HE WASN’T SURE WHAT HE INTENDED TO DO, AND WAS LESS sure of what she intended to do. But when Mac cut across the snowy lawn, Carter instinctively picked her up.

“What? What?”

“You’re only wearing shoes.”

“So are you! Put me down! I can’t project a stern and forbidding demeanor when you’re carrying me. Down, down, or they’ll get by us.”

The minute he set her down, she was off. In a kind of lope, Carter thought. A long-legged gazelle leaping through the snow. He wasn’t graceful, he knew. But he was fast when he had to be.

He passed her. Carter figured his ungainly slide on the path, thanks to his now ruined and snow-slicked shoes, cut back on the impact of the barrier, but he blocked the forward motion of the furious best man and his current amore.

“I’m sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Lester have expressly ordered that Ms. Poulsen not be admitted to this event.”

“She’s with me, and we’re going in.”

Not just furious, Carter noted, but a little bit drunk. “Again, I’m sorry, but we have to respect the wishes of the bride and groom.”

Just slightly out of breath, Mac reached them. “You were told, specifically and repeatedly, that your friend here isn’t allowed.”

“Donny.” Roxanne tugged on Donny’s sleeve. “You said it was all right.”

A combination of anger and embarrassment heated Donny’s face. “It’s all right because I say it is. It’s my brother’s wedding, and I can bring whoever I want to bring. Meg’s bent, and that’s too bad. But she doesn’t run my life. Out of my way.” He jabbed a finger at Mac and Carter. “You’re just the hired help.”

“She’s not going in,” Mac said. Too many trips to the bar, Mac calculated, so his ego, his pride, his resentment all swam in a pool of alcohol.

Where the hell was the backup?

“You just said it yourself, it’s your brother’s wedding. If she’s more important to you than his happiness today, then you can turn around and go with her. This is private property, and she’s not welcome at this time.”

“Donny.” Roxanne tugged at his arm again. “There’s no point—”

“I said you’re with me.” He whirled back to Mac. “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t tell me about my brother. Now move!” Temper ripe in his eyes, he planted a hand on Mac’s shoulder and shoved.

Like a flash, Carter stood between them. “Don’t touch her again. Now, you’re drunk, and you’re obviously stupid so I’ll factor that in. You need to cool off and calm down, because you really don’t want to do this.”

“You’re right. I want to do this.”

He smashed his fist into Carter’s face. Carter’s head snapped back, but he didn’t give ground. Roxanne squealed, Mac cursed. Before she could leap forward, Carter pushed her back behind him.

“She’s not going in. You’re not going back in. All you’ve proven is that you’re too selfish to think of anyone but yourself. You’ve embarrassed Ms. Poulsen, and that’s a shame. But you’re not going to get the opportunity to embarrass your brother and his wife today. Now you can leave on your own, or I can help you with that.”

“Why don’t we all help him with that?” Del said as he and Jack flanked Carter.

“I don’t think there’s any need for that.” Parker clipped down the path, then muscled her way through. She stood, an ice queen in Armani, and stared down the best man. “Is there, Donny?”

“We’ve got better things to do. Come on, Roxie. This place is a dump anyway.”

“I’ll make sure they leave.” Del shook his head in disgust. “Go on back in. How’s the face, Carter?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve had a fist smash into it.” He wiggled his jaw experimentally. “It always hurts though.”

“Ice pack.” Parker watched the CBBM and SBP’s departure with cold eyes. “Emma.”

“Come with me, Carter.”

“It’s all right. Really.”

“Ice pack.” Parker’s tone brooked no nonsense. “I’ll signal the all-clear, and let’s get back inside. Nobody hears about this.”

“Did you see what he did?” Mac murmured.

“He who?” Del asked.

“Carter. He just . . . Every time I think I have him figured out, he shifts on me. It’s confusing.”

Somebody else had it bad, Del noted as Mac hurried down the path to finish her job.

IT TOOK NEARLY TWO HOURS BEFORE MAC COULD FINISH AND track Carter down in Laurel’s kitchen. He sat alone in the breakfast nook, reading. As she came in, he glanced up, took off his glasses. “All clear?”

“More or less. I’m sorry it took so long. Carter, you should’ve gone home. It’s after midnight. I should’ve gotten word back to you. Oh, your poor face.” She winced at the bruise on his jaw.

“It’s not so bad. But we decided I should stay here. If I’d come back out, I might’ve had to explain how I came by this.” He touched his fingers gingerly to the bruise. “I’m terrible at lying, so this was simpler. Plus, as promised, there was cake.”

She slid in across from him. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, Parker had a copy of a John Irving novel I hadn’t read yet. I’ve been tended, entertained, and fed. Your partners made sure of it. And both Jack and Del each came back for a while. I’ve been fine.”

“You didn’t even wobble.”

“Sorry?”

“When that stupid bastard belted you. You barely reacted.”

“He was half drunk so there wasn’t that much behind it. He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

“You never even raised your voice. You shut him down—I could see it happen in his face, even before the troops arrived. And you never touched him or raised your voice.”

“Teacher training, I suppose. And a wide and varied experience with bullies. Did the newlyweds get off all right?”

“Yes. They don’t know what happened. They’ll find out, I imagine, but they had their day—and that was the point. You were a big part of that.”

“Well, it was an experience. All it cost me was a sore jaw and a pair of shoes.”

“And you’re still here.”

“I was waiting for you.”

She stared at him, then just gave in to the shimmer inside her heart. “I guess you’d better come home with me, Carter.”

He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”

MISTAKES HAPPENED, RIGHT? MAC REMINDED HERSELF AS SHE opened the door of her studio. If this was a mistake, she’d fix it. Later. When she could think more clearly. But at the moment, it was after midnight, and there was Carter in his three-piece suit and ruined shoes.

“I’m not as tidy as you.”

“

Tidy’s such a fussy word, don’t you think?” He gave her an easy smile. “The sort that makes you think of your great-aunt Margaret and her tea cozies.”

“I don’t have a great-aunt Margaret.”

“If you did, she’d probably be a tidy sort with a tea cozy. I prefer the word

organized.”

Mac tossed her coat over the arm of her couch. Unlike Carter, she didn’t have a coat closet. “I’m organized then, when it comes to my work, my business.”

“I could see that today. It seemed you knew exactly what to do, where to be, what to look for before it was there.” He laid his coat over hers. “That’s creative instinct married to organization.”

“And I use them both for the work. Outside of that, I’m a messy woman.”

“Everyone’s messy, Mackensie. Some people just shove the disorder into a closet or a drawer—at least when company’s coming—but it’s still there.”

“And some people have more drawers and closets than others. But since it’s been a long day, let’s step back from the edge of the philosophical cliff, and just say I’m telling you this as my bedroom isn’t at its best.”

“Are you looking for a grade?”

“As long as there’s a very generous curve. Come on up, Dr. Maguire.”

“This used to be the pool house,” he said as she led the way.

“The Browns did a lot of entertaining, so they redesigned it as a kind of spare guest house. Then when we opened the business, we redesigned again for the studio. But up here, it’s all personal space.”

A master suite sprawled over the second story, layed out, Carter saw, to accommodate a sitting area where he imagined she might read, nap, watch TV.

Color dominated, with the muted, misty gold of the walls serving as a backdrop for strong blues, greens, reds. Like a jewel box, he thought, with everything cluttered in, tangled, and gleaming. Clothes draped over the arms of chairs. Bright sweaters, soft shirts. Throws and pillows tumbled over the bed, the couch, like bold stones and rivers.

A wildly ornate mirror hung over a painted chest that served as a dresser. The top held jumbled and fascinating pieces of her. Earrings, magazines, bottles, and pots. Photographs served as art, portraits of those close to her. Posed and candid, pensive and joyful. With them scattered over the walls, she’d never be alone here.

“There’s so much of you here.”

“I try to shovel some of it out every couple of weeks.”

“No, I mean it reflects. Downstairs reflects your professional side, and this, the personal.”

“Which circles back to my point about being a messy woman.” She opened a drawer, pushed in a discarded sweater. “With a lot of drawers.”

“So much color and energy in here.” It was how he saw her. Color and energy. “How do you sleep?”

“With the lights off.”

She stepped to him, laid her finger on his bruised jaw. “Still hurt?”

“Actually . . . yes.” Now, alone in her jewel-box room, he did what he’d wanted to do all day. He kissed her. “There you are,” he murmured when her lips warmed to his. “Right there.”

She let herself lean into him, let herself sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder. Yes, she’d think later. When he wasn’t holding her, when her mind wasn’t fuzzed with fatigue and longing.