Savor the Moment
Page 14
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“There.” She tossed her hair back while he stared at her. “The sky did not fall, the world did not end, neither of us was struck by lightning or beamed straight to hell. I’m not your damn sister, Delaney. That ought to make it clear.”
She strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Aroused, astonished, and still considerably annoyed, he stood exactly where he was. “What was that? What the hell was that?”
He started to go after her, then stopped himself. That wouldn’t end well, or it would end ... He’d better not think of that until he could think, period.
He frowned at the half glass of champagne. How much had she had before he’d come in? he wondered. Then, because his throat was uncommonly dry, he picked up the flute and downed the rest of the contents.
He should go, just go home, and set the whole thing aside. Chalk the whole incident up to ... something. He’d figure out what to chalk it up to when his brain regained full function.
He’d just come for the cake, that’s all, he reminded himself as he carefully closed and secured the lid on the bakery box. She’d picked a fight, then she’d kissed him to prove some sort of point. That’s all there was to it.
He’d just go home and let her stew over whatever she was stewing over.
He picked up the box. He’d just go home, he admitted, and take a really long, cold shower.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE TRIED NOT TO DWELL ON IT. A PUNISHING SCHEDULE OF summer weddings helped keep her from thinking about what she’d done, at least for four out of every five minutes. Then again, so much of her work was solitary, and gave her entirely too much time to think and to ask herself how she could have done something so incredibly stupid.
He’d deserved it, of course. And it had been a long time coming. But when she came right down to the nitty, just who had she punished with that kiss except herself?
Because now it wasn’t merely theory or speculation. Now she knew how it would feel, how she would feel, if she let herself go—just for a minute—with Del. She’d never be able to convince herself again that kissing him in reality would fall far short of kissing him in her imagination.
She’d bought the ticket, and she’d rung the bell. No way to ask for a refund.
If he hadn’t made her so mad, she thought as she scurried to help with the turnover in the brief window between the two Saturday events. Del being infuriatingly Del with his “Why don’t you do it this way,” “Why aren’t you eating a real meal”—then, then reaching for his big, fat wallet as if ...
And that wasn’t fair; she had to admit it. She’d poked, pushed, prodded. She’d been primed for a fight.
She assembled the centerpiece on the graceful top tier of the white and gold cake she called Gilded Dreams. She considered it one of her more fanciful cakes with its silklike layered overskirt and coiled rosettes.
Not her particular taste either, she mused, and arranged some of the extra rosettes around the base, scattered over the sparkling gold tablecloth. Probably because she wasn’t a dreamer or especially fanciful.
A pragmatist was what she was, she thought. Reality-steeped. She wasn’t a romantic like Emma, or as free-flowing as Mac, or as optimistic as Parker.
At the bottom of it, she dealt in formulas, didn’t she? She could experiment with amounts and ingredients, but at the end of it she had to accept that certain components simply didn’t mix. Insisting on stirring the incompatible together ended up making an unpalatable mess. When that happened, the only thing to do was chalk it up to a mistake and move on.
“Gorgeous.” Taking a quick and approving survey of the cake, Emma set her hamper down. “I’ve got the candles and the table flowers.” She tipped her wrist to angle her watch before letting out a brief whew. “We’re right on schedule. Everything’s dressed, in and out, and Mac’s about done with the preceremony shots.”
Laurel turned to look at the Ballroom, surprised so much had been done while she’d brooded. More flowers, more candles yet to be lit, a scattering of tables draped in the shimmery gold and summer blue the bride had chosen.
“How about the Great Hall?”
“The caterers are finishing up, but my team’s done.” Emma arranged the tapers, tea lights, blossoms with her clever florist’s hands. “Jack’s keeping the groomsmen entertained. It’s nice, having him pitch in.”
“Yeah. Does it ever strike you as weird?”
“What?”
“You and Jack. Does it ever sneak up and strike you as weird, the way you knew each other for years, and hung out as friends, then took that one-eighty?”
Emma stepped back, then forward again to slide a rose over a quarter of an inch. “It strikes me as surprising sometimes, but more, scary when I think what wouldn’t have happened if we’d kept going straight ahead instead of taking that turn.” She shoved at one of the pins trying to keep her mass of curls restrained. “It’s not weird to you, is it?”
“No. I sort of wonder if it’s weird that it’s not weird.” Laurel stopped, shook her head. “Ignore me. My head’s in a strange place.” With some relief, she heard Parker’s signal in her earbud. “Two-minute warning. If you’re good here, I’ll go down and help with the lineup.”
“I’m good. I’ll be right behind you.”
Shedding her apron, unclipping her hair as she went, Laurel hurried down and arrived at the checkpoint with thirty seconds to spare. Not her taste, she thought again, but she had to admit the bride knew what she was doing. A half dozen attendants lined up under Parker’s orders, glittering in their bell-skirted gold gowns with the striking bouquets Emma had created of blue dahlias offset with white roses. The bride herself, a regal vision in lustrous silk, pearls gleaming, sequins sparkling on her formal train, stood radiant beside her father—and he was damn dashing in white tie and tails.
“MOG’s in place,” Parker murmured to Laurel. “MOB’s being escorted now. Ladies! Remember to smile. Caroline, you look spectacular.”
“I feel spectacular. This is it, Daddy,” she said.
“Don’t get me started.” He took his daughter’s hand, pressed it to his lips.
Parker cued the music change so the string orchestra the bride had chosen segued into the entrance music. “Number one, go. Head up! Smile!You’re gorgeous. And ... number two. Heads up, ladies.”
She strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Aroused, astonished, and still considerably annoyed, he stood exactly where he was. “What was that? What the hell was that?”
He started to go after her, then stopped himself. That wouldn’t end well, or it would end ... He’d better not think of that until he could think, period.
He frowned at the half glass of champagne. How much had she had before he’d come in? he wondered. Then, because his throat was uncommonly dry, he picked up the flute and downed the rest of the contents.
He should go, just go home, and set the whole thing aside. Chalk the whole incident up to ... something. He’d figure out what to chalk it up to when his brain regained full function.
He’d just come for the cake, that’s all, he reminded himself as he carefully closed and secured the lid on the bakery box. She’d picked a fight, then she’d kissed him to prove some sort of point. That’s all there was to it.
He’d just go home and let her stew over whatever she was stewing over.
He picked up the box. He’d just go home, he admitted, and take a really long, cold shower.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE TRIED NOT TO DWELL ON IT. A PUNISHING SCHEDULE OF summer weddings helped keep her from thinking about what she’d done, at least for four out of every five minutes. Then again, so much of her work was solitary, and gave her entirely too much time to think and to ask herself how she could have done something so incredibly stupid.
He’d deserved it, of course. And it had been a long time coming. But when she came right down to the nitty, just who had she punished with that kiss except herself?
Because now it wasn’t merely theory or speculation. Now she knew how it would feel, how she would feel, if she let herself go—just for a minute—with Del. She’d never be able to convince herself again that kissing him in reality would fall far short of kissing him in her imagination.
She’d bought the ticket, and she’d rung the bell. No way to ask for a refund.
If he hadn’t made her so mad, she thought as she scurried to help with the turnover in the brief window between the two Saturday events. Del being infuriatingly Del with his “Why don’t you do it this way,” “Why aren’t you eating a real meal”—then, then reaching for his big, fat wallet as if ...
And that wasn’t fair; she had to admit it. She’d poked, pushed, prodded. She’d been primed for a fight.
She assembled the centerpiece on the graceful top tier of the white and gold cake she called Gilded Dreams. She considered it one of her more fanciful cakes with its silklike layered overskirt and coiled rosettes.
Not her particular taste either, she mused, and arranged some of the extra rosettes around the base, scattered over the sparkling gold tablecloth. Probably because she wasn’t a dreamer or especially fanciful.
A pragmatist was what she was, she thought. Reality-steeped. She wasn’t a romantic like Emma, or as free-flowing as Mac, or as optimistic as Parker.
At the bottom of it, she dealt in formulas, didn’t she? She could experiment with amounts and ingredients, but at the end of it she had to accept that certain components simply didn’t mix. Insisting on stirring the incompatible together ended up making an unpalatable mess. When that happened, the only thing to do was chalk it up to a mistake and move on.
“Gorgeous.” Taking a quick and approving survey of the cake, Emma set her hamper down. “I’ve got the candles and the table flowers.” She tipped her wrist to angle her watch before letting out a brief whew. “We’re right on schedule. Everything’s dressed, in and out, and Mac’s about done with the preceremony shots.”
Laurel turned to look at the Ballroom, surprised so much had been done while she’d brooded. More flowers, more candles yet to be lit, a scattering of tables draped in the shimmery gold and summer blue the bride had chosen.
“How about the Great Hall?”
“The caterers are finishing up, but my team’s done.” Emma arranged the tapers, tea lights, blossoms with her clever florist’s hands. “Jack’s keeping the groomsmen entertained. It’s nice, having him pitch in.”
“Yeah. Does it ever strike you as weird?”
“What?”
“You and Jack. Does it ever sneak up and strike you as weird, the way you knew each other for years, and hung out as friends, then took that one-eighty?”
Emma stepped back, then forward again to slide a rose over a quarter of an inch. “It strikes me as surprising sometimes, but more, scary when I think what wouldn’t have happened if we’d kept going straight ahead instead of taking that turn.” She shoved at one of the pins trying to keep her mass of curls restrained. “It’s not weird to you, is it?”
“No. I sort of wonder if it’s weird that it’s not weird.” Laurel stopped, shook her head. “Ignore me. My head’s in a strange place.” With some relief, she heard Parker’s signal in her earbud. “Two-minute warning. If you’re good here, I’ll go down and help with the lineup.”
“I’m good. I’ll be right behind you.”
Shedding her apron, unclipping her hair as she went, Laurel hurried down and arrived at the checkpoint with thirty seconds to spare. Not her taste, she thought again, but she had to admit the bride knew what she was doing. A half dozen attendants lined up under Parker’s orders, glittering in their bell-skirted gold gowns with the striking bouquets Emma had created of blue dahlias offset with white roses. The bride herself, a regal vision in lustrous silk, pearls gleaming, sequins sparkling on her formal train, stood radiant beside her father—and he was damn dashing in white tie and tails.
“MOG’s in place,” Parker murmured to Laurel. “MOB’s being escorted now. Ladies! Remember to smile. Caroline, you look spectacular.”
“I feel spectacular. This is it, Daddy,” she said.
“Don’t get me started.” He took his daughter’s hand, pressed it to his lips.
Parker cued the music change so the string orchestra the bride had chosen segued into the entrance music. “Number one, go. Head up! Smile!You’re gorgeous. And ... number two. Heads up, ladies.”
