Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(2)
"Boys like breasts," Mac said wisely. "Anyway, if he won't kiss you, you just kiss him. I don't think it's that big a deal anyway."
Emma thought it was, or should be.
But they wrote down the list, and just the act of it made them all laugh. Laurel and Mac acted out how one boy or another might approach the moment, and that had them rolling on the floor until Mr. Fish, the cat, stalked out of the bedroom to curl up in Parker's sitting room.
Parker tucked the notebook away when Mrs. Grady came in with cookies and milk. Then the idea of playing Girl Band had them all pawing through Parker's closet and dressers to find the right pieces for stage gear.
They fell asleep on the floor, across the bed. Curled up, sprawled out.
Emma woke before sunrise. The room was dark but for the glow of Parker's night-light, and the stream from the moon through her windows.
Someone had covered her with a light blanket and tucked a pillow under her head. Someone always did when they had sleepovers.
The moonlight drew her, and, half dreaming still, she walked to the terrace doors and out. Cool air, scented by roses, brushed her cheeks.
She looked out over the silver-edged gardens where spring lived in soft colors, sweet shapes. She could almost hear the music, almost see herself dancing among the roses and azaleas, the peonies that still held their petals and perfume in tight balls.
She could almost see the shape of her partner, the one who spun her in the dance. The waltz, she thought with a sigh. It should be a waltz, like in a storybook.
That was romance, she thought, and closed her eyes to breathe in the night air.
One day, she promised herself, she'd know what it was like.
CHAPTER ONE
SINCE DETAILS CROWDED HER MIND, MANY OF THEM BLURRY, Emma checked her appointment book over her first cup of coffee. The back-to-back consults gave her nearly as much of a boost as the strong, sweet coffee. Basking in it, she leaned back in the chair in her cozy office to read over the side notes she'd added to each client.
In her experience, the personality of the couple-or often, more accurately, the bride-helped her determine the tone of the consult, the direction they'd pursue. To Emma's way of thinking, flowers were the heart of a wedding. Whether they were elegant or fun, elaborate or simple, the flowers were the romance.
It was her job to give the client all the heart and romance they desired.
She sighed, stretched, then smiled at the vase of petite roses on her desk. Spring, she thought, was the best. The wedding season kicked into high gear-which meant busy days and long nights designing, arranging, creating not only for this spring's weddings, but also next.
She loved the continuity as much as the work itself.
That's what Vows had given her and her three best friends. Continuity, rewarding work, and that sense of personal accomplishment. And she got to play with flowers, live with flowers, practically swim in flowers every day.
Thoughtfully, she examined her hands, and the little nicks and tiny cuts. Some days she thought of them as battle scars, and others as medals of honor. This morning she just wished she'd remembered to fit in a manicure.
She glanced at the time, calculated. Boosted again, she sprang up. Detouring into her bedroom, she grabbed a scarlet hoodie to zip over her pjs. There was time to walk to the main house before she dressed and prepared for the day. At the main house Mrs. Grady would have breakfast, so Emma wouldn't have to forage or cook for herself.
Her life, she thought as she jogged downstairs, brimmed with lovely perks.
She passed through the living room she used as a reception and consult area, and took a quick scan around as she headed for the door. She'd freshen up the flowers on display before the first meeting, but oh, hadn't those stargazer lilies opened beautifully?
She stepped out of what had been a guest house on the Brown Estate but was now her home and the base for Centerpiece-her part of Vows.
She took a deep breath of spring air. And shivered.
Damn it, why couldn't it be warmer? It was April, for God's sake. It was daffodil time. Look how cheerful the pansies she'd potted up looked. She refused to let a chilly morning-and okay, it was starting to drizzle on top of it-spoil her mood.
She hunched inside the hoodie, stuck the hand not holding her coffee mug in her pocket, and began to walk to the main house.
Things were coming back to life all around her, she reminded herself. If you looked closely enough you could see the promise of green on the trees, the hint of what would be delicate blooms of dogwood and cherry blossoms. Those daffodils wanted to pop, and the crocuses already had. Maybe there'd be another spring snow, but the worst was over.