"The Right wedding." Laurel narrowed her eyes. "That's soon, isn't it?"
"A week from Saturday. Final guest count is one-ninety-eight. This one's going to be a headache. I've calmed the bride down. Yes, she's right to be upset, yes, she's right to support her friend. But to remember the wedding's about her and her fiance, and what a terrible spot the man she loves is in, through no fault of his own. I'm meeting with them both tomorrow to try to smooth it out."
"Cheating bastard and cheated-on MOH both attend-much less remain in the wedding party-it's going to get ugly."
"Yes." Parker acknowledged Mac's observation with a sigh. "But we'll handle it. It's just a little bit worse, as the business partner's on the invite list-and the cheating bastard's insisting if she's removed, he won't attend."
"Well, he's an asshole." Laurel shrugged. "The groom needs to have a serious come-to-Jesus talk with his brother."
"Which is also on my list of suggestions for tomorrow's meeting. But in more diplomatic terms."
"That's tomorrow's business. No business calls during therapeutic drinking, dancing, and heartbreaking."
Parker didn't give her word on Mac's decree, but she did tuck her phone back in her purse. "All right, girls." She flipped her hair back. "Let's go flaunt it."
They slid out of the limo, then streamed past the line of hopefuls outside the club. Parker gave her name at the door. In seconds they were inside the wall of music.
Mac scoped it out. Two levels of booths, tables, and banquettes left room for a central dance floor. On either side, under the rainfall of colored lights, stood stainless steel bars.
Music churned; bodies gyrated. And her mood clicked up a couple of notches.
"I love when a plan comes together."
They hunted up a table first, and Mac considered it an omen of good when they scored a small banquette where they could squeeze in together.
"Observe the species," Mac said. "This is my first rule. Observe the plumage, the rituals before making any attempt to acclimate."
"Screw that, I'm going for drinks. Are we sticking with champagne?" Emma wanted to know.
"Get a bottle," Parker decided.
Laurel rolled her eyes as Emma wiggled out and started toward the nearest bar. "You know she'll get hit on a dozen times before she orders anything, and feel obliged to have actual conversations with the guys who drool on her. We'll all die of thirst before she gets back. Parker, you should go, and put on your invisible cloak of Back Off until we're set up here."
"Give her a few minutes first. How's the fear factor, Mac?"
"Diminishing. I can't even imagine the undeniably cute Dr. Maguire in a place like this, can you? At a poetry reading, sure, but not here."
"Now, see, that's assumption and conclusion based on profession. Like saying because I'm a baker, I must resemble the Pillsbury Doughboy."
"Yes, yes, it is, but it helps my cause. I don't want to get involved with him."
"Because he has a PhD?"
"Yes, and great eyes, a really soft blue that go all sexy when he's wearing his glasses. And there's the unexpected superior kisser factor, which could blind me to the basic fact that we're not suited. Plus any relationship with him outside the most casual of friendships would be a serious relationship. What would I do about that? And he helped me on with my coat, twice."
"Dear God!" Parker widened her eyes in shock. "You have to nip this in the bud, quickly, finally. I understand it all now. Any man who would do that is . . . Words fail."
"Oh, shut up. I want to dance. Laurel's going to dance with me while Parker swirls on her Back-Off cloak and rescues our champagne-and rescues Emma from her own magnetism."
"Apparently it's time to acclimate," Laurel said when Mac pulled her up and toward the dance floor.
SHE DANCED, WITH HER FRIENDS, WITH MEN WHO ASKED, OR whom she asked. She drank more champagne. In the silver and red ladies room, she rubbed her sore feet while Emma joined the army of women at the mirrors.
"How many numbers have you collected so far?"
Emma carefully applied fresh lip gloss. "I haven't counted."
"Approximate?"
"About ten, I guess."
"And how will you tell them apart later?"
"It's a gift." She glanced over. "You've got one on the line, I noticed. The guy in the gray shirt. He's got some moves on the floor."
"Mitch. Smooth on the floor, great smile. Doesn't strike me as an asshole."