by Nora Roberts
“You’re just going to come in here and say you’re sorry after I did all this work so we could fight it out and I could make you crawl?”
“Yes.”
Considering, Parker picked up a white chocolate heart. “I assume you’ve already been through this with Laurel.”
“Yes. Hence the chocolate. I blubbered all over her. I got most of it out, but if you don’t eat that so I know we’re okay, I’m going to start up again. It’s like a symbol. Men shake hands after they beat each other up. We eat chocolate.”
With her eyes on Mac, Parker bit into the heart.
“Thanks, Parker.” Mac dropped into a chair. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“That helps. Let’s just clear the air. If you’ve got a problem with how I’m managing Vows, we have to be able to discuss it, one-on-one or as a group.”
“I don’t. Parks, how could I? How could any of us? Sure the repetition gets old sometimes, but we all know the reason for it. Just like we all know that you hammering out and handling a zillion details frees the rest of us up to focus on our specific parts of the whole. I can do what I do—and the same for Em and Laurel—because you think about everything else. Including thinking about everything the rest of us do so we can all kick wedding ass.”
“I didn’t bring it up so you could stroke my ego.” Parker took another bite of chocolate. “But do go on.”
And we’re back, Mac thought with a laugh. “It’s a fact. You’re anal, obsessive, and a little bit scary with the memory you have for minutiae. And it’s a fact that’s a big part of the reason we kick that ass. I don’t want to do what you do, Parks. None of us do. And because I opened the box of stupid and put my ass hat on, I hit you where I knew it would hurt most.”
Mac glanced at the files. “You put reports together, didn’t you? Documentation, cost analyses and other really mean stuff.”
“I was prepared to squash you like a bug.”
Mac nodded, chose a dark chocolate heart. “Eating candy’s better.”
“It really is.”
“So . . . how did the tour go?”
“They brought their mothers, and an aunt. And a toddler.”
“A toddler?”
“The aunt’s granddaughter. She was cute—and really, really fast on her feet. They toured Felfoot Manor yesterday, and the Swan Resort last week.”
“Hitting the big ones. How’d we measure up?”
“They want a Saturday in April of next year. An entire Saturday.”
“We got it? On a tour and a pitch? A double booking?”
“No booty dance yet.” Parker lifted her water bottle and sipped. “MOB—the one with the gorgeous Prada bag on her arm with the checkbook inside it—wants to meet with all of us. Full consult before commitment. She’s got ideas.”
“Oh-oh.”
“No, she’s got ideas, the sort that would make this a major event. The kind of event that generates serious attention. Father of the bride is Wyatt Seaman, of Seaman Furniture.”
“The ‘We make your house your home’ Seaman Furniture?”
“The same, and his wife has deemed us potentially worthy. Not capital W worthy, yet. But we’re going to give her the presentation to end all presentations.”
Challenge lit Parker’s face, fired in her eyes. “After which, she’ll be taking her checkbook out of that gorgeous Prada bag and giving us a deposit that’ll have our hearts singing hallelujahs.”
“Then we dance.”
“Then we dance.”
“When’s the presentation?”
“A week from today. You’ll need new packages. We want it very fresh. They took a look at Emma’s space, and she did a quick pitch. Since you were wearing the ass hat, I steered them clear of the studio.”
“Very wise.”
“But we had your samples here, so we could give her the feel. Next Monday, we’ll want to highlight every shot you’ve had in a magazine. And . . . you know exactly what to do.”
“And I’ll do it.”
Parker pushed over a file. “Here’s a rundown of who we’ll be dealing with. I did some Googling. And here’s bullet points and the latest schedules for the three upcomings.”
“I’ll cram.”
“Do that.” Parker passed Mac a bottle of water. “Now tell me what happened.”
“Just Lindaitis, again. Fever’s broke, and I’m fine.”
“She couldn’t have wanted money. You just . . .” Parker trailed off as she read Mac’s expression. “Already?”
“I said no—repeatedly. Then Del hung up on her.”
“That’s my brother.” The pride came through. “I’m glad he was there when she called. Still, Del could probably do more than hang up on her. Something legal. It may be time for that, Mac.”
Mac brooded into the fire. “Could you do that, if it was your mother?”
“I don’t know. But I think I probably could. I’m meaner than you.”
“I’m pretty mean.”
“I’m mean, Laurel’s hard-assed, Emma’s a pushover. And you fall between Laurel and Em. We run the gamut,” Parker said, closing her hand over Mac’s. “It’s why we work so well as a team. Why did you tell Del not to tell me?”
“How do you know I told him not to tell you?”
“Because otherwise he would have.”
Mac blew out a breath. “I didn’t want to suck you guys into the Linda vortex. Then I sulked and brooded, woke up Bitch Queen, and ended up sucking you in anyway.”
“Next time avoid the middle part and remember we’re always willing to get sucked in.”
“Got it. Now before I go back to earning a living and being a productive member of the team, I have a question. Would you sleep with Carter Maguire?”
“Well, he hasn’t asked me. Will he be buying me dinner first?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. He can’t expect me to hop into bed with him without even springing for a meal. But if we were talking about you,” she said, gesturing with the water, “I’d have to ask if you find him attractive, sexually.”
“You can’t just sleep with every guy you find sexually attractive. Even if dinner’s included.”
“True, we’d never get anything else done. Obviously you like him, and you’re thinking about him, spending time with him—and considering having sex with him.”
“I’ve had sex before.”
Parker gave up and ate the other white chocolate heart. “I’ve heard that.”
“I don’t know why I’m so hung up on this one issue when it comes to Carter. I should deal with it. I should just have sex with him, get it done, and move on.”
“You’re a romantic fool, Mackensie. Stars always blinding your eyes.”
“It’s what I get for being in the wedding business.”
IT WASN’T OUT OF HER WAY, EXACTLY, TO DRIVE BY THE ACADEMY en route to the next client. In any case she had a little time to kill before her appointment. In any any case, she hadn’t returned Carter’s call, which was rude, so what was the harm in doing a quick drop by?
He’d be in class, she supposed. She’d take a quick peek—check that out, then leave him a note at the front office. She’d think of something amusing and breezy, thereby putting the ball they kept batting around back in his court.
Had it been this quiet in the corridors back in the days she’d gone here? Had the air been this echoey, shooting her footsteps off like gunfire?
The stairs she climbed were the same she’d climbed a dozen years before. A lifetime before. So long before she couldn’t quite picture herself as she’d been, only a vague image, like a print that had been softened to a blur.
It seemed she walked with a ghost of herself, one full of potential and possibility.
One who was fearless.
Where had that girl gone?
Mac walked to the classroom door, peeked in the porthole window. The pensive mood vanished.
He wore the tweed jacket again, with a shirt, tie, and V-ne
cked sweater under it. Thank God he wasn’t wearing his glasses or she’d have been a gooey puddle of lust on the floor.
He leaned back against his desk, a half smile on his face and his attention centered on a student who—if the expression on her face and her gestures were any indication—spoke passionately.
She watched him nod, speak, then shift his attention—all of it—to another student.
He’s in love, she realized. In love with the moment, and all the moments that made up what happened in that room. He was so completely there. Did they know it? she wondered. Did those kids understand they had all of him?
Did they know, could they know—the young and fearless—what a miraculous thing it was to have all of anyone?
She jolted when the bell rang, pressed a hand to her heart when it thumped in surprise. Chairs scraped, bodies sprang into motion. Mac barely skipped out of the way before the door slammed open.
“Read act three for tomorrow, and be prepared to discuss. That goes for you, too, Grant.”
“Aw, come on, Dr. Maguire.”
She stayed out of the way of the stampede, but managed to angle herself to see three students stop at his desk. He didn’t rush them away, then—God help her—he put his glasses on to check a paper one of them handed him.
Mackensie, she thought as her hormones twanged, you are toast.
“You made some good points today, Marcie. Let’s see if we can expand on them tomorrow when we discuss the third act. I’ll be . . .”
Mac watched him glance over as she moved into the doorway. Watched him blink, then take off his glasses to bring her into focus. “I’ll be interested in your take.”
“Thanks, Dr. Maguire. See you tomorrow.”
As the classroom emptied, as the corridors filled with noise, Carter set his glasses down. “Mackensie.”
“I was in the neighborhood, and it occurred to me I didn’t return your call,” she said, walking to his desk.
“This is better.”
“Certainly more interesting for me. You’re all professorial looking.”
He glanced down as she gave the knot of his tie a little wiggle. “Oh. Monday morning faculty meeting.”
“You, too? Hope yours went better than mine.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. Water over the bridge.”
“Under, generally. Well, barring flood.”
“Right. I enjoyed seeing you in your natural habitat.”
“Would you like to go for coffee? That was the last class of the day. We could—”
“Hey, Carter, I was going to grab a . . .” A short man with horn-rims and a fat shoulder-bag briefcase wandered in. He stopped, gave Mac a baffled look. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Um, Mackensie Elliot, one of my colleagues, Bob Tarkinson.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mac said as Bob’s eyes went wide behind the lenses. “Do you teach English?”
“English? No, no, I’m in the Math Department.”
“I liked math. Geometry especially. I like figuring the angles.”
“Mackensie’s a photographer,” Carter explained, then remembered Bob already knew that. And maybe just a little too much more.
“Right. Photography, angles. Good. Soooo, you and Carter are—”
“Talking about having coffee,” Carter said quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bob.”
“Well, I could . . . Oh, right, right.” With only the first half ton of bricks landing on him, Bob clued in. “Tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Mackensie.”
“Bye, Bob.” Mac turned back to Carter.
Bob took the opportunity to shoot Carter a wide grin and two enthusiastic thumbs-up on his way out.
“So, ah, coffee.”
“I’d like that, but I’m on my way to a client. When I’m done I have to go home and do my homework. I’m cramming for a test.”
“Oh. What?”
“Big job, major client. Super-duper presentation required. We’ve got a week to put something together that clinches it. But if you’re done for the day, maybe you could walk me out to my car.”
“Of course.”
She waited while he got his coat. “I almost wish I had some books for you to carry. It would circle around to the nostalgia I get when I come in here. Although I don’t recall ever having a guy carry my books.”
“You never asked me.”
“Oh, if we knew then what we know now. You looked good in there, Dr. Maguire. And I don’t mean in your professor suit. Teaching looks good on you.”
“Oh. Well. Really I was just leading a discussion. Letting them do the work. That was more along the lines of conducting.”
“Carter, say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
They stepped outside, down the entrance steps to turn for the walk to visitors’ parking. “Never too cold to hang out when you’re a teenager,” Mac observed.
Kids milled the lawn, sat on the stone steps, loitered in the parking lot.
“I had my first serious kiss right over there.” She gestured toward the side of the building. “John C. Prowder laid one on me right after a pep rally. I had to round up Parker and Emma between fifth and sixth periods and recount the entire event in the girls’ room.”
“I saw you kiss him one afternoon, standing on the steps. My heart shattered.”
“If we knew then. I’ll just have to make it up to you.” She turned into him, wound her arms around his neck, pressed her lips to his. She kissed him in the shadow of the academy, with all the ghosts stirring in its corridors, all the old dreams shifting.
“Way to go, Dr. Maguire,” someone called out, with a few hoots of approval following.
Her face full of fun, she gave his tie another tug. “Now I’ve ruined your reputation.”
“Or seriously improved it.” He cleared his throat when they reached her car. “I suppose you’ll be busy all week with the proposal.”
“Busy, yes,” she agreed when he opened the door for her. “But I’ll come up for air.”
“I could make you dinner, maybe Thursday, if you could come up for air then.”
“You cook?”
“I’m not entirely sure. It’s a gamble.”
“I’m not opposed to gambling, especially when food’s involved. Seven? Your place?”
“That would be perfect. I’ll give you my address.”
“I can find you.” She got in the car. “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, then went breathless with laughter at his expression. “That wasn’t a metaphor for sex, Carter. I meant actual dessert. I’ll hit Laurel up for something.”
“Understood. But I do love a good metaphor.”
She drove away shaking her head. Points for the professor. Now she had until Thursday to decide if she’d settle for a piece of Laurel’s Italian cream cake, or add on the metaphor.
CHAPTER TEN
CARTER CHECKED THE TABLE IN WHAT PASSED FOR HIS DINING room for a third time. He rarely used it as he tended to eat at the kitchen counter or at his desk. In fact, this was the first time he’d put a tablecloth on it.
He thought it hit the right tone between fussy and casual. White plates on a dark blue cloth, and the yellow stripes in the napkins brightened it up. He thought. He hoped.
He took the trio of votive candles off the table, they were too studied. Then put them back. It looked unfinished without them.
After dragging his hand through his hair, ordering himself to stop obsessing, he turned his back on the table to go into the kitchen.
That was the real worry, after all.
The menu passed muster. He’d run it by the Domestic Science instructor, adjusted for her suggestions, and added her recipe for the honey vinaigrette for the field greens salad.
She’d given him a list—what had to be done and when, how much time to allow, and helpful suggestions for presentation.
Presentation, apparently, was as important as the food. Which was why he now owned a tablecloth and cheerful napkins.
/> He’d had his dry run. Everything was set, everything looked . . . fine.
He had nearly an hour to drive himself completely crazy. In that spirit, he eased open the drawer holding Bob’s list. The list Carter promised himself he would ignore.
“Music. Damn it. I’d have thought of it,” he muttered to Bob’s spirit. “I would have.”
He hurried to the living room to tear through his collection of CDs. The cat uncurled itself from a chair and walked its lop-sided way to join him.
“It’s not going to be Barry White, I don’t care what Bob says about slam dunk. No offense to Mr. White, but we’re not going to be a cliché. Right?”
Triad bumped his head against Carter’s knee.
While he obsessed over CDs, the door opened and Sherry burst in.
“Hi! Can I leave this here?”
“Yes. Why? What is it?”
“It’s a Valentine’s Day present for Nick. It’s a doctor’s bag. I had it engraved, and just picked it up. He’s going to love it! I know if I take it home I won’t be able to resist giving it to him now. So you have to hide it from him. And me.” She sniffed the air. “Are you cooking?”
“Yes. God, is something burning?”
He was up like a shot.
“No, it smells good. Really good.” Since he was already running toward the kitchen she went after him. “And not like the grilled cheese sandwiches you usually . . . Wow, Carter, look! You have food in the oven. Oh, the table’s so pretty. Candles and wineglasses and . . . You’re cooking dinner for a woman.” She drilled her finger into his belly the way she had ever since they’d been kids. “Mackensie Elliot!”
“Stop.” He could literally feel the fresh nerves sprouting in his stomach. “I’m begging you. I’m already a lunatic.”
“I think it’s wonderful. So sweet. Nick made me dinner when we were first going out. It was a disaster.” She sighed, dreamily. “I just loved it.”
“You loved the disaster?”
“He tried so hard. Too hard, because he’s actually good in the kitchen. He screwed everything up because he was so worried about impressing me. Oh.” She sighed again, with a hand to her heart. “It was so sweet.”