Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

“There’s that. But it could be awkward, right? After.”

“Only if one of you’s an asshole about it.” She gave her gum another cheerful snap. “So, my advice—don’t be an asshole.”

“On some odd level that’s actually wise.” Emma set the foam to soak. “I need to check something in my appointment book.”

“Okay. I’d schedule that nookie in for tonight,” Tink called after her. “You’ll be the happy flower lady tomorrow.”

And there’s another point, Emma thought.

She saw by her book she’d left the evening open. She’d marked the date with a large X after five o’clock, her way of warning herself not to get talked into going out. Too much work lined up for a date.

But this wasn’t actually a date, she decided. He’d come by, bring food, and then . . . they’d see. She didn’t have to change or think about what she should wear or . . .

Who was she kidding? Of course she’d worry about what to wear. There was no way whatever was going to happen with Jack was going to happen while she was wearing her work clothes and her nails were green from stems and foliage.

Plus, she’d need fresh flowers and candles in the bedroom. And she’d be more relaxed if she could take a nice bubble bath. Choosing an outfit was a vital element in an evening like this, not just what went on top, but what was under it.

She closed the book.

When she thought it all through, a not-actual date required more work than an actual one.

She hurried back to her flowers. She had to finish her workday, give the client her best. Then she needed plenty of time before seven to make everything perfect, without making it obvious she’d gone to any trouble at all.

She settled on a dress in a breezy print. Casual, Emma determined, simple and almost sweet with the little cropped sweater she paired with it.

And what she wore under it was lethal.

Pleased with the results, she did a final turn in the mirror before giving the bedroom a close inspection. Candles for soft, romantic light, lilies and roses for romantic scents. The CD player set on low with a quiet, romantic mix ready to play.

Pillows plumped, shades drawn.

It was, she decided, a female den of seduction. She was damn proud of it.

Now all she needed was the man.

She walked downstairs to make sure everything was ready on that front. Wine, glasses, candles, flowers. Music again, still low but more upbeat than the mix waiting upstairs. She turned it on, adjusted the volume, then circled around lighting the candles.

They’d have some wine, she thought, and talk. Then a meal and more conversation. They’d never had problems with conversation. Even though they knew where the evening was headed—maybe because they knew—they’d be able to talk, relax, just enjoy each other’s company before they—

She spun around when the door opened, giddy nerves dancing. And Laurel walked in.

“Hey, Em, can I get you to put together a couple of . . .” Laurel stopped, lifted her eyebrows as she looked around the room. “You’ve got a date. You have a sex date.”

“What? What’s wrong with you? Where do you come up with—”

“How long have I known you? This side of forever? You put out new candles. You have foreplay music on.”

“I put out new candles all the time, and I happen to like this mix.”

“Let me see your underwear.”

Emma choked out a laugh. “No. You want me to make up a couple what?”

“That can wait. I have twenty bucks that says you have on the sexing underwear.” Laurel strode over, started to tug at the bodice of Emma’s dress—and got her hand slapped away.

“Cut it out.”

“You took a bath in the tonight’s-the-night bubbles.” Laurel sniffed. “I can smell it.”

“So what? I often have dates. Sometimes I have sex dates. I’m a grown woman. I can’t help it if you haven’t had sex in six months.”

“Five months, two weeks, three days. But who’s counting?” Laurel stopped again, sucked in an exaggerated breath as she pointed at Emma. “You have a sex date with Jack.”

“Stop it. Will you stop it? You’re freaking me out.”

“When is he getting here? What’s the plan?”

“Soon, and I’m still working on the plan. But it doesn’t include you being here. At all. Go away now.”

Ignoring the order, Laurel folded her arms. “Is it the white ‘I’m a good girl but I can be bad’ underwear or the black ‘I’m only wearing this so you can rip it off me, big boy’ underwear? I need to know.”

Emma cast her eyes to the heavens. “It’s the red with the black roses.”

“We may need to call the paramedics. If you’re functional tomorrow, can you make me up three mini arrangements? Just mixed spring types? I have a consult and little springy flowers would set the mood for what I think the client wants.”

“Sure. Go home.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“You’re stopping at Mac’s to tell her before you go home and tell Parker.”

Laurel paused at the door, flicked back the hair that fell over her cheek. “Duh. And I’m going to ask Mrs. G if she’ll make frittatas for breakfast so we can fuel up while you give us all the details.”

“I have a full day tomorrow.”

“Me, too. Seven A.M., food and sex recap. Good luck tonight.”

Resigned, Emma let out a sigh and decided she wouldn’t wait for Jack to have a glass of wine. The trouble with friends, she thought as she went to the kitchen, was they knew you too well. Sex date, foreplay music, sexing underwear. No secrets among . . .

She stopped with the bottle in hand. Jack was a friend. Jack knew her very well. Wouldn’t he . . . ? What if he . . . ?

“Oh, shit!”

She poured a very large glass of wine. Before she could take the first sip, she heard the knock on her door.

“Too late,” she murmured. “Too late to change a thing. Time to see what happens, and deal with it.”

She set the wine down, went to the door.

He’d changed, too, she noted. Khakis instead of jeans, a crisp shirt instead of a chambray. He carried a large take-out bag from her favorite Chinese restaurant, and a bottle of her preferred cabernet.

Sweet, Emma thought. And certainly another advantage of being friends.

“When you said you’d bring food you meant it.” She took the bag from him. “Thanks.”

“You like a little—and that’s usually very little—of everything. So I got a variety.” He cupped the back of her neck, leaned in to kiss her. “Hi again.”

“Hi back again. I just poured myself a glass of wine. Why don’t I make it two?”

“I’d say yes. How’d the work go?” he asked when he followed her to the kitchen. “You were pretty much buried in it when I was here earlier.”

“We got it done. The next few days are wall-to-wall, but we’ll get that done, too.” She poured a second glass, offered it. “How about your summer kitchen?”

“It’s going to rock. I don’t know how much use the clients will get out of it, but it’s going to look great. I’ll need to talk to you about the work here. Your second cooler. I dropped some preliminary sketches at Parker’s when I was by before, for the changes there, and Mac’s plans are finished. After spending a little time in your cooler today, it’s easy to see why you need another one. I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” Watching him, she sipped her wine. “I guess we’ve got other things to talk about, too.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“I keep thinking it’s a lot, but I realized it really comes down to two things, and they both grow out of one root. We’re friends. We are friends, aren’t we, Jack?”

“We’re friends, Emma.”

“So the first thing is I think friends should tell each other the truth. Be honest. If we realize, after tonight, that it’s just not what we expected—or if either of us feel like, well, that was nice, but I’m finished—we should be able to say so. No hard feelings.”

Reasonable, straightforward, and without sticky edges or invisible strings. Perfect. “I can go with that.”

“The second is staying friends.” Worry wove through the words as she watched him. “That’s the most important thing. Whatever happens, however it works out, we need to promise each other we’ll be friends. Not just for you and me, but for everyone we’re connected to. We can say it’s just sex, Jack, but sex isn’t a just. Or it shouldn’t be. We like each other. We care about each other. I don’t want anything to change that.”

He brushed a hand down her hair. “Blood oath or pinky swear?” he asked and made her laugh. “I can promise you that, Emma. Because you’re right. Friends.” He eased over to kiss her cheeks, one, then the other, before rubbing his lips lightly over hers.

“Friends.” She repeated the gesture so they stood, lips a breath apart, eyes locked. “Jack? How did we ever keep from doing this all these years?”

“Hell if I know.” He touched his lips to hers again, then took her hand. “We were at the beach,” he said as he led her to the stairs.

“What?”

“We’d gone to the beach for a week. All of us. A friend of Del’s lent us his place—his parents’ place, I guess—in the Hamptons. It was the summer before you started this place.”

“Yes. I remember. We had the best time.”

“One morning early, I couldn’t sleep, so I walked down to the beach. And I saw you. For a minute—just a second or two, really—I didn’t realize it was you. You were wearing this long scarf thing tied around your waist, lots of wild colors, and it blew around your legs. You had on a red bathing suit under it.”

“You . . .” She literally had to catch her breath. “You remember what I was wearing?”