Even knowing all that, though, Margot still wasn’t quite used to the stillness of the house now that her mother was gone. Worse, the cat who’d been their constant companion for the past seventeen years had passed on in early June, and though from time to time Margot had thought about replacing Felicity, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.
Mouth thinning, she kicked off the high-heeled sandals that had been abusing her feet for the past six hours, then padded into the kitchen. Right now the best idea seemed to be brewing a cup of strong tea. Maybe then she could wash away the last of the champagne afterglow spinning around in her brain…and with it, wash away the memory of Lucas Wilcox’s arm around her waist, the strength of the shoulder under her hand…how good he had smelled.
All right, maybe two cups of tea.
* * *
“Was it something I said?” Lucas inquired of his cousin Connor, who had just gotten up from the table where he sat with Angela. Apparently he’d been heading over to inquire about the cake cutting, but he only made it a few feet before Lucas stopped him.
Connor’s mouth worked; Lucas could tell he was fighting back a grin. “I don’t know…what did you say to her?”
“Nothing much. In fact, I was so worried I’d end up offending her somehow that I didn’t say anything for the whole song.” He paused, his own mouth twisting. “Maybe that was the wrong approach. Maybe I should have said something about the weather or her dress or…well, something.”
“Lucas, I have a feeling it isn’t anything you said, or didn’t say. Margot Emory’s not exactly what I would call the friendly type.” A lift of the shoulders, and Connor added, “If you wanted to make life difficult for yourself, you definitely chose the right person to chase after.”
With that parting shot, he moved off in the direction of the resort’s banquet manager, who was standing off to one side with a slightly glazed expression on his face. Probably trying to figure out how everything had gone so well, considering how quickly this entire affair had been put together. Lucas could have tried explaining that was his gift, that any enterprise he was involved with tended to go off without a hitch, but he had a feeling that would only make the manager’s head explode…figuratively speaking, of course. No, better for him to simply think it was planning, planning, planning, and only a little bit of luck.
Lucas picked up a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and stared off in the direction of the parking lot, the direction where Margot had gone. It wouldn’t be that hard to track her down; he knew she lived in Jerome, even if he didn’t know the exact house. But if he drove up there now, he could allow his luck to guide him, and the odds were better than even that he’d end up parking his Porsche right in front of her place.
No, that was a terrible idea. She was already skittish as hell, and having him chase her up to her house would only make her go out and try to convince the other two McAllister elders that it was time to renew the anti-Wilcox wards that Angela had worked so hard to get removed from the little town’s limits.
Elder. Lucas shook his head and took a healthy swallow of champagne. Even though he knew it was a title of authority and not one that was necessarily reflective of a given person’s age, he found it difficult to apply that term to someone as lithe and lovely as Margot Emory. In fact, he’d gotten the impression that she was only a year or two younger than he, but she didn’t look like someone closer to forty than twenty. He wondered how she did it.
Magic? Maybe. He knew she’d certainly cast a spell on him.
He finished the glass of champagne and contemplated snagging another. It wasn’t as if he had to worry about driving, since he’d booked a room here at the resort. But he also didn’t want to get stupid drunk, not at Connor and Angela’s wedding reception. Half the McAllisters were giving him the side-eye already, and he knew he needed to behave himself.
So he grabbed a bottle of Perrier instead, then stood off on the sidelines as the happy couple headed to where the cake had been waiting in buttercream-frosted splendor this entire time, and went through the whole ritual of cutting the first piece and then feeding it to one another. Carefully, he noted — Angela had probably threatened Connor with some kind of whammy if he tried to smear cake all over her face. Then they went back to their seats, Angela moving a little slowly, as if her feet hurt. Poor kid. It was a long day for anyone, let alone a girl six months pregnant with twins.
When a waiter came up to offer Lucas a slice of the cake, he declined. He’d never had much of a sweet tooth. Anyway, he didn’t want cake. He wanted Margot Emory.