by Nora Roberts
“Where are you going?” he asked as she walked away.
“Where I please.”
She usually did, he mused, and it was one of the most appealing things about her. Unless you considered how her ass looked in short red boxers.
Which he wasn’t. Exactly. He was just making sure she was steady on her feet. And on her really excellent legs.
Deliberately, he turned away and walked up the stairs to the third floor. He turned toward Parker’s wing, and opened the door to the room that had been his as a child, a boy, a young man.
It wasn’t the same. He didn’t expect it to be or want it to be. If things didn’t change, they became stagnant and stale. The walls, a soft, foggy green now, displayed clever paintings in simple frames rather than the sports posters of his youth. The bed, a gorgeous old four-poster, had been his grandmother’s. Continuity, he thought, wasn’t the same as stagnation.
He pulled change and keys out of his pocket to toss them on the dish set on the bureau, then caught sight of himself in the mirror.
His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, his hair disordered, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he could see the faint mark where Laurel’s knuckles had connected with his cheekbone.
She’d always been tough, he thought as he toed off his shoes. Tough, strong, and damn near fearless. Most women would’ve screamed, wouldn’t they? But not Laurel—she fought. Push her, she pushed back. Harder.
He had to admire that.
Her body had surprised him. He could admit it, he told himself as he stripped off the torn T-shirt. Not that he didn’t know her body. He’d hugged her countless times over the years. But hugging a female friend was an entirely different matter than lying on top of a woman in the dark.
Entirely different.
And something it was best not to dwell on.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes, then folded down the quilt—the work of his great-grandmother in this case. He set the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock beside the bed, then switched off the light.
When he closed his eyes, the image of Laurel lying on the stairs popped into his head—lodged there. He rolled over, thought about the appointments he had the next day. And saw her walking away in those brief red boxers.
“Screw it.”
A man was entitled to dwell on whatever he wanted to dwell on when he was alone in the dark.
IN THEIR MONDAY MORNING HABIT, LAUREL AND PARKER HIT their home gym at nearly the same moment. Parker went for yoga, Laurel for cardio. Since both took the routine seriously, there was little conversation.
As Laurel approached her third mile, Parker switched to pilates—and Mac trudged in to give the Bowflex her usual sneer.
Amused, Laurel throttled back to cool down. Mac’s conversion to regular workouts stemmed from her determination to have happening arms and shoulders in her strapless wedding dress.
“Looking good, Elliot,” she called out as she grabbed a towel. Mac just curled her lip.
Laurel unrolled a mat to stretch while Parker gave Mac some tips on form. By the time she moved on to free weights, Parker was shoving Mac to the elliptical.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Woman does not rule by resistance training alone. Fifteen cardio, fifteen stretching. Laurel, where did you get that bruise?”
“What bruise?”
“On your shoulder.” Crossing over, Parker fluttered her finger on the bruise exposed by Laurel’s racer-back tank.
“Oh, I tripped under your brother.”
“Huh?”
“He was wandering around in the dark when I went down for some tea—which ended up being cold pizza and a soda. He ran into me and knocked me down.”
“Why was he wandering around in the dark?”
“My question exactly. Beers and Mrs. G. He crashed in one of the guest rooms.”
“I didn’t know he was here.”
“Still here,” Mac said. “His car’s out front.”
“I’ll see if he’s up. Fifteen minutes, Mac.”
“Nag. When do I get my endorphins?” Mac demanded of Laurel. “How will I know when I do?”
“How do you know when you orgasm?”
“Yeah?” Mac brightened. “It’s like that?”
“Sadly no, but the principle of ‘you know when you get there’ is the same. Are you eating breakfast here?”
“I’m thinking about it. I think I’ll have earned it. Plus, if I call Carter to come over, he can talk Mrs. G into French toast.”
“Do that then. I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“What?”
“Just an idea.”
It was just after seven when Laurel, dressed for the day, sketchbook in hand, stepped into the family kitchen.
She’d assumed Del would be gone, but there he was, leaning against the counter with a steaming mug of coffee. In a near mirror image of the posture, Carter Maguire leaned on the opposite counter.
Still, they were so different. Del, even in the torn shirt and jeans, projected a kind of masculine elegance, while Carter exuded a disarming sweetness. Not sugary, she thought. She’d have hated that—but an innate sort of niceness.
And despite Del’s fumble in the night, he was agile, athletic, while Carter tended toward the klutzy.
Still, they were both so damn cute.
Obviously, the sturdy Mrs. Grady wasn’t immune. She worked at the stove—French toast winning the day—her eyes bright, her cheeks a little flushed. Happy to have the boys around, Laurel thought.
Parker came in from the terrace, slipping her BlackBerry into her pocket. She caught sight of Laurel. “Saturday evening’s bride. Basic nerves. All smooth. Emma and Jack are heading over, Mrs. G.”
“Well, if I’m cooking for an army, some of the troops had better sit. Keep your fingers off that bacon, boy,” she warned Del, “until you’re at the table like the civilized.”
“Just trying to get a head start. I’ll take it over. Hey, Laurel, how’s the head?”
“Still on my shoulders.” She set down the sketchbook, picked up the pitcher of juice.
“Morning.” Carter smiled at her. “What happened to your head?”
“Del beat it against the stairs.”
“After she hit me and ripped my shirt.”
“Because you were drunk and knocked me down.”
“I wasn’t drunk, and you fell.”
“That’s his story.”
“Sit down and behave,” Mrs. G ordered. She turned as Jack and Emma came in. “Are your hands clean?” she demanded of Jack.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then take this and go sit.”
He accepted the platter of French toast, sniffed deeply. “What did you make for everybody else?”
She laughed and swatted at him.
“Hey,” he said to Del.
They’d been friends since college, and as tight as brothers since Jack had relocated to Greenwich to open his architectural firm. He took his place at the breakfast nook, movie-star handsome with his wavy, dark blond hair, smoky eyes, quick grin.
The fact that he was dressed in a suit told Laurel he had a client meeting in his office rather than an appointment on a construction site.
“Shirt’s ripped,” Jack said to Del as he nabbed a slice of bacon.
“Laurel did it.”
Jack wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Feisty.”
“Idiot.”
They grinned at each other as Mac came in. “God! This better be worth it. Come here.” She grabbed Carter, yanked him against her for a noisy kiss. “I earned that.”
“You’re all... rosy,” he murmured and bent his head to kiss her again.
“Stop that nonsense and sit down before the food gets cold.” Mrs. G gave him a flick on the arm as she carried the coffeepot to the table to fill mugs.
Mrs. G was in her element, Laurel knew. She had a full brood to fuss over and order around. She’d revel in the number and the noise of them, and when she’d had enough of
both, she’d kick them all out of her kitchen. Or retreat to her rooms for some peace and quiet.
But for now, with the scents of coffee and bacon and cinnamon, with platters being emptied and plates filled, Mrs. G had things just as she wanted.
Laurel understood the need to feed, the desire—even the passion—to put food in front of someone and urge them to eat. It was life and comfort, authority and satisfaction. And if you’d prepared that food with your own hands, your own skill, it was, in a very real way, love.
She supposed she’d learned some of that right here when Mrs. G had taught her how to roll out a pastry shell or mix batter or test a loaf of bread for doneness. More than the basics of baking, she’d learned if you put some love and pride into the mix, the dough rose truer.
“Head okay?” Del asked her.
“Yes, no thanks to you. Why?”
“Because you’re quiet.”
“Who can get a word in?” she asked as conversations crisscrossed the table.
“How about a professional query?”
She eyed him warily over a bite of French toast. “Such as?”
“I need a cake.”
“Everyone needs cake, Del.”
“That should be your slogan. Dara’s coming back from maternity leave. I thought we’d do a little office welcome back, happy baby and all that.”
It was a nice thing to do for his paralegal, and very like him. “When?”
“Ah, Thursday.”
“As in this Thursday?” Also just like him, she thought. “What kind of cake?”
“A good one.”
“That’s the only kind I make. Give me a clue here. How many people?”
“Maybe twenty.”
“Sheet or layered?”
He sent her a pleading look. “Help me, Laurel. You know Dara. Just whatever you figure.”
“Is she allergic to anything?”
“No. I don’t think.” He topped off her coffee an instant before she thought to do so herself. “It doesn’t have to be spectacular. Just a nice cake for an office deal. I could go to the market and pick one up but... that’s what I’d get,” he said, pointing at the scowl on her face. “I can pick it up Wednesday after work if you can squeeze it in.”
“I’ll squeeze it in because I like Dara.”
“Thanks.” He reached over to give her hand a pat. “Gotta run. I’ll pick up that paperwork Wednesday,” he told Parker. “Let me know about the other stuff when you figure it out.”
He stood, then walked to Mrs. G. “Thanks.”
He gave her a quick, casual kiss on the cheek first. Then came the hug, and it was the hug that always made Laurel’s heart mush. Serious grip, cheek to the hair, eyes closed, just a little sway. Del’s hugs mattered, she thought, and made him impossible to resist.
“Pretend to behave yourself,” Mrs. Grady ordered.
“That I can do. See you.” He gave a wave to the rest of the group, then went out the back.
“I’d better get moving, too. Mrs. G,”Jack said, “you are the goddess of the kitchen. The empress of epicure.”
She gave her big laugh at that. “Go to work.”
“Going.”
“I’d better get started, too. I’ll walk out with you,” Emma said.
“Actually, I’ve got something I’d like your take on,” Laurel said to Emma before she could rise.
“Then I get to have more coffee.” She shifted to fuss with the knot of Jack’s tie, then tugged it until their lips met. “Bye.”
“See you tonight. I’ll drop those revised plans by, Parker.”
“Anytime.”
“Should I get out of the way?” Carter asked when Jack left.
“You’re allowed to stay, and even comment.” Laurel scooted out for her sketchbook. “I had a brainstorm last night, so I worked up an idea for the wedding cake.”
“My cake? Our cake,” Mac corrected quickly with a grin for Carter. “I wanna see, I wanna see!”
“Presentation,” Laurel said sternly, “is a watchword of Icing at Vows. So, while the inspiration for this design primarily stems from the bride—”
“Me!”
“It also factors in what the designer sees as qualities that attract the groom to said bride, and vice versa. So we have, I think, a blending of the traditional and nontraditional in both form and flavor. Added to this, the designer has known the bride for more than two decades, and has developed a deep and sincere attachment to the groom—all of which play into the concept—but will ensure that any critiques of said concept will be gracefully accepted.”
“That’s bull.” Parker rolled her eyes. “You’ll be pissed off if she doesn’t like it.”
“That’s only true because if she doesn’t like it, she’s an idiot. Which means I’ve been friends with an idiot for over two decades.”
“Just let me see the damn design.”
“I can adjust the size once you’ve nailed down your guest list. The current concept’s good for two hundred.” Laurel flipped open the book, held up the sketch.
She didn’t have to hear Mac’s breath catch to know. She saw it in the stunned delight on her face.
“The colors are pretty true to what I’d do, and you can see I’d want to do a variety of cakes and fillings. Your Italian cream, and the chocolate with raspberry Carter favors, the yellow, maybe with pastry cream. It’s just one way to do your cake sampler fantasy.”
“If Mac doesn’t like it, I’ll take it,” Emma announced.
“It doesn’t suit you. It’s Mac’s if she wants it. The flowers can be changed,” Laurel added, “to whatever ones you and Emma decide on for your bouquets and arrangements—but I’d stick with the color palette. You’re not white icing, Mac.You’re color.”
“Please don’t hate it,” Mac murmured to Carter.
“How could I? It’s stunning.” He glanced over at Laurel, gave her a slow, sweet smile. “Plus, I heard chocolate with raspberry. If we’re voting, it gets mine.”
“Mine, too,” Emma said.
“I’m thinking you’d better hide that sketch.” Parker nodded at Laurel. “If our clients get a look at it, we’re going to have brides fighting for that cake. Nailed it in one, Laurel.”
Mac stood to step closer, to take the pad and study. “The shape, the textures, not to mention the colors. Oh, oh, the photographs we’ll get! Which you considered,” she added, shifting her gaze to Laurel’s.
“It’s hard to think about you without thinking photography.”
“I love it. You know I love it. You knew I’d love it. You know me.” She put her arms around Laurel, squeezed hard, then did a little dance. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Let me have a look at that.” Mrs. Grady took the book out of Mac’s hand and studied the sketch with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
Then she nodded, looked at Laurel. “Good girl. And now, all of you, out of my kitchen.”
CHAPTER THREE
BY WEDNESDAY, LAUREL JUGGLED BAKING, TASTINGS, MEETINGS, and design sessions. Her cooler and freezer bulged with a variety of fillings, frostings, and layers, precisely labeled, that she’d use to create the cakes and desserts for the weekend events. And she still had more to go.
With her kitchen TV tuned to The Philadelphia Story for the buzz and pop of the dialogue, she added egg yolks, one at a time, to the fluff of butter and sugar in her mixing bowl. Her board held sketches or photos of this week’s designs, and a printed schedule of tasks to be done.
Once each yolk was fully incorporated, she added the mixture of flour and baking powder she’d already sifted together three times, alternating it with the milk she’d measured out.
She was whisking egg whites and salt in a separate bowl when Mac came in.
“Working.”
“Sorry. I need cookies. Please, can I have cookies?”
“Doesn’t Mrs. G have any?”
“They’re not to eat. I mean not for me to eat. Although, cookies. I need some for a shoot I have
in a couple hours. I got this idea, and cookies would work. Emma let me have flowers.”
Laurel arched her eyebrows at Mac’s pleading smile as she added a quarter of the stiffened egg whites to the batter. “What kind of cookies?”
“I won’t know until I see what you’ve got. You always have cookies.”
Resigned, Laurel gestured with her head. “In the cooler. Write down what you take on the inventory board.”
“There’s another board? A cookie board?”
Laurel began folding in the remaining whites. “We now have two men in our world. They’re known for mooching cookies.”
Mac angled her head, pouted a little. “You give Carter cookies?” “I’d give Carter my love and devotion if you hadn’t gotten there first, sister. So I give him cookies instead. He’s over here nearly every day since school let out, working on his book.”
“And eating cookies without bringing home any to share, apparently. Ah, the chocolate chunk,” Mac announced with her head and shoulders in the cooler. “Big as my hand, traditional, and will photograph nicely. I’m taking half a dozen, well, seven, because I’m eating one now.”
She took one of the small bakery boxes for transport while Laurel poured batter into prepared pans.
“Do you want one?” At Laurel’s head shake, Mac shrugged. “I’ve never known how you resist. My shoot’s your tasting today.”
“Right. I’ve got them on the list.”
“I love this movie.” Mac crunched into a cookie, then glanced away from the TV toward the display. “What’s this design? It’s not in my book.”
Laurel tapped the pans on the counter to break up any air bubbles. “It’s off book.” She transferred pans to the oven, set the timer. “For Del’s paralegal. She’s coming back from maternity leave, and he’s having a little cake and coffee thing for her.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’m the one who made the cake.”
“Which is nice, too, Miss Crankypants.”
Laurel started to snarl, then stopped herself. “Shit. I am Miss Crankypants. Maybe it’s the sex moratorium. It has its upside, but there is the inevitable down.”
“Maybe you need a booty buddy.” Sagely, Mac pointed with the remainder of the cookie. “Somebody who can just pop the cork every couple weeks.”
