Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

Emma smirked at her brother and cut her first sliver of roast pork. “And I’m still touring the orchards,” she said sweetly.

She lingered after the others to take a walk around the gardens with her father. She’d learned about flowers and plants, had come to love them under his guidance.

“How’s the book going?” she asked him.

“Crap.”

She laughed. “So you always say.”

“Because it’s always true at this stage.” He wrapped an arm around her waist as they walked. “But family dinners and digging in the dirt help me put the crap aside awhile. Then it’s never quite as bad as I thought when I get back to it. And how are you, pretty girl?”

“Good. Really good. We stay busy. We had a meeting earlier in the week because profits are up, and all I could think was how lucky we are—I am—doing work we love, being able to do it with the best friends I’ve ever had. You and Mama always said to find what we loved, and we’d work well and happily. I did.”

She turned as her mother crossed the lawn carrying a jacket. “It’s chilly, Phillip. Do you want to catch cold so I have to listen to you complain?”

“You uncovered my plan.” He let his wife bundle him into the jacket.

“I saw Pam yesterday,” she spoke of Carter’s mother. “She’s so excited about the wedding. It’s lovely for me, too, having two of my favorite people fall in love. Pam was a good friend to me, always, and a champion when some were scandalized your father would marry the help.”

“They didn’t see how clever I was to get all the labor for free.”

“The practical Yankee.” Lucia snuggled up against his side. “Such a slave driver.”

Look at them, Emma thought. How perfectly they fit. “Jack told me the other day you were the most beautiful woman ever created, and he’s waiting to run off with you.”

“Remind me to beat him up the next time I see him,” Phillip said.

“He’s the most charming flirt. Maybe I’ll make you fight for me.” Lucia tipped her face up to Phillip’s.

“How about a foot rub instead?”

“We have a deal. Emmaline, when you find a man who gives you a good foot rub, look closely. Many flaws are outweighed by that single skill.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Meanwhile, I should go.” She opened her arms to embrace them both. “Love you.”

Emma glanced back as she walked away, and watched her father take her mother’s hand under the arching branches of the cherry tree with its blooms still tightly closed.

And kiss her.

No, she thought, it was no wonder she was a born romantic. No wonder she wanted that, some part of that, for her own.

She got in the van and thought about the kiss on the back stairs.

Maybe it was only flirtation or curiosity. Maybe it was just chemistry. But she’d be damned if she’d pretend it didn’t happen. Or let him pretend.

It was time to deal with it.

In his office on the second floor of the old townhouse he’d remodeled, Jack refined a concept on his computer. He considered the addition to Mac’s studio after-hours work, and since neither she nor Carter were in any particular hurry, he could fiddle, reimagine, and revise the overall structure and every fussy detail.

Now that Parker wanted a second concept to include additions on both the first and second floors, he needed to revisualize not only the details and design, but the entire flow. It was smarter, in his opinion, to do it all at once, even if it did mean scrapping his original concept.

He toyed with lines and flow, the play of light as part of the increased space that would remain studio. With refitting the current powder room and storage and increasing the square footage of both, he could widen the bath, add a shower—something he thought they’d appreciate down the road—give Mac the client dressing area she wanted, and double her current storage space.

Carter’s study on the second floor . . .

He sat back, guzzled some water, and tried to think like an English professor. What would his wants and needs be for work space? Efficiency, and a traditional bent—it being Carter. Built-ins along the wall for books. Make that two walls.

Breakfronts, he decided, shifting in his own U-shaped work space to try a quick hand sketch. Cabinets beneath for holding office supplies, student files.

Nothing slick, nothing sleek. Not Carter.

Dark wood, he thought, an Old English look. But generous windows to match the rest of the building. Angle the roof to break up the lines. A couple of skylights. Frame out this wall to form an alcove. Add interest, create a sitting area.

A place a guy could escape to when his wife was pissed at him, or when he just wanted an afternoon nap.

Put an atrium door here, and add a terrace—small scale. Maybe a guy wanted a brandy and cigar. It could happen.

He paused a moment, tuned back in to the game he had on the flat-screen to his left. While his thoughts brewed in the back of his mind, he watched the Phillies strike out the Red Sox in order.

That sucked.

He turned back to the drawing. And thought: Emma.

Cursing, he tunneled a hand through his hair. He’d been doing a damn good job of not letting her in. He was good at compartmentalizing. Work, ball game, the occasional toggle over to check other scores. Emma was in another compartment, and that one was supposed to stay shut.

He didn’t want to think about her. It did no good to think about her. He’d made a mistake, obviously, but it wasn’t earth-shattering. He’d kissed the girl, that’s all.

A hell of a kiss, he thought now. Still, just one of those things, just one of those moments. A few more days to let the reverberations die down, and things could get back to normal.

She wasn’t the type of woman to hold it against him.

Besides, she’d been right there with him. He scowled, guzzled more water. Yeah, damn right she had. So what was she all bent out of shape about?

They were grown ups; they’d kissed each other. End of story.

If she was waiting for him to apologize, she could keep waiting. She’d just have to deal with it—and him. He and Del were tight, and he was friends, good friends, with the other members of the Quartet. Added to it, with the remodeling Parker was talking about, he’d be spending more time on the estate for the next several months.

He dragged his hand through his hair again. Okay, that being the case, they’d both have to deal with it.

“Hell.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, then ordered himself to push his brain back into work. Frowning, he studied the bare bones of his design. Then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.”

If he canted the whole thing, angled it, cantilevering the study, he’d create a back patio area, partially covered. It would give them the outdoor living space they lacked, privacy, a potential little garden area or shrubbery. Emma would have ideas on that.

It would add interest to the shape and lines of the building, and increase usable space without significantly adding on to the cost of the build.

“You’re a genius, Cooke.”

As he began to plot it out, someone knocked on the back door.

Mind still on the drawing, he rose to walk through the main living area of his quarters over his firm. And assuming it was Del or one of his other friends—and hoping they brought their own beer—he opened the door that led into his kitchen.

She stood in the glimmer of porch light and smelled like moonlit meadows.

“Emma.”

“I want to talk to you.” She breezed right by him, tossed her hair back, pivoted. “Are you alone?”

“Ah . . . yeah.”

“Good. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Give me a context.”

“Don’t try to be funny. I’m not in the mood for funny. You go flirty on me, jumping my car, rubbing my shoulders, eating my pasta, lending me your jacket, and then—”

“I guess I could’ve just waved as I passed you on the side of the road. Or let you shiver until you turned blue. And I was hungry.”

“It’s all of a piece.” She snapped it out then strode through the kitchen into his wide hallway with her hands waving in the air. “And you conveniently left out the shoulder rubbing and the ‘and then.’ ”

He saw no choice but to tag after her. “You looked stressed and knotted up. You were okay with it at the time.”

Spinning around, she narrowed those brown velvet eyes. “And then?”

“Okay, there was an ‘and then.’ You were there, I was there, so ‘and then.’ It’s not like I jumped you or you tried to fight me off. We just . . .”

Kissed suddenly sounded too important. “Locked lips for a minute.”

“Locked lips. Are you twelve? You kissed me.”

“We kissed each other.”

“You started it.”

He smiled. “Are you twelve?”

She made a low hissing sound that had the back of his neck prickling. “You made the move, Jack.

You brought me wine,

you got all cozy on the stairs, rubbing my shoulders.

You kissed me.”

“Guilty, all counts. You kissed me right back. Then you went tearing off like I’d drawn blood.”

“Parker beeped me. I was working. You poofed. And you’ve stayed poofed since.”

“Poofed? I left. You ran off like the hounds of hell were on your heels, and Whitney irritates the shit out of me. So I left. And, strangely, I have a job—just like you—and I’ve spent the last week working. Not poofing. Jesus, I can’t believe I said poofing.” He had to drag in a breath. “Look, let’s sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down. I’m too mad to sit down. You don’t just do that then walk away.”