“We checked that one off the list, big-time.” She added a big, bright smile.

“Sleep.”

“Oh, that’s really sweet, Carter. I’d love that—another time.

Three events, presentation. Busy, busy.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Gotta run. Thanks for everything. I’ll call you.”

And fled.

OH, SHE WAS A TERRIBLE PERSON. A CRAZY PERSON, MAC thought as she drove home. She was probably going to hell, too. She deserved it. But she’d done the right thing, the only thing. For herself, and for Carter.

Absolutely for Carter, she told herself.

Going to hell? Ridiculous. She should get a medal—they should erect a damn statue for her, for doing the right thing.

She’d done the right thing, and that was all there was to it. Now everything would be fine. Everything would be okay.

Perfect, in fact.

She saw the lights on in the main house and thought: Thank God. Parker and Laurel would agree with her. They’d support her actions. That’s what she needed, she decided as she squealed to a stop in front of the house. Just a little affirmation from friends so her stomach would untwist.

She rushed into the house, tore up the stairs, shouting for Parker.

“We’re all up here.” Parker came into the hallway. “God, what’s the matter? Was there an accident?”

“No, it was all on purpose. Or maybe not. There was a list.”

“Okay. You’re obviously not hurt. We’re in my parlor, just going over some last details since we were all up.”

“Emma, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good, that’s even better.”

She dashed by Parker and into the parlor where Laurel and Emma sat with cookies, tea, and files.

“Hey. We figured you for the walk of shame in the morning.” Laurel tossed down a pencil. “We were thinking of setting up a video camera.”

“How was dinner?” Emma asked her.

“I left. I just left.” Eyes a little wild, Mac dragged off her coat. “You’d have done the same.”

“That good, huh?” Laurel picked up the plate. “So, have a cookie.”

“No, no. He had a rehearsal on Tuesday. Can you imagine that? And tonight this wonderful meal with candles and wine reductions.”

“Wine reductions.” With a little hum, Parker took a seat. “Thank God you got out alive. We should call the police.”

“Okay, wait, you’re not seeing the whole picture.” Trying to steady herself, Mac took a few careful breaths. It didn’t seem to help. “He went to so much trouble, and it was, well, lovely. And fun. Bob made a list.”

“Who the hell is Bob?” Laurel demanded.

“Doesn’t matter, but Carter was so embarrassed. It’s so cute. The tips of his ears blush.”

“Aww,” Emma said.

“I

know. What can you do? I’m all stirred up. I had to go to bed with him.”

“I know when a guy’s ears blush, I start tearing my clothes off.” Since Mac didn’t appear to want one, Laurel helped herself to another cookie. “So you had sex.”

“We didn’t have sex. We had the most amazing, world-bending, melt-your-brain-cells sex in the history of the planet.”

“Now it’s getting interesting.” Crossing her legs, Parker settled in. “Would that be tender, soft-focus, angels-weeping sex, or jungle-drums, swinging-from-the-chandelier sex?”

“It was . . . No one’s ever made me feel that way, or felt that way about me.” She sat on the arm of Parker’s chair, staring into the fire as she tried to find the words. “It’s like knowing you’re the focus, the only thing he sees. Nothing else but you. And it’s tender and hot, it’s terrifying and amazing. There’s this person who doesn’t see anyone but you. When he touches you, there’s no one but him.”

There were three humming sighs, and a moment of reverent silence.

“Why aren’t you snuggled up in bed with him?” Emma asked.

“Well, Jesus!” Mac’s head snapped around so she could stare at Emma. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“Listening, imagining, envying.”

“I had to leave. I wanted to stay so I had to leave.” Gesturing wildly, Mac pushed back to her feet. “I wanted to stay curled up there with him. I wanted to

live in that damn bed, so I had to get out.”

“You panicked,” Parker prompted.

“Of course I panicked. Who wouldn’t? He’s all sweet and sleepy and satisfied, and with that little fencing scar.”

“Carter fences?” Emma demanded.

“No, never mind. Off topic. I’m telling you, it was like I was hypnotized, or drugged. I had to get out of there. And . . . oh, God, I acted like a guy.” As it replayed in her head, Mac covered her face with her hands. “The kind of guy who rolls off you after, gets up and says, ‘That was great, babe. Got an early day tomorrow. I’ll call you.’ ”

“Oh, Mac, you didn’t.”

Mac jabbed a finger at Emma. “I

had to. It was self-preservation. And Carter-preservation, too. I was supposed to

de-lust after we had sex. Not go all gooey. It’s too much for me, that’s all. He’s too much for me. He’s sweet and funny, he’s smart and genuinely kind. He’s sexy and he’s got those glasses. He’s got the ear-blush thing happening. He loves teaching. I watched him lead a class, and it’s . . . It gets everything stuck right here.” She rubbed a hand between her breasts. “All this feeling and need clogged up.”

She picked up the nearest cup of tea and downed it. “He pays attention. He listens, and he

thinks about what I say. He makes me think.”

“Clearly he must be stopped.” Laurel shook her head. “Mac, honey? You’re in love with him.”

“That’s just not an option. Why do you think I left the way I did? It’s like being sucked into quicksand. Only really soft, warm, pretty quicksand. I’m not built for this. I don’t believe in this kind of thing. It doesn’t last. It’s the moment, or the series of moments until it goes south, or it erodes, fades. God, how many weddings have we done that are the second time around? Hell, we’ve done a few where for at least one of the parties involved, it was the third go. Who needs that? I know what it’s like when it falls apart. It can’t be worth it.”

“Let’s whittle this down,” Laurel suggested. “You’re afraid to be in love with a man you’ve just described as the Mary Poppins of men. Practically perfect in every way,” she explained when she got blank looks all around. “You panicked and ran after you had what appears to be sex as a religious experience, with this guy you respect and admire and have the hots for, because your mother’s a big ho.”

“Laurel!”

“No.” Mac shook her head at Emma. “That’s fair. My mother is a big ho. But she doesn’t see herself that way, which is part of my point. She sees herself as eternally searching for love. It’s more about money, status, and security, but she’d swear it was all about love. My father strolled away from her, for which I can’t blame him, and from me—for which I damn well can—because it just wasn’t worth the effort.”

“They’re not you, Mac,” Parker said quietly.

“No. I know. And maybe it’s cynical to believe they’re not so much the exception as par. But that’s how it strikes me. And I like the way my life’s working out, I’m comfortable with the direction of it.”

A little calmer, she sat again. “Carter’s a serious man. Under it all he’s a serious man with a traditional mind-set. He’s got a major crush on me, that’s what it is. A crush that’s been flickering in there for

years. If I let this escalate, he’s going to start thinking about hiring us for the event. He’s going to end up asking Parker where he should buy the ring. I can’t do that to him. I was right to leave. It’s better to cut it off now than to—”

“Risk being happy with someone who’s crazy about you?” Emma suggested.

“Okay, when you put it like that . . . yes. From where I’m standing that’s about right.”

“Can I have him?”

Mac glared at Laurel. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“You know what it’s about right from where you’re standing?” Emma studied Mac with her big, dark eyes. “Because nobody’s ever been crazy about you before, not in a way that matters, that’s solid and real. And you’ve never felt it for anyone. That’s what I know because I’m in the same place—I’d say all of us are. The difference is, with me, I’m always hoping it’ll happen.”

“Hence, the serial dating.”

“Knock it off, Laurel,” Parker told her.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being a smart-ass because I’m jealous. Right down to my bones. Nobody’s ever seen only me.”

“But he’s seeing me through the filter of an old crush.”

“I don’t know him as well as you, in the biblical sense or otherwise, but he strikes me as smarter than that.”

“Love and smart don’t go hand in hand.”

“No, they don’t.” Laurel lifted her arms toward Mac. “And here stands living proof of that. You’re stupid in love with the guy.”

“You’re not helping. Parker?”

“You’re afraid you’ll crush him. That because he is, at the core, a nice guy, you’ll walk all over him on the way to breaking his heart and leaving him shattered.”

“That’s a little dramatic, but yes. Basically.”

“And you’re determined to believe yourself incapable of sustaining a mature, committed relationship. Of not only seeing yourself as not worthy of love, but doubting you’ve got the backbone and balls to work at maintaining it.”

“That’s a little harsh, but—”

“I think you underestimate him, and yourself.” She rose, walked to the mantel for a photograph framed in silver. “Remember this?”

Mac took the photo of Parker’s parents, caught in a laughing hug, their eyes full of delight, of life, of each other. “Of course, I do.”

“You took that, just a few months before they died. Of all the pictures I have of them, this is my favorite. You know why?”