Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(15)

Time ticked away.

She paused long enough to roll her shoulders, circle her neck, flex her fingers.

Using the foam holder she'd soaked, she circled it with lemon leaf to create a base she glossed with leaf shine.

She gathered roses for her holding bucket, stripped stems, barely bothered to curse when she nicked herself, cutting the stems to length to make the first of fifty reproductions of the bouquet the bride had carried a half century before.

She worked from the center out, painstakingly locking each stem in the form with adhesive. Stripping, cutting, adding-and appreciating the bride's choice of multicolored roses.

Pretty, Emma thought, happy. And when she tucked the holder in the squat glass vase, she thought: lovely.

"Only forty-nine to go."

She decided she'd start on that forty-nine after she took a break.

After carting bags of floral debris out to her composters, she scrubbed the green off her fingers and from under her nails at her work sink.

To reward herself for the morning's work, she took a Diet Coke and a plate of pasta salad out on her side patio. Her gardens couldn't compete-yet-with the one she was creating. But her happy couple had been married in southern Virginia. Give me a few weeks, she mused, pleased to see the green spears of spring bulbs, the freshening foliage of perennials.

Last night's snow was just a memory under blue skies and almost balmy temperatures.

She spotted Parker with a group of people-one of the day's potential clients doing the tour-crossing one of the terraces at the main house. Parker gestured toward the pergola, the rose arbor. The clients would have to imagine the abundance of white roses, the lushness of wisteria, but Emma knew the urns she'd planted with pansies and trailing vinca showed off very well. At the pond dotted with lily pads, the willows were just beginning to green.

She wondered if the prospective bride and groom would one day have a busy florist creating fifty bouquets to commemorate their marriage. Would they have children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren who loved them enough to want to give them that celebration?

With a small groan for muscles aching from the morning's exercise and the morning's work, she propped her feet on the chair across from her, lifted her face to the sun, and shut her eyes.

She smelled earth, the tang of mulch, heard a bird chittering its pleasure in the day.

"You've got to stop slaving away like this."

She jerked up-had she fallen asleep?-and blinked at Jack. Mind blank, she watched him pluck a curl of pasta from her plate, pop it into his mouth. "Good. Got any more?"



       
         
       
        

"What? Oh God!" Panicked, she looked at her watch, then breathed a sigh of relief. "I must've dozed off, but only for a couple minutes. I have forty nine bouquets left to make."

His brows drew together over smoky eyes. "You're having a wedding with forty-nine brides?"

"Hmm. No." She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "Fiftieth anniversary, and a re-creation of the bridal bouquet for every year. What are you doing here?"

"I need my jacket."

"Oh, right. Sorry I forgot to give it back to you last night."

"No problem. I had an appointment down the road." He took another twirl of pasta. "Do you have any more of this? I missed lunch."

"Yeah, sure. I owe you lunch at least. Sit down. I'll get you a plate."

"I'll take it, and I wouldn't mind a hit of caffeine. Hot or cold."

"No problem." Studying him, she pushed at hair that escaped pins. "You look a little whipped."

"Busy morning. And I've got another site to visit in about forty-five minutes. You were between the two, so . . ."

"That's handy. Be right back."

He was whipped, he thought, and stretched out his legs. Not so much from the work, or the in-your-face with an inspector that morning. Which he would've handled better if he hadn't been sleep-deprived. Tossing and turning and trying to block out sex dreams of a Spanish-eyed lady would whip anyone.

So, of course, he had to be stupid and masochistic, and drop by with the excuse of the jacket.

Who knew how sexy she looked when she slept in the sunlight?

He did, now. It wasn't going to give him easier dreams.

The thing to do was get over it. He should make a date with a blonde or a redhead. Several dates with several blondes and/or redheads until he managed to put Emma back on the No Trespassing list.

Where she belonged.

She came out, his jacket over her arm, a tray in her hands.

She had, he thought, the kind of beauty that just slammed a man's throat shut. And when she smiled, the way she did now, it blew through him like a bolt of lightning.