Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(79)

When she carried them back, placed them, he spoke from the doorway. "I was thinking that the white looked good on you-with you? Whatever it would be. But everything does. And that you never wear flowers. It's probably too clichéd for you. So maybe I made a mistake."

She stood, surrounded by scent and blossom. "A mistake?"

"Yeah. I'll be back in a minute."

She shook her head when he walked off again. She stepped out, closed the cooler. She'd need to clean off her workstation, then she should go over her notes for the next day.

"I always try out the bouquets," she said when she heard him come back, "to make sure they're comfortable to hold, that the shape and the use of color and texture work."

"Sure. I get it. I pick up a hammer at least once on every job, just to get a feel for the building. I get it, Emma."

"Okay then, I just wanted . . ." She trailed off when she turned and saw the long, slim box in his hand. "Oh."

"I had a meeting in town, and I saw this. It sort of yelled out of the display window, 'Hey, Jack, Emma needs me.' And I thought, yeah, she does. So . . ."

"You brought me a present," she said when he handed it to her.

"You said you liked getting flowers."

She opened the box. "Oh, Jack."

The bracelet burst with color, bold jewel-toned stones, each a small, perfect rose.

"But you don't wear flowers."

Surprise and delight clear on her face, she looked up. "I will now. It's beautiful. Just beautiful." She took it out, laid it across her wrist. "I'm dazzled."

"I know the feeling. Here, the jeweler showed me how it works. The clasp slides in here, so you don't see it."

"Thank you. It's . . . Oh, look at my hands."

He took them, stained and scratched from her work, and brought them to his lips. "I do. A lot."



       
         
       
        

"I snap at you, and you give me flowers." She slid into his arms. "I'll have to snap at you more often." On a sigh, she closed her eyes. "The rain's stopped," she murmured, then leaned back. "I need to clean up a little, then go help with tonight's rehearsal. But after, we could have a drink, maybe something to eat out on the patio. If you want to stay."

"I want to stay." A sudden intensity darkened his eyes as they roamed her face. "Emma. I don't think I've told you enough that I care about you."

"I know you do." She rose up to kiss him softly. "I know."





LATER, WHEN SHE'D LEFT FOR THE MAIN HOUSE, HE ROOTED through her supplies and found what he needed to toss a quick meal together. It wasn't as if he couldn't cook when he needed to, he thought. Or that he expected her to cook for him when they stayed in.

As they did more often, he realized.

He could even put a pretty damn good meal together, the benefit of once dating a sous chef.

A little garlic and olive oil, some herbs and chopped tomatoes and they'd have some pasta. No big deal.

He'd made her breakfast before, hadn't he?

Once.

Why did he suddenly feel he was taking advantage of her, taking her for granted, the way he'd often thought others did?

He knew why. He knew exactly why, he admitted as he minced and chopped.

The look on her face when their eyes had met in the mirror, just that split second of hurt before irritation had smothered it.

I'm not practicing.

He had been thinking of the flowers, the bracelet. But she hadn't been completely wrong in her instincts. On some level he had been . . . uneasy. Or . . . hell if he knew. But the sight of her holding the bouquet had given him a-jolt, he admitted. Just for a second.

And he'd hurt her, bruised her feelings. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt her.

She'd forgiven him, or let it go, or pushed it aside. Not because of the bracelet, he thought. She wasn't the type to angle for gifts, or to sulk over a slight.

She was . . . Emma.

Maybe he had taken her for granted here and there. That would stop now that he recognized it. He'd be more careful, that was all. Just because they'd been seeing each other for . . .

The shock had him nicking his thumb. Seven weeks. No, nearly eight, which was the same thing as two months. And that was practically an entire season.

A quarter of a year.

It had been a very long time since he'd been able to measure the time in months he'd been exclusively with one woman.

In a couple of weeks they'd have been together throughout spring, and starting into summer. 

And he was okay with it, he realized. More than okay with it.

There was no one else he wanted to be with.