Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(28)

"Good. Really good. We stay busy. We had a meeting earlier in the week because profits are up, and all I could think was how lucky we are-I am-doing work we love, being able to do it with the best friends I've ever had. You and Mama always said to find what we loved, and we'd work well and happily. I did."

She turned as her mother crossed the lawn carrying a jacket. "It's chilly, Phillip. Do you want to catch cold so I have to listen to you complain?" 

"You uncovered my plan." He let his wife bundle him into the jacket.

"I saw Pam yesterday," she spoke of Carter's mother. "She's so excited about the wedding. It's lovely for me, too, having two of my favorite people fall in love. Pam was a good friend to me, always, and a champion when some were scandalized your father would marry the help."

"They didn't see how clever I was to get all the labor for free."

"The practical Yankee." Lucia snuggled up against his side. "Such a slave driver."

Look at them, Emma thought. How perfectly they fit. "Jack told me the other day you were the most beautiful woman ever created, and he's waiting to run off with you."

"Remind me to beat him up the next time I see him," Phillip said.

"He's the most charming flirt. Maybe I'll make you fight for me." Lucia tipped her face up to Phillip's.

"How about a foot rub instead?"

"We have a deal. Emmaline, when you find a man who gives you a good foot rub, look closely. Many flaws are outweighed by that single skill."

"I'll keep it in mind. Meanwhile, I should go." She opened her arms to embrace them both. "Love you."

Emma glanced back as she walked away, and watched her father take her mother's hand under the arching branches of the cherry tree with its blooms still tightly closed.

And kiss her.

No, she thought, it was no wonder she was a born romantic. No wonder she wanted that, some part of that, for her own.

She got in the van and thought about the kiss on the back stairs.

Maybe it was only flirtation or curiosity. Maybe it was just chemistry. But she'd be damned if she'd pretend it didn't happen. Or let him pretend.

It was time to deal with it.





CHAPTER SIX

IN HIS OFFICE ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE OLD TOWNHOUSE he'd remodeled, Jack refined a concept on his computer. He considered the addition to Mac's studio after-hours work, and since neither she nor Carter were in any particular hurry, he could fiddle, reimagine, and revise the overall structure and every fussy detail.

Now that Parker wanted a second concept to include additions on both the first and second floors, he needed to revisualize not only the details and design, but the entire flow. It was smarter, in his opinion, to do it all at once, even if it did mean scrapping his original concept.

He toyed with lines and flow, the play of light as part of the increased space that would remain studio. With refitting the current powder room and storage and increasing the square footage of both, he could widen the bath, add a shower-something he thought they'd appreciate down the road-give Mac the client dressing area she wanted, and double her current storage space.

Carter's study on the second floor . . .

He sat back, guzzled some water, and tried to think like an English professor. What would his wants and needs be for work space? Efficiency, and a traditional bent-it being Carter. Built-ins along the wall for books. Make that two walls.

Breakfronts, he decided, shifting in his own U-shaped work space to try a quick hand sketch. Cabinets beneath for holding office supplies, student files.

Nothing slick, nothing sleek. Not Carter.

Dark wood, he thought, an Old English look. But generous windows to match the rest of the building. Angle the roof to break up the lines. A couple of skylights. Frame out this wall to form an alcove. Add interest, create a sitting area.

A place a guy could escape to when his wife was pissed at him, or when he just wanted an afternoon nap.

Put an atrium door here, and add a terrace-small scale. Maybe a guy wanted a brandy and cigar. It could happen.



       
         
       
        

He paused a moment, tuned back in to the game he had on the flat-screen to his left. While his thoughts brewed in the back of his mind, he watched the Phillies strike out the Red Sox in order.

That sucked.

He turned back to the drawing. And thought: Emma.

Cursing, he tunneled a hand through his hair. He'd been doing a damn good job of not letting her in. He was good at compartmentalizing. Work, ball game, the occasional toggle over to check other scores. Emma was in another compartment, and that one was supposed to stay shut.