She wondered if the prospective bride and groom would one day have a busy florist creating fifty bouquets to commemorate their marriage. Would they have children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren who loved them enough to want to give them that celebration?

With a small groan for muscles aching from the morning’s exercise and the morning’s work, she propped her feet on the chair across from her, lifted her face to the sun, and shut her eyes.

She smelled earth, the tang of mulch, heard a bird chittering its pleasure in the day.

“You’ve got to stop slaving away like this.”

She jerked up—had she fallen asleep?—and blinked at Jack. Mind blank, she watched him pluck a curl of pasta from her plate, pop it into his mouth. “Good. Got any more?”

“What? Oh God!” Panicked, she looked at her watch, then breathed a sigh of relief. “I must’ve dozed off, but only for a couple minutes. I have forty nine bouquets left to make.”

His brows drew together over smoky eyes. “You’re having a wedding with forty-nine brides?”

“Hmm. No.” She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “Fiftieth anniversary, and a re-creation of the bridal bouquet for every year. What are you doing here?”

“I need my jacket.”

“Oh, right. Sorry I forgot to give it back to you last night.”

“No problem. I had an appointment down the road.” He took another twirl of pasta. “Do you have any more of this? I missed lunch.”

“Yeah, sure. I owe you lunch at least. Sit down. I’ll get you a plate.”

“I’ll take it, and I wouldn’t mind a hit of caffeine. Hot or cold.”

“No problem.” Studying him, she pushed at hair that escaped pins. “You look a little whipped.”

“Busy morning. And I’ve got another site to visit in about forty-five minutes. You were between the two, so . . .”

“That’s handy. Be right back.”

He was whipped, he thought, and stretched out his legs. Not so much from the work, or the in-your-face with an inspector that morning. Which he would’ve handled better if he hadn’t been sleep-deprived. Tossing and turning and trying to block out sex dreams of a Spanish-eyed lady would whip anyone.

So, of course, he had to be stupid and masochistic, and drop by with the excuse of the jacket.

Who knew how sexy she looked when she slept in the sunlight?

He did, now. It wasn’t going to give him easier dreams.

The thing to do was get over it. He should make a date with a blonde or a redhead. Several dates with several blondes and/or redheads until he managed to put Emma back on the No Trespassing list.

Where she belonged.

She came out, his jacket over her arm, a tray in her hands.

She had, he thought, the kind of beauty that just slammed a man’s throat shut. And when she smiled, the way she did now, it blew through him like a bolt of lightning.

He tried to build a No Trespassing sign in his head.

“I had some of my aunt Terry’s olive bread,” she told him. “It’s great. I went with cold caffeine.”

“That does the job. Thanks.”

“No problem. And it’s nice to have company on a break.” She sat again. “What are you working on?”

“I’m juggling a few things.” He bit into the bread. “You’re right. It’s great.”

“Aunt Terry’s secret recipe. You said you had a job near here?”

“A couple. The one I’m heading to’s a never-ending. The client started out two years ago wanting a kitchen remodel, which moved into a complete reno of the master bath, which now includes a Japanese soaking tub, a sunken whirlpool, and a steam shower big enough for six friends.”

She wiggled her brows over those gorgeous eyes, then took a bite of pasta. “Fancy.”

“I kept waiting for her to ask if we could extend the addition a little more for the lap pool. But she turned her focus outside. She decided she wants a summer kitchen by the pool. She saw one in a magazine. She can’t live without it.”

“How does anyone?”

He smiled and ate. “She’s twenty-six. Her husband’s fifty-eight, rolling in it and happy to indulge her every whim. She has a lot of whim.”

“I’m sure he loves her, and if he can afford it, why not make her happy?”

Jack merely shrugged. “Fine by me. It keeps me in beer and nachos.”

“You’re cynical.” She pointed at him with her fork before she stabbed more pasta. “You see her as the bimbo trophy wife and him as the middle-aged dumbass.”

“I bet his first wife does, but I see them as clients.”

“I don’t think age should factor into love or marriage. It’s about the two people in it, and how they feel about each other. Maybe she makes him feel young and vital, and opened something new inside him. If it was just sex, why marry her?”

“I’ll just say a woman who looks like she does has great powers of persuasion.”

“That may be, but we’ve done a lot of weddings here where there’s been a significant age difference.”

He wagged his fork, then stabbed more pasta in a mirror of her move. “A wedding isn’t a marriage.”

She sat back, drummed her fingers. “Okay, you’re right. But a wedding’s a prelude, it’s the symbolic and ritualistic beginning of the marriage, so—”

“They got married in Vegas.”

He continued to eat, face bland as he watched her try not to laugh.

“Many people get married in Vegas. That doesn’t mean they won’t have many happy and fulfilling years together.”

“By a transvestite Elvis impersonator.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up. But even if you’re not, that kind of . . . choice shows a sense of humor and fun, which, I happen to believe, are important elements for a successful marriage.”

“Good save. Great pasta.” He glanced over to where Parker sat with potential clients on the main terrace. “Business seems to be clicking along.”

“Five events this week on-site, and a bridal shower we coordinated off-site.”

“Yeah, I’ll be here for the one Saturday evening.”

“Friend of Bride or Groom?”

“Groom. The bride’s a monster.”

“God, she really is.” Emma leaned back and laughed. “She brought me a picture of her best friend’s bouquet. Not because she wanted me to duplicate it, which she certainly did not. Hers is a completely different style, but she’d counted the roses, and told me she wanted at least one more in hers—and warned me she’d be counting them.”

“She will, too. And I can pretty much guarantee no matter how good a job you do, she’ll find fault.”

“Yeah, we’ve figured that out. It’s part of the job around here. You get monsters and angels and everything in between. But I don’t have to think about her today. Today’s a happy day.”

He knew she meant it. She looked relaxed, and had a glow about her. Then again, she usually did. “Because you have fifty bouquets to make?”

“That, and knowing the bride of fifty years is going to love them. Fifty years. Can you imagine?”

“I can’t imagine fifty years of anything.”

“That’s not true. You must imagine what you build lasting fifty years. Hopefully much longer.”

“Point,” he agreed. “But that’s building.”

“So’s marriage. It’s building lives. It takes work, care, maintenance. And our anniversary couple proves it can be done. And now I have to get back to them. Break’s over for me.”

“Me, too. I’ll get this for you.” He loaded up the tray, lifted it as they rose. “You’re working alone today? Where are your elves?”

“They’ll be here tomorrow. And there will be chaos as we start on the flowers for the weekend events. Today it’s just me, about three thousand roses, and blissful quiet.” She opened the door for him.

“Three thousand? Are you serious? Your fingers will fall off.”

“I have very strong fingers. And if I need it, one of the pals will come by for a couple hours and help strip stems.”

He set the tray on her kitchen counter, thinking, as he always did, that her place smelled like a meadow. “Good luck with that. Thanks for lunch.”

“You’re welcome.” She walked him to the door where he stopped.

“What about your car?”

“Oh. Parker gave me the name of a mechanic, a place. Kavanaugh’s. I’m going to call.”

“He’s good. Call soon. I’ll see you Saturday.”

He imagined her going back to her roses as he walked to his car. Of sitting, for hours, drenched in their scent, cleaning stems of thorns then . . . doing whatever it was she did, he decided, to make what women who took the plunge carried.

And he thought of how she’d looked when he’d come upon her, sitting in the sunlight, face tipped up, eyes closed, those luscious lips of hers just slightly curved as if she dreamed of something very pleasant. All that hair bundled up and slim dangles of silver at her ears.

He’d thought, briefly but actively, about just leaning down and taking that mouth with his. He could’ve played it light, made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. She had a sense of humor, so maybe she’d have gotten a kick out of it.

She also had a temper, he mused. She didn’t cut it loose often, but she had one.

It didn’t matter either way, he reminded himself, as he’d missed that opportunity. The bevy of blondes and redheads was a better idea than scratching this increasingly annoying itch where Emma was concerned.

Friends were friends, lovers were lovers. You could make a friend out of a lover, but you were on boggy ground when you made a lover out of a friend.

He was nearly to the job site when he realized he’d left his jacket on her patio.

“Shit.

Shit.”

Now he was like one of those idiots who deliberately left something at a woman’s place so he had an excuse to go back and try to score. And that wasn’t it.