Bride Quartet Collection (10 page)

“We’ll talk later. I’ll try to write some of this down for you.”

“Great.” Carter made his escape, joined the flock of students and teachers in the corridor.

He thought he might not make it to Saturday. At least not sanely.

CHAPTER SEVEN

H
E BOUGHT FLOWERS. IT ANNOYED HIM BECAUSE HE’D INTENDED to take her flowers in the first place. But Bob’s tutorial changed the simple gesture into a complex and essential symbolic act so fraught with pitfalls, he’d decided to skip the step.

One of her best friends was a florist, wasn’t she? Mackensie could carpet her studio with flowers if she wanted to.

Then he worried that by not bringing the damn flowers he’d be committing some unwritten but universally known dating faux pas. In the end, he’d doubled back—he’d left plenty of time for the drive from his place to Mackensie’s. There might’ve been traffic, a five-car collision. Many casualties.

He rushed into the supermarket, and had stood studying, debating, questioning the flowers on display until sweat beaded on his forehead.

Bob, he assumed, would have something cutting to say about the choice of supermarket flowers. But he’d left it too late for a florist, and he could hardly rush over to Emma’s and throw himself on her mercy.

He wished he’d just left it at coffee. They’d had a nice conversation, a pleasant time. You go your way now, I’ll go mine, and that’s that. All this was just too complicated, too intense. But he could hardly call her now, make up some excuse, even if he could successfully lie his way through it. And the chances of that were slim to none.

People dated all the time, didn’t they? They rarely died due to the activity. He grabbed what seemed to be a colorful, casual arrangement, and stalked over to the express line.

They were colorful, he thought with some resentment. They smelled nice. A couple of those big gerbera daisies were mixed in, and they struck him as a friendly flower. None of the dreaded roses, he mused, which, according to the Law of Bob, meant he’d basically be asking Mackensie to marry him and bear his children.

So, they should be safe.

Maybe they were too safe.

The kind-eyed cashier gave him a quick smile. “Aren’t those pretty! A surprise for your wife?”

“No. No. I don’t have a wife.”

“Oh, for your girl then.”

“Not exactly.” He fumbled out his wallet as she rang them up. “Just a . . . Could I just ask you if you think these are appropriate for a date? I mean to give to the woman I’m taking out to dinner.”

“Sure they are. Most everybody likes flowers, don’t they? Especially us girls. She’s going to think you’re real sweet, and thoughtful, too.”

“But not too . . .” Stop while you’re ahead, Carter told himself.

She took the money, made the change. “Here you go now.” She slid the bouquet into a clear plastic bag. “You have a real good time tonight.”

“Thank you.” More relaxed, Carter walked back to his car. If you couldn’t trust the checker in the express line at the supermarket, who could you trust?

He checked his watch, calculated that barring fatal collisions he was still on schedule. Though he felt foolish, he pulled the list the helpful Bob had printed out from his pocket, and carefully crossed off Buy Flowers (not roses).

Following, there were several suggestions for greetings or initial conversation points such as
You look beautiful
,
Great dress
,
I saw these (flowers) and thought of you.

Carter stuffed the list back in his pocket before any of them imprinted on his brain. But not before he’d noted Bob’s decree to tune the car radio to classic lite or smooth jazz, on low volume.

He might end up killing Bob, Carter mused.

He drove the next few miles while obsessing about background music before snapping off the radio. The hell with it. He turned into the long, winding drive of the estate.

“What if she’s not wearing a dress,” he muttered, as despite all efforts Bob’s list popped back into his mind. And unfortunately, his own question had the image of Mac in black pants and white bra crowding Bob out.

“I don’t mean that. For God’s sake. I mean, she might be wearing something
other
than a dress. What do I say then: Nice pants? Outfit, outfit, great outfit. You know it’s called an outfit. Dear God, shut up.”

He rounded the main house and followed the narrowing drive to Mac’s.

The lights were on, up and down, so the entire place glowed. Through the generous windows of the first floor he could see her studio, the light stands, a dark blue curtain held up with big, silver clips. In front of the curtain stood a small table and two chairs. Wineglasses glinted on the table.

Did that mean she wanted to have drinks first? He hadn’t allowed time for drinks. Should he move the reservation? He got out of the car, started down her walk. Went back to the car to get the flowers he’d left on the passenger seat.

He wished the evening was over. He really did. With a sick feeling in his gut he had to force his hand up to knock. He wanted it to be tomorrow morning, a quiet Sunday morning. He’d grade papers, read, take a walk. Get back to his comfortable routine.

Then she opened the door.

He didn’t know what she was wearing. All he saw was her face. It had always been her face—that smooth milk skin framed by bright, bold hair. Those witch green eyes and the unexpected charm of dimples.

He didn’t want the evening to be over, he realized. He just wanted it to begin.

“Hello, Carter.”

“Hello, Mackensie.” None of Bob’s listed suggestions occurred to him. He offered the flowers. “For you.”

“I was hoping they were. Come on in.” She closed the door behind him. “They’re so pretty. I love gerbera daisies. They’re happy. I want to put these in water. Do you want a drink?”

“Ah . . .” He glanced over at the table. “If you’d planned to.”

“That? No, that’s a setup from a shoot I had this afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, giving him a little come-ahead gesture. “Engagement shoot. They’re wine buffs. Actually, she writes for a wine-buff mag, and he’s a restaurant critic. So I got the idea of doing it as a bistro deal.” She got out a vase as she talked, and began to unwrap the flowers.

“It’s great the way you’re able to tailor a photograph like that to the people in it. Sherry loved what you did with hers.”

“That was easy. A couple of people madly in love snuggling on the couch.”

“It’s only easy if you’ve got the instincts to know Sherry and Nick wouldn’t sit in a sophisticated bistro drinking wine, or sit on the floor surrounded by books—and a very big cat.

“The Mason-Collari engagement. That ran today, didn’t it? Do you always check on the wedding and engagement section of the paper?”

“Only since I met you again.”

“Aren’t you the smooth one?”

As no one had ever applied that adjective to him, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

She set the vase in the center of her kitchen counter. “Those will perk me up in the morning, even before coffee.”

“The cashier at the market said you’d like them. I had a small crisis; she got me through it.”

Amusement made the dimples flicker in her cheeks. “You can always count on the cashier at the market.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She walked out, and over to the couch to pick up the coat draped over the arm. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Sure.” He crossed to her to take the coat. As he helped her into it, she glanced back over her shoulder. “Every time you do this I wish I had longer hair, so you’d have to pull it out of the collar.”

“I like your hair short. It shows off your neck. You have a very nice neck.”

She turned, stared at him. “We’re going out to dinner.”

“Yes. I made reservations. Seven thirty at—”

“No, no, I mean we’re going out to dinner, so this is not to be interpreted as let’s stay in. But I think I really need to get this out of the way, so I can enjoy the meal without thinking about it.”

She rose on her toes, linked her hands behind his head. And laid her mouth, soft and inviting, on his. The jolt of pleasure shot straight through him. He had to fight the urge to grab her as he had before, to release even a portion of that pent-up lust. He ran his hands up her body, regrettably shielded by the coat, then down it again until the jolt mellowed to a shimmer.

She drew back, and a pretty flush warmed that milk porcelain skin. “You have a real talent for that, Professor.”

“I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you back—way back. I’ve recently revisited that thinking. That might be why.”

“Or, you’re just a natural. We’d better go, or I’m going to talk myself out of dinner.”

“I don’t expect you to—”

“I might.”

Because he was, again, momentarily stunned, she beat him to the door, and opened it herself.

She filled the car. It’s how he thought of it. Her scent, her voice, her laugh. The simple reality of her. As strange as it was, his nerves calmed.

“Do you always drive the exact speed limit?” she asked.

“It’s irritating, isn’t it?” He glanced her way, and when he saw her eyes laughing at him, he had to grin. “If I go over by more than a couple miles an hour, I feel like a criminal. Corrine used to . . .”

“Corrine?” she said when he trailed off.

“Just someone I annoyed with my driving.” And everything else, apparently.

“An old girlfriend.”

“Nothing, really.” Why hadn’t he turned on the radio?

“See, now it’s a mystery, and I’m more curious. I’ll tell you about one of my exes first—to prime the pump.” She turned her face to him until he could feel those green eyes laughing again. “How about the fledgling rock star, the one who resembled Jon Bon Jovi through the filter of infatuation. In looks, not talent. His name was Greg, but he liked to be called Rock. He actually did.”

“Rock what?”

“Ah,
just
Rock. Like Prince, or Madonna. Anyway, at twenty, he seemed incredibly hot and cool, and in my sexual delirium I spent a lot of time, talent, and money taking head shots of him and his band, group shots, shots for their self-produced CD. I drove their van, played groupie and roadie. For over two months. Until I caught him sucking face with his bass player. A guy named Dirk.”

“Oh. Well, that’s very sad.”

“I heard the amusement in that.”

“Not if you were really hurt.”

“I was
crushed
. For at least five minutes. Then I was pissed for weeks. I’d been his beard, the bastard. My satisfaction comes from the fact that he now sells kitchen appliances in Stamford. Not major appliances either. I mean like blenders and toaster ovens.”

“I like a good toaster oven.”

She laughed as he turned into a parking lot. “The Willows—nice choice, Carter. The food’s always good here. Laurel worked here as pastry chef before we started Vows, and for a while after when we were getting off the ground.”

“I didn’t know that. I haven’t been here for a couple months, but the last time I came with—”

“Corrine.”

“No.” He smiled a little. “With a couple of friends who set me up with a blind date. Very strange evening, but the food was, as you said, good.”

He got out of the car, started to walk around to open her door. But she climbed out before he got there. When she held out a hand to him, casually, his heart took a quick, extra, thump.

“Why strange?”

“She had a voice like a violin might have made if you neglected to rosin the bow. It’s an unfair observation, but pretty accurate. Plus she’d recently gone on a no-carb, no-fat, no-salt diet. She ate an undressed salad, one leaf, one sprig, one carrot curl at a time. It was disconcerting.”

“I eat like a horse.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“You watch.”

Just as they reached the door, it opened. The man who stepped out wore an open coat, no hat, gloves, or scarf. The wind immediately kicked the dark hair around his ridiculously handsome face. One glance at Mac had his well-cut lips curving, and his sea-at-midnight eyes lighting.

“Hey, Macadamia.” He hoisted her up by the elbows, smacked a kiss to her lips. “Of all the gin joints in all the . . . Carter?” He dumped Mac back on her feet, shot out a friendly hand. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m fine, Del. How are you?”

“Good. It’s been too long. What’re you two doing here?”

“We thought, since we’re told they have food here, we’d eat.”

Del grinned at Mac. “That’s a plan. So you’re having dinner. Together. I didn’t realize you were an item.”

“We’re not,” they said together. Then Carter cleared his throat.

“We’re having dinner.”

“Yeah, that’s been established. I had a quick business meeting over a drink, and I’m meeting some friends across town. Or I’d come in and have one with you, and cross-examine the witnesses. But, gotta go. Later.”

Mac watched Delaney Brown jog toward the parking lot. “Who was that guy?” she asked, and made Carter laugh.

As she slid in, Mac wondered if Carter had requested a corner booth, or if they’d just gotten lucky. It added just a hint of intimacy to play against the upscale casual tone of the restaurant. She turned down the offer of a cocktail in favor of wine with dinner, then ignoring her menu, turned to Carter.

“So, the salad-eating squeaky violin. No follow-up?”

“I don’t think either party was interested in one.”