by Nora Roberts
She stepped out again, glanced at Jack. “Whew.”
“The ‘maybe you’re right’? From her, that’s a bow.”
“Understood. I can take it from here. Go get that beer. Carter’s around here somewhere. Corrupt him.”
“I try, but he’s a hard nut to crack.”
“Boutonnieres,” she said, already on the move again. “Then I need to check on the Ballroom.” She looked at her watch. “We’re right on schedule, so thanks. I’d be running behind if you hadn’t helped me load and haul.”
“I can take up the boutonnieres. It’d give me a chance to see Justin, make bad jokes about balls and chains.”
“Good idea. Do that.” With the few minutes of time that bought her, she opted to swing through the Grand Hall, out onto the terrace.
Satisfied after a few tweaks, she climbed up to the Ballroom where her team was well underway. Emma pushed up her sleeves and dived in.
While she worked, Parker gave periodic updates, and started the countdown in her ear.
Guests still trickling in. Most are seated or on the terrace.
Formal prewedding shots complete. Mac’s on the move.
Grandparents escorted in two minutes. I’m bringing the boys down. Laurel, get ready for the pass-off.
“Roger that,” Laurel said dryly. “Em, cake’s assembled and ready for the table decor anytime.”
Boys passed off to Laurel, Parker announced a moment later as Emma finished with a stand of hydrangeas.
MOG escorted by BOG in one. MOB on deck. Escort is BOB. Queuing up attendants. Music change on my mark.
Emma walked back to the entrance doors, shut her eyes for ten seconds, then opened them to take in the entire space. She drew a breath in, let a breath out.
Paris Explodes, she thought, but it did so in lush style. Whites, silvers, purples, touches of green to set them off spilled, spread, speared, and shimmered under a perfect April sky. She watched the groom and his party take their places in front of a pergola simply smothered in flowers.
“Guys, we rule. We kill. You’re done. Hit the kitchen for food and drink.”
Alone, she took one last circuit of the room as Parker signaled the attendants to go! one by one. Then Emma sighed, rubbed her back, the back of her neck, her hands. And went to change into her heels as Parker gave the MB her cue.
Jack didn’t know how they pulled it off, every time, all the time. He’d been drafted to lend a hand now and again at an event. Hauling and lifting, bartending, even bussing tables in a pinch. As payment invariably included great food, drinks, and music, he never minded.
But he still didn’t know how they managed to pull it all together.
Parker consistently managed to be everywhere at once, and so subtly he suspected no one really noticed she might be prepping the best man on his toast one minute and passing out a pack of tissues to the mother of the bride the next while coordinating the service of the meal in the Grand Hall like a general coordinating troops during battle.
Mac popped up all over the place, too, and was just as cagey about it as she shot candids of the wedding party or the guests, or maneuvered the bride and groom into a quick posed photo.
Laurel streamed in and out, signaled, he supposed, through the headset they all wore, or by some sort of hand signal. Maybe mental telepathy. He wouldn’t discount that one.
And Emma, of course, on the spot when a guest spilled wine on the tablecloth, or when the bored ring bearer started to poke at one of the flower girls.
He doubted anyone noticed or understood there were four women literally holding everything together, juggling all the balls and passing them to each other with the grace and skill of NFL quarterbacks.
Just as he imagined no one knew the logistics and sheer timing involved in leading the guests from the Hall to the Ballroom. He lingered while Emma and her team along with Laurel swarmed on the head table to gather up the bouquets and holding vases.
“Need any help?” he asked her.
“Hmm? No, thanks, we’ve got it. Tink, six on either side, baskets on the end. Everything else stays in place for two hours here before undressing and loading. Beach, Tiff, snuff the candles, leave the overheads on half.”
“I can get that,” Tink said when Emma took the bride’s bouquet.
“One bruised rose and she’ll go on attack. Better she rips my throat out than yours. Let’s go, first dance is starting.”
While the flowers headed up the back stairs, Jack wandered to the main. He slipped into the Ballroom in the middle of the first official dance. The bride and groom chose what he considered the overused and overorchestrated “I Will Always Love You,” while people stood in the flower-drenched Ballroom or sat at one of the tables strategically arranged around the dance floor.
The terrace doors stood open, inviting guests to stroll outside. He thought he’d do just that once he got a glass of wine.
When he saw Emma ducking out again, he adjusted his plan. Carrying two glasses of wine, he went down the back stairs.
She sat on the second level, and popped up like a spring when she heard his footsteps. “Oh, it’s only you.” She sank back down on the steps.
“Only me is bearing wine.”
She sighed, circled her head on her neck. “We at Vows frown on drinking on the job. But . . . I’ll lecture myself tomorrow. Hand it over.”
He sat down beside her, gave her the glass. “How’s it going?”
“I should ask you. You’re a guest.”
“From the guest point of view, it’s a smash. Everything looks great, tastes great, smells great. People are having fun and have no idea the whole business is clicking along on a timetable that would make a Swiss train conductor weep in admiration.”
“Exactly what we’re after.” She sipped the wine, shut her eyes. “Oh God, that’s good.”
“How’s the MB behaving?”
“She’s actually not too bad. It’s hard to be bitchy when everyone’s telling you how beautiful you look, how happy they are for you. She actually did count the roses in her bouquet, so that made her happy. Parker’s smoothed over a couple of potential crises, and Mac actually got a nod of approval over the B and G shots. If Laurel’s cake and dessert table pass muster, I’d say we hit all the hot spots.”
“Did she do those little crиme brыlйes?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re gold. Lot of buzz on the flowers.”
“Really?”
“I actually heard gasps a few times—the good kind.”
She rolled her shoulders. “Then it’s all worth it.”
“Here.”
He boosted himself up a stair, straddled her from behind, and dug his fingers into her shoulders.
“You don’t have to . . . Never mind.” She leaned back into his hands. “Carry on.”
“You’ve got some concrete in here, Em.”
“I’ve got about a sixty-hour week in there.”
“And three thousand roses.”
“Oh, adding the other events, we could double that. Easily.”
He worked his thumbs up the back of her neck, made her groan. And as his stomach knotted in response, realized he wasn’t doing himself any favors. “So . . . how’d the fiftieth go?”
“It was lovely, really lovely. Four generations. Mac got some wonderful pictures. When the anniversary couple had their first dance, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It goes down as one of my all-time favorite events.”
She sighed again. “You have to stop that. Between the wine and your magic hands I’m going to end up taking a nap right here on the steps.”
“Aren’t you done?”
“Not even close. I have to get the tossing bouquet, help out with the cake service. Then there’s the bubbles, which we hope to do outside. In an hour, we’ll start breaking down the Grand Hall, boxing centerpieces and arrangements.”
Her voice went a little thick, a little sleepy when he kneaded her neck. “Um . . . Loading up those, and the
gifts. Loading up the outdoor arrangements. We have an afternoon event tomorrow, so we’ll break down the Ballroom, too.”
He tortured himself, running his hands down her biceps, back up to her shoulders. “Then you should relax while you can.”
“And you should be upstairs enjoying the party.”
“I like it here.”
“So do I, which makes you a bad influence with your wine and staircase massages. I have to get back up, relieve Laurel on patrol.” She reached back, patted his hand before she rose. “Cake cutting in thirty.”
He got to his feet as she started up. “What kind of cake?”
She stopped, turned, and ended up on level with him. Her eyes, those deep velvet eyes, looked sleepy to match her voice. “She’s calling it her Parisian Spring. It’s this gorgeous pale lavender blue covered with white roses, sprigs of lilac, with this soft milk chocolate ribboning and—”
“I was more about what’s inside.”
“Oh, it’s her genoise with Italian meringue buttercream. You don’t want to miss it.”
“It may beat out the crиme brыlйe.” She smelled like flowers. He couldn’t say which ones. She was a mysterious and lush bouquet. Her eyes were dark and soft and deep, and her mouth . . . Wouldn’t it taste every bit as rich as Laurel’s cake?
The hell with it.
“Okay, this is probably out of line, so apologies in advance.”
He took her shoulders again, eased her to him. Those dark, soft, deep eyes widened in surprise an instant before his lips took hers.
She didn’t jerk away, or laugh it off as a joke. Instead she made the same sort of sound she had when he’d rubbed her neck—just a little breathier.
Her hands clamped on his hips, and those luscious lips of hers parted.
Like her scent, her flavor was mysterious and essentially female. Dark and warm and sensual. When her hands moved up his back, he took more. Just a little more.
Then he changed angles, took more still, and pleasure hummed in her throat.
He thought of just snatching her up, carrying her off to whatever dark room he could find to finish what a moment of impulse had begun.
The beeper at her waist sounded, and both of them jolted. She made a strangled sound, then managed, “Oh. Well.” In a jerky move she unclipped the beeper, stared at it. “Parker. Um. I have to go. I have to . . . go,” she said, then turned and bolted up the stairs.
Alone, he lowered to the stairs again and finished off his neglected wine in two long gulps. He decided he’d skip the rest of the reception, and take a long walk outside instead.
Emma could only be grateful work kept her too busy to actually think. She helped clean up an incident involving the ring bearer and chocolate йclairs, delivered the tossing bouquet, rearranged the decor on the cake table to ease the serving, then began the stripping down of the Grand Hall.
She readied centerpieces and other arrangements for transport and supervised the loading of them for the proper recipients.
When the bubbles were blown and the last dance finished, she began the same process on the patios and terraces.
She didn’t see a trace of Jack.
“Everything okay?” Laurel asked her.
“What? Yes. Sure. Everything went great. I’m just tired.”
“Right there with you. At least tomorrow’s event will be a breeze after today. Have you seen Jack?”
“What?” She jumped like a thief at the shrill of an alarm. “Why?”
“I lost track of him. I planned to bribe him with pastries to help with the breakdown. I guess he skipped.”
“I guess. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Liar, liar. Why was she lying to her friend? It couldn’t be a good sign.
“Parker and Mac are seeing off the stragglers,” Laurel commented. “They’ll do the security check. Do you want me to help you cart these to your place?”
“No, I’ve got it.” Emma loaded the last of the leftovers she’d put back in the cooler. She’d donate the bulk to the local hospital, take the rest apart and make smaller arrangements to put around her place, and her friends’.
She closed the cargo doors. “See you in the morning.”
She drove the van home, reversed the process and carried flowers and garlands into her cooler.
No matter how firmly she ordered her mind to stay calm and blank, it just kept opening up to one single thought.
Jack kissed her.
What did it mean?
Why should it mean anything?
A kiss was just that. It had just been a product of the moment. Nothing more.
She readied for bed, trying to convince herself it was nothing more.
But when a kiss blew right off the spark-o-meter, blasted through the scale, it was hard to describe it as “nothing more.”
Something else was what it was, she admitted. And she didn’t know what to do about it. That was frustrating because she always knew what to do when it came to men and kisses and sparks. She just knew.
She climbed into bed telling herself since she’d never be able to sleep, she’d just lie there in the dark until she came up with a solution.
And she dropped away in seconds, pushed off the edge by sheer exhaustion.
Chapter Five
Emma got through the sunday event and her monday consults and adjusted the arrangements for some upcoming events due to changes of bridal minds.
She canceled two dates with two perfectly nice men she now had no desire to spend evenings with. She filled those evenings by doing inventory and ordering ribbons, pins, containers, forms.
And wondering if she should call Jack and make some light, breezy comment about the kiss—or pretend it never happened.
She alternated between the top options and a third, which involved going over to his house and jumping him. So she ended up doing nothing but tying herself into knots over it.
Annoyed with herself, she arrived early for a scheduled afternoon staff meeting. She cut through Laurel’s kitchen, where her friend was arranging a plate of cookies beside a small fruit and cheese platter.
“I’m out of Diet Coke,” Emma announced and opened the fridge to take one. “I’m out of almost everything because I keep forgetting my car battery is dead as disco.”
“Did you call the garage?”
“That, at least, I remembered to do about ten minutes ago. When I confessed—under expert interrogation by the guy—that I’ve owned the car for four years, have never taken it in for a tune-up, couldn’t remember exactly the last time, if ever, I’ve had the oil changed or some computer chip check job thing and other car business I don’t remember now, he said he’d have it picked up, taken in.”
Pouting a little, she popped the top and drank straight from the can. “I sort of felt as if I’d been holding my car hostage and he’s releasing it. He made me feel like even more of an idiot than Jack did. I want a cookie.”
“Help yourself.”
Emma picked one up.
“Now I’m going to be without a car until he decides to give it back. If he does, and I’m not entirely sure he intends to.”
“You’ve been without a car for over a week because your battery’s dead.”
“True, but I had the illusion of a car because it was sitting there. I guess I need to take the van and go to the grocery store, and the zillion other places I’ve put off going. I’m actually afraid to, as it occurred to me I’ve had the van for a year more than the car. It may rebel next.”
Laurel tossed some pretty pastel mints on the cookie tray. “I know it’s a crazy idea, but maybe once you get your car back, you can have the garage service the van.”
Emma nibbled at the cookie. “The car guy tossed that idea in the hat. I need consolation. How about dinner and movie night?”
“Don’t you have a date?”
“I canceled. I’m not in the mood.”
Laurel blew hair out of her eyes, the better to stare in shock. “
You’re n
ot in the mood for a date?”
“I have to get an early start tomorrow. Six hand-tied bouquets, and the bride’s makes seven. That’s a good six, seven hours of work. I have Tink coming in for half a day, so it cuts it back, but there’s all the rest to put together for the Friday night event. And I spent most of the morning processing the flowers.”
“That’s never stopped you before. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You’ve been just a shade off.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m just not . . . in the mood for men.”
“That couldn’t include me.” Delaney Brown walked in, lifted Emma off her feet to give her a resounding kiss. “Mmm. Sugar cookie.”
Emma laughed. “Get your own.”
He plucked one from the tray, grinned at Laurel. “Consider it part of my fee.”
Going from experience, Laurel got out a Ziploc bag and began to fill it with cookies. “Are you in on the meeting?”
“No. I just had some legal business to go over with Parks.”
Since it was there and so was he, Del went to the coffeepot.
He and Parker shared the dark brown hair, the dark blue eyes. What Laurel would have called their refined features were just a little more roughly carved on him. In the smoke gray pin-striped suit, Italian shoes, and Hermиs tie, he looked every bit the successful Connecticut lawyer. The scion of the Connecticut Browns.
With the food prep complete, Laurel untied her baker’s apron and hung it on a peg.
Del leaned on the counter. “I hear you kicked some ass with the Folk wedding last weekend.”
“Do you know them?” Emma asked.
“Her parents are clients. I haven’t had the pleasure—though from what Jack says that may be overstating—of meeting the new Mrs. Harrigan.”
“You will when they file for divorce,” Laurel said.
“Always the optimist.”
“She’s a nightmare. She sent Parker a critique list this morning. E-mailed from Paris. From her honeymoon.”
“You’re kidding!” Stunned, Emma gaped at Laurel. “It was perfect. Everything was perfect.”
“The champagne could’ve been colder, the wait service faster, the sky bluer, and the grass greener.”