by Nora Roberts
“You look ... interesting.”
“I bet.” She could imagine it well enough. Naked, her hair looking like a couple of cats had wrestled in it, squatting on the floor holding underwear and shoes.
Why couldn’t he be a heavier sleeper?
“Two seconds.” She spotted her shirt and debated which was less dignified. Crawling over to get it or standing up and walking over to get it. Crawling, she concluded, was never dignified.
Naked didn’t matter. He’d seen her naked. But he hadn’t seen her naked in the morning when she wasn’t even close to the low end of her best.
And damn it, she wished he’d stop smiling at her that way. “Go back to sleep.”
She stood, stepped over for the shirt. Her shoes went flying when he grabbed her and pulled her down on the bed.
“Del, I have to go.”
“This probably won’t take long.” He rolled on top of her, making it absolutely clear her bed hair didn’t put him off in the least.
When he lifted her hips, eased inside her, she decided there were some things even better than coffee in the morning.
“I’ve probably got a couple minutes.”
He laughed, nuzzling his face in the curve of her shoulder.
She let it build in her, slow, soft, sweet, the rising up with quickening pulse and sighing release. Everything in her went warm and loose with him filling her, heart and body.
The fall, as gentle as the rise, made her wish she could just curl up with him and sleep all over again.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Mmm. I was going to say sorry for waking you up, but it turns out I’m not.”
“Me, either. I guess we’d better find the clothes so I can drive you home.”
“I’ll take a cab.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s no reason for you to get up and dressed and drive there and back when all I have to do is call a cab.”
“The reason is you spent the night in my bed.”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Sir Galahad. I got myself here, so I can—”
“You know, you’re in a very strange position to start an argument.” He braced on his elbows to look down at her. “If you keep it up for about ten more minutes, I should be able to give you one more reason you’re not taking a cab.”
“That’s a pretty optimistic recovery time.”
“Want to see who’s right?”
“Let me up.And since you’re going all gallant, how about scoring me an extra toothbrush?”
“I can do that. I can even get some coffee into a couple of travel cups.”
“For coffee, you can drive me anywhere.”
IN UNDER FIFTEEN MINUTES, AND ARMED WITH A TALL COFFEE, Laurel stepped outside. “It’s raining. Pouring,” she corrected. How had she missed that? “Del, don’t—”
“Stop arguing.” He just grabbed her hand and pulled her into a dash for the car. Drenched, she climbed in, then shook her head at him when he got behind the wheel.
“It’s not an argument.”
“Okay. How about a discussion?”
“Better,” she allowed. “I just wanted to avoid setting a precedent where you’d feel obligated to drive me home, or that sort of thing. If I follow an impulse I should handle what’s connected to it. Like transportation.”
“I really enjoyed the impulse, but regardless, when I’m with a woman, I take her home. Consider it a Brown Rule of Thumb.”
She did consider while tapping her fingers on her knee. “So, if you followed an impulse, I’d be obligated to drive you home.”
“No. And no, I don’t consider that sexist, I consider it elemental.” He glanced over, all sleepy midnight eyes as he drove through the rainy morning. “Equal rights, equal pay, choice, opportunities, and so on. I’m for them. But when I’m with a woman I take her home. And when I’m with a woman, I don’t like the idea of her driving around in the middle of the night, or alone at five-thirty-whatever in the morning if there’s a way around it.”
“Because you have the penis.”
“Yes, I do. And I’m keeping it.”
“And the penis shields against accidents, breakdowns, and flat tires?”
“You know what’s always been interesting, and occasionally frustrating, about you?You’re able to turn the simple into the complicated.”
It was true, but it didn’t change the point. “What if I’d had my car?”
“You didn’t.”
“But what if I did?”
“I guess we’ll find out when you do.” He turned into the drive.
“That’s evasive.”
“It is, isn’t it? How about I give you a point back? I won’t walk you to the door.”
She cocked her head. “But you’re going to sit here until you know I’m inside?”
“Yes, I am.” He leaned over, cupped her chin, kissed her. “Go bake a cake.”
She started to get out, then shifted back and gave him a longer, much more satisfying kiss. “Bye.”
She dashed to the door, then turned, dripping, to wave as she let herself in.
Then, alone in the quiet, she leaned back on the door and indulged herself. She’d made love with Del. She’d slept in his bed, awakened beside him. A lifetime of dreams had come true in one night, so she was allowed to indulge herself in private, to grin like a maniac, hug herself, and feel utterly, foolishly wonderful.
Nothing she’d imagined had come close to those moments, and here alone in the quiet she could revel in them. She could remember each one and savor it.
What happened next was anyone’s guess, but now, right this minute, she had what she’d always wanted.
She almost floated up the stairs and into her room. Full day ahead of her, she thought, but God, she wanted to chuck it all and just flop down on the bed, kick her heels at the ceiling, and wallow.
Couldn’t be done, but she could wallow in a long, long hot shower. She stripped off her damp clothes, hung them over a towel bar, pulled out the hair clip she’d dug out of her purse to handle the mess of it. Still grinning, she stepped under the hot spray.
She was basking in the steam and the scent when she caught a movement outside the glass door. It amazed her the scream she ripped out didn’t crack the glass.
“Jesus, Laurel, it’s just me.” Mac opened the door a crack. “I knocked, then I shouted, but you were too busy singing to hear me.”
“A lot of people sing in the shower. What the hell do you want?”
“Not a lot of people who are us sing ‘I’ve Got Rhythm’ in the shower.”
“I wasn’t singing that.” Was she? And now it would be stuck in her head all day. “You’re letting out the heat. Go away.”
“What’s taking you so long?” Emma demanded as she came in.
“Parker?”
“Gym,” Emma answered Mac. “But I told her what’s up.”
“For God’s sake, has it escaped the notice of you morons that I’m taking a shower?”
“Smells good,” Mac commented. “You’re clean. Get out. We’re having pancakes in honor of the anticipated sexy breakfast story.”
“I don’t have time for pancakes.”
“Mrs. G will make them.”
“We just had waffles.”
“Oh, you’re right. Omelettes. We’ll have sexy breakfast story omelettes. Ten minutes,” Emma ordered. “The men are banned from breakfast.”
“I don’t want to—”
But Mac shut the shower door. Laurel pushed dripping hair out of her eyes. She could sneak down to her own kitchen, but they’d just come in and nag her. Resigned, she got out and grabbed a towel.
When she walked into the kitchen twenty minutes later, she found Mac and Emma already there, the table set, and Mrs. Grady at the stove.
“Listen, I have a really full day, so—”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Mac said piously.
“So speaks the Pop-Tart
Princess. I really need to get started.”
“You can’t hold back.” Emma wagged a finger. “We shared ours, and Mrs. G’s already making sexy breakfast story omelettes. Right, Mrs. G?”
“I am. Might as well sit down,” she told Laurel. “They’ll nag your ears off otherwise. And since I’m told you didn’t get home until about thirty minutes ago, I’ve a mind to hear about it myself.”
As she gulped down juice, Laurel tracked her gaze from one face to another. “Do you all have some sort of radar?”
“Yes,” Parker said as she came in. “And if I’m getting called down before I’ve had my shower, this better be good.” In sweat shorts and a loose T-shirt, she went over to pour herself coffee. “I take it Del didn’t bolt the door and turn you away.”
“This is just bizarre.” Laurel took Parker’s coffee. “You know this is bizarre.”
“Traditions are traditions, even when they’re bizarre.” Cheerfully, Parker got another cup. “So, what happened?”
Laurel sat, shrugged. “I lost the bet.”
“Yay!” Emma scooted in beside her. “I lost it, too, but some things are more important than money.”
“Who won, Parker?” Mac wanted to know.
Parker sat, frowned into her coffee. “Malcolm Kavanaugh.”
“Kavanaugh?” Since it was there, Laurel took a piece of toast out of the rack. “How did he get in on it?”
“Somebody told him, and he cornered me at the ball game. I said no, bets were closed, but he’s pushy and persistent. Plus he said he’d put two hundred in as a late fee, and he’d pick July fifth.”
“You mean he nailed it on the button?” Mac demanded. “Lucky guy.”
“Yeah, lucky guy. I figured he didn’t have a chance anyway, as we were all going out, all going together. I didn’t expect Laurel to jump out of the van and make a run for it.”
“It was romantic.” Emma smiled. “All rushed and flushed and urgent. What happened when you got there?”
“He opened the door.”
“Spill,” Mac insisted and pointed a finger.
“You can’t be uncomfortable because he’s my brother. You and I have been friends nearly as long as Del’s been my brother. So it’s a wash.”
“Eat,” Mrs. Grady ordered and served the omelettes.
Laurel obediently took a bite. “I’d worked out the math.”
“What math?” Emma asked.
“About what days didn’t count in the given thirty. It’s complicated. It’s a formula, but I’d worked it out. Once he caught up with me, logistically, he agreed it made sense, but thought we should just forfeit the bet. So we did.”
“Weekends, right?” Mac shoveled in some eggs. “I thought about that. Weekends don’t count.”
“Exactly. And the first and last days don’t count. It gets more complicated, but that’s the gist. But in all fairness, since we didn’t set those terms, we went with the forfeit. Then we ...”
Bizarre or not, these four women were her women. “It was wonderful. I had this place in my head that worried I’d be nervous, that we’d be awkward. But I wasn’t, and we weren’t. He wouldn’t rush, and wouldn’t let me rush, so it was slow and sweet. He was ...”
When she trailed off, Parker sighed. “If you think I’d squirm because you’d say my brother is a good lover, a considerate one, you’re wrong. It’s not just skill, you know. It’s also a sign of respect and affection for his partner.”
“He made me feel that there was nothing else that mattered but the two of us, then and there. That’s all there was. And after, I could sleep with him, feeling absolutely safe, absolutely natural. That’s always the hardest part for me. Trusting enough, I guess, to sleep.”
Emma rubbed Laurel’s thigh under the table. “That’s a really good sexy breakfast story.”
“We had a little tangle this morning.”
“A sexy tangle?”
“That, too, One-Track Mind,” she said to Mac. “I needed to find my clothes in the dark so I could call a cab and get back. Full day. But he woke up, which led to a sexy tangle even though I had bed hair.”
“I hate that,” Emma muttered. “There should be an instant cure for bed hair.”
“Then he insisted on driving me home.”
“Of course.”
Laurel rolled her eyes at Parker. “The two of you have this unshakable code of conduct. Why should he have to get up, dressed, drive me when I can get myself home?”
“Because you were in his home, that’s number one. Second, you were in his bed. Good manners are just that, and don’t threaten your independence.”
“Brown Rule of Thumb?”
Parker smiled a little. “I guess you could call it that.”
“He did. Well, that’s going to have to hold you, because I have to get to work.”
“Don’t we all? I have half a million lilies coming in this morning to be processed. And the crew’s starting today.”
“Here, too?” Laurel asked.
“Here, too, according to Jack.” Emma glanced at her watch. “Any minute.”
“You will now live in interesting times,” Mac told her. “And noisy ones.”
“It’ll be worth it. I’m going to keep telling myself it’ll be worth it. Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. G.”
“It was a good story, so paid in full.”
“If things get too crazy in my space, can I shift some of the work in here?”
“You can. Emmaline and Mackensie, you called for the story. You’re on dishes. I’m going to take a walk around the garden before the hammering starts.”
Parker walked out with Laurel. “Happy’s what counts. Remember I like seeing you and Del happy when you feel weird about it again.”
“I’m working on it. Tell me if I start screwing this up, okay?”
“Absolutely.” Her phone rang. “And there we have the opening bell. I’ll see you later. Good morning, Sarah. How’s the bride today?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMMA’S LILIES SCENTED THE AIR AND BLOOMED IN SUMMER COLORS of brilliant scarlet and buttery yellow, bright, hard-candy pink and blinding white. The bride, who’d considered a mis-scheduled manicure a disaster on the morning of July fifth, posed radiantly for Mac while Parker dealt with a groomsman’s misplaced vest and tie.
After checking to see no emergencies required her attention or assistance, Laurel carried the cake’s centerpiece—a sugar vase she’d molded from a hexagon bowl and filled with miniature lilies.
Emma’s lilies had nothing on hers, Laurel thought—in execution or time spent. She’d embossed gum paste with a rolling pin covered with textured grosgrain ribbon, then meticulously cut out each individual petal. The result, once the stems had been wired and dipped in thinned royal icing, was both charming and elegant.
In the Ballroom, she ignored the buzz and hum of setup and studied the cake. More textured petals adorned each tier—a circular dance of those strong colors. More scattered over the cake board in what she considered a pretty and organic touch.
As she lifted the topper out of the box, someone knocked over a chair with a crash. She never blinked.
That’s what Del noticed. The noise, the shouts, the movement might not have existed. He watched her center the bowl of flowers on the top tier, step back to check the positioning, then take one of her tools out of the box to run a line—no, pipe, he corrected. He knew that much. She piped a couple of perfect lines, like a base on the bowl, around it with hands steady as a surgeon’s.
She circled the table again, nodded.
“Looks great.”
“Oh.” She took a step back. “I didn’t know you were here. Or going to be here.”
“It was the only way I could figure out how to have a Saturday night date with you.”
“That’s nice.”
He brushed his thumb over her cheek.
“Do I have icing on my face?”
“No. It’s just your face. How many flowers on that?”
“About fifty.”
He glanced around at the arrangements. “It looks like you and Em matched petal for petal.”
“We worked at it. Well, so far everything’s going smooth, so I might be able to—”
“Code Red!” Emma shouted in her earbud.
“Crap. Where?”
“Great Hall. We need everybody.”
“I’m on my way. Code Red,” she told Del as she rushed for the stairs. “My own fault. I said everything was going smooth. I know better than to say that.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know yet.” She hit the second-floor landing from one wing as Parker charged in from the other.
“SMOB and MOB altercation. Mac and Carter have the bride occupied and unaware.”
Laurel whipped the clip out of her hair, shoved it in her suit jacket pocket. “I thought we had detente there.”
“Apparently that’s over. Del, good you’re here. We might need you.”
As they approached, the sound of shouting pumped out of the Great Hall. And something crashed. Then someone screamed.
“You might need the cops,” Del commented.
They burst in to see Emma, her hair tumbling from its pins, trying desperately to separate the two snarling, elegantly dressed women. The bride’s stepmother’s hair and face dripped with the champagne tossed from the flute still in the mother of the bride’s hand.
“You bitch! You’re going down!”
Shoving, flailing arms sent Emma skidding on her heels then onto her ass as the women flew at each other.
Game, and with a hot beam in her eye, Emma scrambled up as Parker and Laurel sprang forward. Grabbing the closest body, Laurel hauled while curses spewed like grapeshot.
“Cut it out! Stop it now!” Laurel dodged a fist, then blocked an elbow with her forearm. The force of the contact sang straight up to her shoulder. “I said stop! For God’s sake, it’s your daughter’s wedding.”
“It’s my daughter’s wedding,” the woman Parker and Emma struggled to control shouted. “My daughter. Mine! Not this home-wrecking bimbo bitch’s.”
“Bimbo? Bimbo? You tight-assed lunatic, it’s your last face-lift I’m going to wreck.”
Emma solved the mother of the bride problem by sitting on her while Laurel grappled with her opponent.
