"I went with the pink tulips and the mini iris. It's cheerful, female, springy."
"Yes, it's perfect." Parker waited while Emma took them out of the vase, adjusted the sheer white ribbon.
"I could add some lisianthus if you want it fuller."
"No, it's great. Just right. Emma," Parker began as her friend coned the arrangement in clear, glossy paper, "do either of you know you're in love with him?"
"What? No. I never said . . . Of course, I love Jack. We all love Jack."
"We all didn't put on a red dress and sexy shoes to spend the evening with him."
"Oh, well that's just . . . I'm going out."
"It's not just that. Em, you're going out with Jack. You're sleeping with Jack. Which is what I figured was what, more or less. But I listened to you just now, I watched your face just now. And, honey, I know you. You're in love."
"Why do you have to say that?" Distress covered Emma's face. "It's just the sort of thing that's going to mess with my head, and make everything all sticky and awkward."
Brow lifted, Parker angled her head. "Since when have you thought of being in love as sticky and awkward?"
"Since Jack. I'm okay with the way things are now. I'm better than okay. I'm in an exciting relationship with an exciting man and I don't . . . I don't expect it to be anything else. Because that's not Jack. He isn't the kind who thinks about what we'll be doing five years from now. Or five weeks from now. It's . . . just now."
"You know, it's odd that you and Del, who are closer to him than anyone, both have such little confidence in him."
"It's not that. It's just that in this particular area, Jack's not looking for . . . permanent."
"What about you?"
"I'm going to enjoy the moment." She said it with a decisive nod. "I'm not going to be in love with him, because we both know what'll happen if I am. I'll start romanticizing it, and him, and us, and wishing he'd . . ."
She trailed off, pressed a hand to her belly. "Parker, I know what it's like to have someone feel that way about me, when I don't feel that way. It's just as awful for the one who's not in love as it is for the one who is."
She shook her head. "No, I'm not going there. We've only been seeing each other like this for a little while. I'm not going there."
"All right." To soothe, Parker stroked a hand over Emma's shoulder. "If you're happy, I'm happy."
"I am."
"I'd better run. Thanks for putting these together."
"Never a problem."
"I'll see you tomorrow. Follow-up consult on the Seaman wedding."
"I've got it in my book. I know they want to walk around the gardens, see them now to project what they'll want in those areas next April. I'm going to dress a couple of the urns with Nikko blue hydrangeas I've been coaxing along in the greenhouse. They're lush, and should give a good show. I've got a couple other tricks up my sleeve, too," she added as she walked to the door with Parker.
"You always do. Have a good time tonight."
"I will."
Emma closed the door, then just leaned back against it.
She could fool herself, she admitted. She could certainly fool Jack. But she could never fool Parker.
Of course she was in love with Jack. She'd probably been in love with Jack for years, and simply convinced herself it was lust. The lust had been bad enough, but love? Deadly.
She knew exactly what she wanted from love-from the down into the bones, rooted in the heart, blooming through the body love. She wanted forever.
She wanted the day after day, night after night, year after year, the home, the family, the fights, the support, the sex, the everything.
She'd always known what she wanted in a partner, in a lover, in the father of her children.
But why did it have to be Jack?
Why, when she finally felt all the things she'd waited all of her life to feel, did it have to be for a man she knew so well? Well enough to understand he was someone who wanted his own space, his own direction, who considered marriage a gamble with long odds?
She knew all those things about him, and still she'd fallen.
If he knew, he'd be . . . appalled? she wondered. No, that was probably too strong. Concerned, sorry-which was worse. He'd be kind, and he'd pull the plug gently.
And that was mortifying.
There was no reason he had to know. It was only a problem if she let it be a problem.
So, no problem, she decided.
She was as skilled at handling men as she was at handling flowers. They'd go on just as they were, and if it got to a point where it caused her pain instead of pleasure, she'd be the one to pull the plug.
Then she'd get over it.