Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(99)

"Why don't we just let that play out? The problem is, Michelle, I don't have a key."

There was a beat, just a quick bump of surprise. "Oh, well, that's no problem." Michelle opened a drawer of her desk to fish out a spare set.

"Are you sure it's okay?" And how mortifying is it, Emma thought, to have to ask?

"I can't think of why it wouldn't be. You and Jack have been friends for years, and now you're . . ."

"Yes, we are," Emma said, deliberately bright. "Second problem? The two planters I bought weigh about fifty pounds each."

"Chip's in the back. I'll send him out."

"Thanks, Michelle," Emma said as she took the keys. "You're a lifesaver."

She closed her hand around the keys as she started around to the back again. No point, she told herself, in feeling embarrassed. No point in feeling slighted that the man she'd been sleeping with for nearly three months-and had known for more than a decade-hadn't bothered to give her a key.

It wasn't symbolic, for God's sake. He wasn't locking her out. He was just . . .

It didn't matter. She would forge ahead with her plans for the evening. Give him flowers, cook him dinner, and tell him she loved him.

And, damn it, she was going to ask for a key.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHE SPENT A HAPPY HOUR PUTTING AWAY GROCERIES, ARRANGING the sunflowers she'd brought from her stock for his kitchen counter, then prepping the planters.

She'd been right, she thought, about how perfect they'd be flanking the door. Deep, bold spots of color, she decided as she tucked red salvia behind purple heliotrope. The combination of plants she'd chosen would give him color and bloom all season, and be even showier when the lobelia spilled and the sweet alys sum foamed over the lip. 

A nice welcome home, she thought, every time he walked up the stairs. And, she thought with a little smile, a living reminder of the woman who'd laid out that welcome.

Sitting back on her heels, she studied the result. "Gorgeous, if I do say so myself."

After stacking the empty pots and cell packs, she shifted to duplicate the arrangement in the second urn.

She wondered if he had a watering can, then decided probably not. She should've thought of that, but they'd make do until he got one. Happy to have her hands in dirt, she hummed along with the radio she'd switched on. His front entrance planters needed more zip, she mused as she worked. She'd try to pick up a few more things in the next week or so.

When she'd finished, she swept up the spilled dirt, then carried the plastic trays and pots, her gardening tools down to her car. Brushing off her hands she looked up to admire the work.

Flowers, she'd always thought, were an essential element of home. Now he had them. And, she'd always believed, flowers planted with love bloomed more beautifully. If true, these would be spectacular right up to the first hard frost.

When she checked the time, she dashed back up the stairs. She needed to wash up and start on dinner, especially since she'd decided to add an appetizer to the menu.





DIRTY, SWEATY, AND STILL PISSED OFF DUE TO THE DISAPPEARING plumber and a rookie building inspector with an attitude, Jack turned toward the rear of his offices.

He wanted a shower, a beer, maybe a handful of aspirin. If the general contractor wasn't going to fire the asshole plumber-who also happened to be his brother-in-law-then he could explain the delay to the client. And he could take on the building inspector who decided to throw his weight around because a doorway was a damn seven-eighths of an inch off.

Okay, maybe the aspirin, the shower, then the drink.

Maybe that would smooth out a day that had begun with a call at six A.M. from a client with a tape measure who'd gone ballistic because the framing for his service bar came in at five feet eight inches instead of six feet.

Not that he blamed the client. He'd felt ballistic himself. Six feet on the plans meant six feet on the job, not whatever the sub decided would do.

And, Jack thought as he tried to roll the worst of the tension out of his shoulders, the day had just gone downhill from there. If he was going to put in a twelve-hour day, at least he wanted to finish up feeling he'd accomplished something instead of just riding around the goddamn county putting out fires.

He made the last turn, telling himself to be grateful he was home, where, since the office was now closed, nobody-please God-was going to ask him to fix anything, negotiate anything, or argue about anything.

When he spotted Emma's car he struggled to think past the headache. Had he mixed things up? Had they planned to meet in town, go from there?

No, no, dinner, maybe a movie-which he'd intended to switch to carry-out, possibly a DVD, and that after he'd had a chance to cool off and settle down. Except he'd forgotten to call her about that as he'd been hip-deep in crises and complaints.