Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

That would never do.

She wished she could go by and talk over the whole stupid mess with Parker or Laurel or Mac—better yet, all three of them. But that, too, wouldn’t do. Some things couldn’t be shared even with the best friends in the world. Especially since it was clear Jack and Mac had gotten snuggly once upon a time.

She suspected that Jack got snuggly with a lot of women.

Not that she held it against him, she thought as she parked. She liked the company of men. She liked sex. Sometimes one led to the other.

Besides, how could you find the love of your life if you didn’t look for him?

She turned off the car, bit her lip, then turned the key again. It made very unhappy noises, seemed undecided, then fired.

That had to be a good sign, she decided, then switched it off again. But she’d take it into the shop as soon as she could. She’d have to ask Parker about mechanics, as Parker knew everything.

Inside the house, she got herself a bottle of water to take upstairs. Thanks to Sam and the stupid battery she wouldn’t make it to bed by the righteous hour of eleven, but she could get there by midnight. Which meant she had no excuse to miss the early workout she’d planned for the morning.

No excuse, she lectured herself.

She set the water on her bedside table by a little vase of freesia and started to undress. Then realized she was still wearing Jack’s jacket.

“Oh, damn it.”

It smelled so good, she thought. Leather and Jack. And that wasn’t a scent that was going to give her quiet dreams. She carried it across the room, laid it over the back of a chair. Now she had to get it back to him, but she’d worry about that later.

One of the girls might be going into town for something and could drop it off. It wasn’t cowardly to pass the task off. It was efficient.

Cowardice had nothing to do with it. She saw Jack all the time.

All the time. She just didn’t see the point in making a special trip if someone else was already going. Surely he had another jacket. It wasn’t like he needed that particular one immediately. If it was so important, why hadn’t he taken it back?

It was his own fault.

And hadn’t she said she’d worry about it later?

She changed into a nightshirt then went into the bathroom to begin her nightly ritual. Makeup off, skin toned and moisturized, teeth and hair brushed. The routine and her pretty bathroom usually relaxed her. She loved the happy colors, her sweet slipper tub, the shelf of pale green bottles that held whatever flowers she had handy.

Miniature daffodils now, to celebrate spring. But their cheerful faces seemed to smirk at her. Irritated, she flipped off the light.

She continued the ritual by removing the small mountain of throw pillows from the bed, setting aside the embroidered shams, fluffing up her sleep pillows. She slid under the duvet, snuggled in to enjoy the feel of smooth, soft sheets against her skin, the dreamy scent of freesia perfuming the air, and . . .

Shit! She could still smell his jacket.

Sighing, she flopped over on her back.

So what? So what if she had lusty thoughts about her best friend’s brother’s best friend? It wasn’t a crime. Lusty thoughts were absolutely reasonable and normal. In fact, lusty thoughts were good things. Healthy things. She liked having lusty thoughts.

Why wouldn’t a normal woman have lusty thoughts about a sexy, gorgeous man with a great body and eyes that were like smoke wrapped up in fog?

She’d be crazy not to have them.

Acting on them, now that would be crazy. But she was perfectly entitled to have them.

She wondered what he’d have done if she’d moved in that last inch under the hood of the car and planted one on him?

Being a man, he’d have moved in right back, she imagined. And they’d have spent a very interesting few minutes smolder ing on the side of the road in the lightly falling snow. Bodies heating, hearts pounding with the snow showering over them and . . .

No, no, she was romanticizing it. Why did she always do that, always move from healthy lust to romance? That was her problem, and certainly rooted in the wonderfully romantic love story of her parents. How could she not want what they had?

Put it aside, she ordered herself. She wasn’t going to find happy ever after with Jack. Stick with lust.

So they’d have gotten all hot and tangled on the side of the road. But. After that impulsive and no doubt spark-loaded kiss, they’d have been awkward and embarrassed with each other.

Then they’d have had to apologize to each other, or try to make some kind of a joke out of it. Everything would be weird and strained.

The simple fact was it was too late to act on the lust. They were friends, the next thing to family. You didn’t hit on friends and family. She was better off, tons better off, keeping her thoughts to herself and continuing to look for the real thing. For love.

The sort that lasted lifetimes.

Filled with resentment and self-pity, Emma trudged up to the home gym at the main house. Its design reflected Parker’s efficient style and unassailable taste, both of which Emma bitterly detested at that moment.

CNN muttered away on the flat screen while Parker, her phone’s earbud in place, racked up her miles on the elliptical. Emma scowled at the Bowflex as she stripped off her sweatshirt. She turned her back on it and the recumbent bike, on the rack of free weights, the shelf of DVDs with their perky or earnest instructors who might take her through a session of yoga or pilates, torture her with the exercise ball, or intimidate her with tai chi.

She unrolled one of the mats, sat down with the intention of doing some warm-up stretches. And just lay down.

“Morning.” Parker glanced at her as she continued to pump along. “Late night?”

“How long have you been on that thing?”

“You want it? I’m nearly done. I’m just hitting my cooldown.”

“I hate this room. A torture chamber with shiny floors and pretty paint is still a torture chamber.”

“You’ll feel better after you do a mile or two.”

“Why?” From her prone position, Emma threw up her hands. “Who says? Who decided that people all of a sudden have to do miles every damn day, or that twisting themselves into unnatural shapes is good for them? I think it’s the people who sell this hideous equipment, and the ones who design all the cute little outfits like the one you’re wearing.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at Parker’s slate-colored cropped pants and perky pink and gray top. “How many of those cute little outfits do you own?”

“Thousands,” Parker said dryly.

“See? And if they hadn’t convinced you to do miles and twist yourself into unnatural shapes—and look good doing it—you wouldn’t have spent all that money on those cute little outfits. You could’ve donated it to a worthy cause instead.”

“But these yoga pants make my ass look great.”

“They really do. But nobody’s seeing your ass but me, so what’s the point?”

“Personal satisfaction.” Parker slowed, stopped. Hopping off, she plucked out one of the alcohol wipes to wipe down the machine. “What’s wrong, Em?”

“I told you. I hate this room and all it stands for.”

“So you’ve said before. But I know that tone. You’re irritable, and you almost never are.”

“I’m as irritable as anybody.”

“No.” Parker got her towel, mopped her face, then drank from her water bottle. “You’re nearly always cheerful, optimistic, and good-natured, even when you bitch.”

“I am? God, that must be annoying.”

“Hardly ever.” Moving to the Bowflex, Parker began to do some upper body exercise she made look smooth and easy. Emma knew it was neither. When she felt another pop of resentment, she sat up.

“I am irritable. I’m filled with irritable this morning. Last night—”

She broke off when Laurel came in, her hair bundled up, her trim body in a sports bra and bike shorts. “I’m switching off CNN,” she announced, “because I just don’t care.” She snagged the remote, switched from TV to hard, pounding rock.

“Turn it down at least,” Parker ordered. “Emma’s about to tell us why she’s full of irritable this morning.”

“Em’s never full of irritable.” Laurel got a mat, unrolled it onto the floor. “It’s annoying.”

“See?” Since she was already on the floor, Emma decided she might as well stretch. “My best friends, and all these years you’ve let me go around annoying people.”

“It probably only annoys us.” Laurel started a set of crunches. “We’re around you more than anyone else.”

“That’s true. In that case, screw you. God,

God, do the two of you really do this every day?”

“Parker’s every day, as she’s obsessive. I’m a three-day-a-week girl. Four if I’m feeling frisky. This is usually an off day, but I came up with a design for the crying bride and it motored me up.”

“Have you got something you can show me?” Parker demanded.

“See, obsessive.” Laurel switched to roll-ups. “Later. Now I want to hear about the irritable.”

“How can you do that?” Being full of irritable, Emma snarled. “It’s like somebody’s pulling you up with an invisible rope.”

“Abs of steel, baby.”

“I hate you.”

“Who could blame you? I deduce irritable equals man,” Laurel continued. “So I require all details.”

“Actually—”

“Jeez, what is this? Ladies Day at the Brown Gym?” Mac strolled in, stripping off a hooded sweatshirt.

“I think it’s Snowcones in Hell Day.” Laurel paused. “What are you doing here?”