I love you, and not only for your snowy-day pancakes.”

  “Good, then set the table. Parker’s already up, answering e-mail.”

  “Is she calling for snow removal?” Emma asked. “I’ve got three consults today.”

  “For parking. The consensus is there’s not enough to call in the troops for the rest. We can handle it.”

  Emma’s face clouded into a pout. “I hate shoveling snow.”

  “Poor Em,” Mac and Laurel said together.

  “Bitches.”

  “I’ve got a breakfast story.” Riding on the impromptu photo session and the
near occasion of pancakes, Mac dumped sugar in the coffee she’d poured. “A sexy breakfast story.”

  Emma paused in the act of opening a cabinet for plates. “Spill.”

  “We’re not eating. Anyway, Parker’s not down yet.”

  “I’m going up to drag her down. I want a sexy breakfast story to keep me warm while I’m shoveling this stupid snow.” Emma scurried out of the kitchen.

  “Sexy breakfast story.” Considering Mac, Laurel picked up her wooden spoon to stir the batter. “Must involve Carter Maguire, unless you got an obscene phone call and consider that sexy.”

  “Depends who’s calling.”

  “He’s fairly adorable. Not your usual type, though.”

  Mac looked back as she opened the drawer for flatware. “I have a type?”

  “You know you do. Athletic, fun-loving, may have creative bent but not a strict requirement, not too intense or serious-minded. Nothing in past history to include cerebral, scholarly, or quietly charming.”

  It was Mac’s turn to pout. “I like smart guys. Maybe I just haven’t run into one who hit my hot-o-meter.”

  “He’s also sweet. Not your usual.”

  “I like sweet,” Mac objected. “Taste my coffee!”

  With a laugh, Laurel set the batter down to get mixed berries out of the fridge. “Set the table, Elliot.”

  “I’m doing it.” As she did, she evaluated Laurel’s list. Maybe it was accurate—to a point. “Everybody’s got a type. Parker’s got a type. Successful, well-groomed, well-read.”

  “Bilingual a plus,” Laurel added as she washed berries. “Should be able to distinguish between Armani and Hugo Boss at twenty paces.”

  “Emma’s got a type. They must be men.”

  Laurel’s laugh rolled out as Emma came back in. “Parker’s heading down. What’s the joke?”

  “You, sweetie. Griddle’s hot,” Laurel announced. “Better get moving.”

  “Good morning, partners.” Parker swung in—dark jeans, cashmere sweater, her hair neatly tied back in a tail, makeup subtle. Mac had an errant thought that it would be easy to hate Parker if she didn’t love her. “I just booked three more appointments for the tour and pitch. God! I love the holidays. So many people get engaged during the holidays. And before you know it, it’ll be Valentine’s Day, and we’ll get more hits. Pancakes?”

  “Get the syrup,” Laurel told her.

  “The roads are clear. I don’t think we’ll have any cancellations on today’s schedule. Oh, and the Paulsons sent an e-mail—just back from their honeymoon. I’m going to pull off some quotes for the website.”

  “No business,” Emma interrupted. “Mac has a sexy breakfast story.”

  “Really?” Eyebrows lifted, Parker set the syrup and butter on the table of the breakfast nook. “Tell all.”

  “It began, and sexy tales often do, when I spilled Diet Coke on my shirt.”

  She started the story as Laurel brought a platter of pancakes to the table.

  “He said he walked into a wall,” Emma interrupted. “Poor Carter!” She snorted out a laugh as she cut the first tiny sliver of a single pancake.

  “Hard,” Mac added. “I mean, the guy rammed it. In a cartoon, he’d have gone through the wall and left a Carter-shaped hole in it. Then he’s sitting on the floor and I’m trying to see how bad it is, and my tits are in his face—which he very politely points out.”

  “ ‘Excuse me, Miss, your tits appear to be in my face’?”

  Mac wagged her fork at Laurel. “Except he didn’t say tits, and he kind of stuttered. So I go pull a shirt out of the dryer, get him a bag of ice, and ultimately determine he probably doesn’t need the ER.”

  She continued on while plowing her way through a short stack.

  “I’m a little let down,” Laurel said. “I expect a sexy breakfast story to have sex, not just your very pretty boobs.”

  “I’m not done. Part two begins when I’m back home working, and carelessly answer the phone. My mother.”

  Smile fading, Parker shook her head. “That’s not sexy. I’ve told you to screen, Mac.”

  “I know, I know, but it was the business line, and I wasn’t thinking. Anyway, I did worse. She broke up with her latest, and went on one of her riffs. She’s shattered, she’s devastated, blah blah blah. The pain and suffering requires a week in a Florida spa and three thousand from me.”

  “You didn’t,” Emma murmured. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  Mac shrugged, stabbed another forkful of pancakes. “I wish I could say no.”

  “Honey, you’ve got to stop,” Laurel told her. “You just have to stop.”

  “I know.” Under the table, Emma rubbed Mac’s knee in sympathy. “I know, but I cracked, that’s all. After which I opened a fresh bottle of wine and proceeded to drown my sorrow and disgust.”

  “You should’ve come back here.” Parker reached out, touched Mac’s hand. “We were here.”

  “I know that, too. I was too mad, sad, and full of self-pity and disgust. Then guess who knocked on my door?”

  “Oh-oh.” Laurel’s eyes popped. “Tell me you didn’t have drunk, self-pity sex with Carter—but if so, please include all details.”

  “I invited him in for a drink.”

  “Oh, boy!” In celebration, Emma ate another sliver of pancake.

  “I dumped all over him. My family, suck, suck, suck. The guy comes by to drop off a package and ends up with a half-drunk woman in the middle of a pity party. He listened, which I didn’t really understand at the time, being half drunk and on a rant, but he listened to me. Then he took me out for a walk. He just put my coat on me, buttoned it up like I was three, and took me out. Where he listened some more until I’d pretty well run it down. Then he walked me back and—”

  “You invite him back in and have sex,” Emma prompted.

  “Get your own sexy breakfast story. I felt mildly embarrassed, and really grateful, so I give him a little peck. A ‘thanks, pal’ kind of peck. The next thing I know I’m in the middle of a brain-frying, blood-pumping, jungle-drum-beating kiss. The jerk-you-forward-then-shove-you-back-against-a-solid-surface type.”

  “Oh.” Emma shuddered in pure delight. “I love those.”

  “You love any type of lip-lock,” Laurel pointed out.

  “Yes, yes, I do. I’d have guessed Carter more for the sexy, slow, and shy type.”

  “Maybe he is, usually. Because while my head was busy exploding, he stopped, apologized—a couple of times—then slipped and slid his way back to his car. He was gone by the time I regained the power of speech.”

  Parker nudged her plate away, picked up her coffee. “Well, you have to go get him. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Emma concurred, and looked toward Laurel to complete the vote.

  “Could be trouble.” Laurel shrugged. “He’s not her usual type, and he has moves that don’t coincide with his general demeanor. I smell complications.”

  “Because he’s a nice, sweet, slightly klutzy guy who kisses like a warrior?” Emma gave Laurel a light kick under the table. “I smell romance.”

  “You smell romance in a traffic jam on ninety-five.”

  “Maybe. But you know damn well you want to see what happens next. You can’t just let a kiss like that hang there,” Emma added, turning to Mac.

  “Maybe, because as it stands it’s a nice sexy breakfast story, and nobody gets hurt. Now, I have to go call the bank and toss away three thousand dollars like it was confetti.” She scooted out of the nook. “I’ll see you all outside, with shovels.”

  Parker plucked a raspberry out of the bowl after Mac left. “She’s not going to let it hang there. It’ll drive her crazy.”

  “Second contact within forty-eight hours,” Laurel agreed, then scowled. “And damn it, she skated out of helping with the dishes.”

  AT HIS DESK AT THE ACADEMY, CARTER WENT OVER THE DISCUSSION points he planned to introduce in his final period class. Keeping energy and interest up were keys in that last c
lass of the day, when freedom was only fifty short (or endless depending on your point of view) minutes away. The right slants could snag the wandering attention of the clock watcher.

  They might learn something.

  The problem was he couldn’t keep his own attention focused.

  Should he call her and apologize again? Maybe he should write her a note. He did better writing things down than saying them. Most of the time.

  Should he just let it go? It had been a couple of days. Well, one day and two nights to be anal about it.

  He knew he was being anal about it.

  He wanted to let it go, just let it go and mark it down on the lengthy list of Carter’s Embarrassing Moments. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her.

  He was right back where he’d been thirteen years before. Suffering from a pathetic crush on Mackensie Elliot.

  He’d get over it, Carter reminded himself. He’d gotten over it before. Almost entirely.

  He’d just lost his head for a moment, that’s all. And it was understandable considering the rest of the experience.

  Still, he should probably write her a note of apology.

  Dear Mackensie,

  I want to offer my sincere apology for my untoward behavior on

  the evening of January fourth. My actions were inexcusable, and

  deeply regretted.

  Yours, Carter

  And could he possibly be any more stiff and stupid?

  She’d probably forgotten about it anyway, after having a quick laugh with her friends. Who could blame her?

  Let it go, that was the thing to do. Just let it go and get back to leading the class on a discussion of Rosalind as a twenty-first-century woman.

  Sexuality. Identity. Guile. Courage. Wit. Loyalty. Love.

  How did Rosalind use her dual sexuality in the play to become the woman at its end, rather than the girl she was in the beginning, and the boy she played throughout?

  Say “sex,” and you drew teenagers’ attention, Carter thought.