"They'll be here tomorrow. And there will be chaos as we start on the flowers for the weekend events. Today it's just me, about three thousand roses, and blissful quiet." She opened the door for him.
"Three thousand? Are you serious? Your fingers will fall off."
"I have very strong fingers. And if I need it, one of the pals will come by for a couple hours and help strip stems."
He set the tray on her kitchen counter, thinking, as he always did, that her place smelled like a meadow. "Good luck with that. Thanks for lunch."
"You're welcome." She walked him to the door where he stopped.
"What about your car?"
"Oh. Parker gave me the name of a mechanic, a place. Kavanaugh's. I'm going to call."
"He's good. Call soon. I'll see you Saturday."
He imagined her going back to her roses as he walked to his car. Of sitting, for hours, drenched in their scent, cleaning stems of thorns then . . . doing whatever it was she did, he decided, to make what women who took the plunge carried.
And he thought of how she'd looked when he'd come upon her, sitting in the sunlight, face tipped up, eyes closed, those luscious lips of hers just slightly curved as if she dreamed of something very pleasant. All that hair bundled up and slim dangles of silver at her ears.
He'd thought, briefly but actively, about just leaning down and taking that mouth with his. He could've played it light, made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. She had a sense of humor, so maybe she'd have gotten a kick out of it.
She also had a temper, he mused. She didn't cut it loose often, but she had one.
It didn't matter either way, he reminded himself, as he'd missed that opportunity. The bevy of blondes and redheads was a better idea than scratching this increasingly annoying itch where Emma was concerned.
Friends were friends, lovers were lovers. You could make a friend out of a lover, but you were on boggy ground when you made a lover out of a friend.
He was nearly to the job site when he realized he'd left his jacket on her patio.
"Shit. Shit."
Now he was like one of those idiots who deliberately left something at a woman's place so he had an excuse to go back and try to score. And that wasn't it.
Was it?
Shit. Maybe it was.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT TWO FIFTEEN ON SATURDAY, EMMA HAD HER TROOPS LINED up to transform the event rooms from the cheerful Caribbean themed daytime wedding into what she privately thought of as the Paris Explodes event.
"Everything goes." Emma rolled to the toes of her move fast sneakers. "The bride wants all the remaining baskets, vases, centerpieces. We'll help them load up whatever hasn't already been given to guests. Beach and Tiffany, strip the garlands and swags, inside and out. Start with the portico, then move inside. Tink, you and I will start the changeover in the Grand Hall. When the portico's ready to be dressed, let me know. The bride's and groom's suites have already been changed over. New bride's due at three thirty for hair, makeup, dressing, and photos in her suite. We need the entrance, foyer, staircase complete by three twenty, and the Grand Hall complete by four. Terraces, pergola, and patios by four forty-five, Ballroom complete by five forty five. If you need extra hands get me or Parker. Let's do this."
With Tink beside her, Emma shot off like a bullet. Tink, she knew, was reliable when she wanted to be-which was about seventy-five percent of the time. But Emma only had to show her or explain something to her once. She was a talented florist, again when she wanted to be. And was, to Emma's mind, almost spookily strong.
Tiny and toned, her wildly chopped boot-black hair liberally streaked with cotton-candy pink for spring, Tink attacked the mantel dressing like a whirlwind.
They stripped, boxed, dragged, hefted, and hauled candles of mango orange and surf white, garlands of bougainvillaea, pots of ferns and palm trees.
Tink snapped the gum she was never without and wrinkled her nose so the silver hoop in it glinted. "If you're going to want palm trees and shit, why don't you just go to the beach?"
"If they did, we wouldn't get paid to create the beach."
"Good point."
When she got the signal, Emma deserted the hall for the portico. She twined and draped and swagged miles of white tulle, acres of white roses to create a regal entryway for the bride and her guests. Colorful pots of hibiscus and orchids made way for enormous white urns filled with a forest of lilacs.
"Bride and Groom One and all guests checked out," Parker told her. She stood in her simple gray suit, her BlackBerry in one hand, her beeper hooked to her pocket, and her earbud dangling. "My God, Emma, this looks amazing."
"Yeah, it's coming along. She balked on the lilacs-too simple a flower, according to Monster Bride, but I found a picture that convinced her." She stepped back, nodded. "Okay, yeah. Excellent."