She’d always been tough, he thought as he toed off his shoes. Tough, strong, and damn near fearless. Most women would’ve screamed, wouldn’t they? But not Laurel—she fought. Push her, she pushed back. Harder.
He had to admire that.
Her body had surprised him. He could admit it, he told himself as he stripped off the torn T-shirt. Not that he didn’t know her body. He’d hugged her countless times over the years. But hugging a female friend was an entirely different matter than lying on top of a woman in the dark.
Entirely different.
And something it was best not to dwell on.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes, then folded down the quilt—the work of his great-grandmother in this case. He set the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock beside the bed, then switched off the light.
When he closed his eyes, the image of Laurel lying on the stairs popped into his head—lodged there. He rolled over, thought about the appointments he had the next day. And saw her walking away in those brief red boxers.
“Screw it.”
A man was entitled to dwell on whatever he wanted to dwell on when he was alone in the dark.
IN THEIR MONDAY MORNING HABIT, LAUREL AND PARKER HIT their home gym at nearly the same moment. Parker went for yoga, Laurel for cardio. Since both took the routine seriously, there was little conversation.
As Laurel approached her third mile, Parker switched to pilates—and Mac trudged in to give the Bowflex her usual sneer.
Amused, Laurel throttled back to cool down. Mac’s conversion to regular workouts stemmed from her determination to have happening arms and shoulders in her strapless wedding dress.
“Looking good, Elliot,” she called out as she grabbed a towel. Mac just curled her lip.
Laurel unrolled a mat to stretch while Parker gave Mac some tips on form. By the time she moved on to free weights, Parker was shoving Mac to the elliptical.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Woman does not rule by resistance training alone. Fifteen cardio, fifteen stretching. Laurel, where did you get that bruise?”
“What bruise?”
“On your shoulder.” Crossing over, Parker fluttered her finger on the bruise exposed by Laurel’s racer-back tank.
“Oh, I tripped under your brother.”
“Huh?”
“He was wandering around in the dark when I went down for some tea—which ended up being cold pizza and a soda. He ran into me and knocked me down.”
“Why was he wandering around in the dark?”
“My question exactly. Beers and Mrs. G. He crashed in one of the guest rooms.”
“I didn’t know he was here.”
“Still here,” Mac said. “His car’s out front.”
“I’ll see if he’s up. Fifteen minutes, Mac.”
“Nag. When do I get my endorphins?” Mac demanded of Laurel. “How will I know when I do?”
“How do you know when you orgasm?”
“Yeah?” Mac brightened. “It’s like that?”
“Sadly no, but the principle of ‘you know when you get there’ is the same. Are you eating breakfast here?”
“I’m thinking about it. I think I’ll have earned it. Plus, if I call Carter to come over, he can talk Mrs. G into French toast.”
“Do that then. I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“What?”
“Just an idea.”
It was just after seven when Laurel, dressed for the day, sketchbook in hand, stepped into the family kitchen.
She’d assumed Del would be gone, but there he was, leaning against the counter with a steaming mug of coffee. In a near mirror image of the posture, Carter Maguire leaned on the opposite counter.
Still, they were so different. Del, even in the torn shirt and jeans, projected a kind of masculine elegance, while Carter exuded a disarming sweetness. Not sugary, she thought. She’d have hated that—but an innate sort of
niceness.
And despite Del’s fumble in the night, he was agile, athletic, while Carter tended toward the klutzy.
Still, they were both so damn cute.
Obviously, the sturdy Mrs. Grady wasn’t immune. She worked at the stove—French toast winning the day—her eyes bright, her cheeks a little flushed. Happy to have the boys around, Laurel thought.
Parker came in from the terrace, slipping her BlackBerry into her pocket. She caught sight of Laurel. “Saturday evening’s bride. Basic nerves. All smooth. Emma and Jack are heading over, Mrs. G.”
“Well, if I’m cooking for an army, some of the troops had better sit. Keep your fingers off that bacon, boy,” she warned Del, “until you’re at the table like the civilized.”
“Just trying to get a head start. I’ll take it over. Hey, Laurel, how’s the head?”
“Still on my shoulders.” She set down the sketchbook, picked up the pitcher of juice.
“Morning.” Carter smiled at her. “What happened to your head?”
“Del beat it against the stairs.”
“After she hit me and ripped my shirt.”
“Because you were drunk and knocked me down.”
“I wasn’t drunk, and you fell.”
“That’s his story.”
“Sit down and behave,” Mrs. G ordered. She turned as Jack and Emma came in. “Are your hands clean?” she demanded of Jack.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then take this and go sit.”
He accepted the platter of French toast, sniffed deeply. “What did you make for everybody else?”
She laughed and swatted at him.
“Hey,” he said to Del.
They’d been friends since college, and as tight as brothers since Jack had relocated to Greenwich to open his architectural firm. He took his place at the breakfast nook, movie-star handsome with his wavy, dark blond hair, smoky eyes, quick grin.
The fact that he was dressed in a suit told Laurel he had a client meeting in his office rather than an appointment on a construction site.
“Shirt’s ripped,” Jack said to Del as he nabbed a slice of bacon.
“Laurel did it.”
Jack wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Feisty.”
“Idiot.”
They grinned at each other as Mac came in. “God! This better be worth it. Come here.” She grabbed Carter, yanked him against her for a noisy kiss. “I earned that.”
“You’re all... rosy,” he murmured and bent his head to kiss her again.
“Stop that nonsense and sit down before the food gets cold.” Mrs. G gave him a flick on the arm as she carried the coffeepot to the table to fill mugs.
Mrs. G was in her element, Laurel knew. She had a full brood to fuss over and order around. She’d revel in the number and the noise of them, and when she’d had enough of both, she’d kick them all out of her kitchen. Or retreat to her rooms for some peace and quiet.
But for now, with the scents of coffee and bacon and cinnamon, with platters being emptied and plates filled, Mrs. G had things just as she wanted.
Laurel understood the need to feed, the desire—even the passion—to put food in front of someone and urge them to eat. It was life and comfort, authority and satisfaction. And if you’d prepared that food with your own hands, your own skill, it was, in a very real way, love.
She supposed she’d learned some of that right here when Mrs. G had taught her how to roll out a pastry shell or mix batter or test a loaf of bread for doneness. More than the basics of baking, she’d learned if you put some love and pride into the mix, the dough rose truer.
“Head okay?” Del asked her.
“Yes, no thanks to you. Why?”
“Because you’re quiet.”
“Who can get a word in?” she asked as conversations crisscrossed the table.
“How about a professional query?”
She eyed him warily over a bite of French toast. “Such as?”
“I need a cake.”
“Everyone needs cake, Del.”