I saw these (flowers) and thought of you.
Carter stuffed the list back in his pocket before any of them imprinted on his brain. But not before he’d noted Bob’s decree to tune the car radio to classic lite or smooth jazz, on low volume.
He might end up killing Bob, Carter mused.
He drove the next few miles while obsessing about background music before snapping off the radio. The hell with it. He turned into the long, winding drive of the estate.
“What if she’s not wearing a dress,” he muttered, as despite all efforts Bob’s list popped back into his mind. And unfortunately, his own question had the image of Mac in black pants and white bra crowding Bob out.
“I don’t mean that. For God’s sake. I mean, she might be wearing something
other than a dress. What do I say then: Nice pants? Outfit, outfit, great outfit. You know it’s called an outfit. Dear God, shut up.”
He rounded the main house and followed the narrowing drive to Mac’s.
The lights were on, up and down, so the entire place glowed. Through the generous windows of the first floor he could see her studio, the light stands, a dark blue curtain held up with big, silver clips. In front of the curtain stood a small table and two chairs. Wineglasses glinted on the table.
Did that mean she wanted to have drinks first? He hadn’t allowed time for drinks. Should he move the reservation? He got out of the car, started down her walk. Went back to the car to get the flowers he’d left on the passenger seat.
He wished the evening was over. He really did. With a sick feeling in his gut he had to force his hand up to knock. He wanted it to be tomorrow morning, a quiet Sunday morning. He’d grade papers, read, take a walk. Get back to his comfortable routine.
Then she opened the door.
He didn’t know what she was wearing. All he saw was her face. It had always been her face—that smooth milk skin framed by bright, bold hair. Those witch green eyes and the unexpected charm of dimples.
He didn’t want the evening to be over, he realized. He just wanted it to begin.
“Hello, Carter.”
“Hello, Mackensie.” None of Bob’s listed suggestions occurred to him. He offered the flowers. “For you.”
“I was hoping they were. Come on in.” She closed the door behind him. “They’re so pretty. I love gerbera daisies. They’re happy. I want to put these in water. Do you want a drink?”
“Ah . . .” He glanced over at the table. “If you’d planned to.”
“That? No, that’s a setup from a shoot I had this afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, giving him a little come-ahead gesture. “Engagement shoot. They’re wine buffs. Actually, she writes for a wine-buff mag, and he’s a restaurant critic. So I got the idea of doing it as a bistro deal.” She got out a vase as she talked, and began to unwrap the flowers.
“It’s great the way you’re able to tailor a photograph like that to the people in it. Sherry loved what you did with hers.”
“That was easy. A couple of people madly in love snuggling on the couch.”
“It’s only easy if you’ve got the instincts to know Sherry and Nick wouldn’t sit in a sophisticated bistro drinking wine, or sit on the floor surrounded by books—and a very big cat.
“The Mason-Collari engagement. That ran today, didn’t it? Do you always check on the wedding and engagement section of the paper?”
“Only since I met you again.”
“Aren’t you the smooth one?”
As no one had ever applied that adjective to him, he couldn’t think of anything to say.
She set the vase in the center of her kitchen counter. “Those will perk me up in the morning, even before coffee.”
“The cashier at the market said you’d like them. I had a small crisis; she got me through it.”
Amusement made the dimples flicker in her cheeks. “You can always count on the cashier at the market.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She walked out, and over to the couch to pick up the coat draped over the arm. “I’m ready if you are.”
“Sure.” He crossed to her to take the coat. As he helped her into it, she glanced back over her shoulder. “Every time you do this I wish I had longer hair, so you’d have to pull it out of the collar.”
“I like your hair short. It shows off your neck. You have a very nice neck.”
She turned, stared at him. “We’re going out to dinner.”
“Yes. I made reservations. Seven thirty at—”
“No, no, I mean we’re going out to dinner, so this is not to be interpreted as let’s stay in. But I think I really need to get this out of the way, so I can enjoy the meal without thinking about it.”
She rose on her toes, linked her hands behind his head. And laid her mouth, soft and inviting, on his. The jolt of pleasure shot straight through him. He had to fight the urge to grab her as he had before, to release even a portion of that pent-up lust. He ran his hands up her body, regrettably shielded by the coat, then down it again until the jolt mellowed to a shimmer.
She drew back, and a pretty flush warmed that milk porcelain skin. “You have a real talent for that, Professor.”
“I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you back—way back. I’ve recently revisited that thinking. That might be why.”
“Or, you’re just a natural. We’d better go, or I’m going to talk myself out of dinner.”
“I don’t expect you to—”
“I might.”
Because he was, again, momentarily stunned, she beat him to the door, and opened it herself.
She filled the car. It’s how he thought of it. Her scent, her voice, her laugh. The simple reality of her. As strange as it was, his nerves calmed.
“Do you always drive the exact speed limit?” she asked.
“It’s irritating, isn’t it?” He glanced her way, and when he saw her eyes laughing at him, he had to grin. “If I go over by more than a couple miles an hour, I feel like a criminal. Corrine used to . . .”
“Corrine?” she said when he trailed off.
“Just someone I annoyed with my driving.” And everything else, apparently.
“An old girlfriend.”
“Nothing, really.” Why hadn’t he turned on the radio?
“See, now it’s a mystery, and I’m more curious. I’ll tell you about one of my exes first—to prime the pump.” She turned her face to him until he could feel those green eyes laughing again. “How about the fledgling rock star, the one who resembled Jon Bon Jovi through the filter of infatuation. In looks, not talent. His name was Greg, but he liked to be called Rock. He actually did.”
“Rock what?”
“Ah,
just Rock. Like Prince, or Madonna. Anyway, at twenty, he seemed incredibly hot and cool, and in my sexual delirium I spent a lot of time, talent, and money taking head shots of him and his band, group shots, shots for their self-produced CD. I drove their van, played groupie and roadie. For over two months. Until I caught him sucking face with his bass player. A guy named Dirk.”
“Oh. Well, that’s very sad.”
“I heard the amusement in that.”
“Not if you were really hurt.”
“I was
crushed. For at least five minutes. Then I was pissed for weeks. I’d been his beard, the bastard. My satisfaction comes from the fact that he now sells kitchen appliances in Stamford. Not major appliances either. I mean like blenders and toaster ovens.”
“I like a good toaster oven.”
She laughed as he turned into a parking lot. “The Willows—nice choice, Carter. The food’s always good here. Laurel worked here as pastry chef before we started Vows, and for a while after when we were getting off the ground.”
“I didn’t know that. I haven’t been here for a couple months, but the last time I came with—”
“Corrine.”
“No.” He smiled a little. “With a couple of friends who set me up with a blind date. Very strange evening, but the food was, as you said, good.”
He got out of the car, started to walk around to open her door. But she climbed out before he got there. When she held out a hand to him, casually, his heart took a quick, extra, thump.
“Why strange?”
“She had a voice like a violin might have made if you neglected to rosin the bow. It’s an unfair observation, but pretty accurate. Plus she’d recently gone on a no-carb, no-fat, no-salt diet. She ate an undressed salad, one leaf, one sprig, one carrot curl at a time. It was disconcerting.”
“I eat like a horse.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“You watch.”
Just as they reached the door, it opened. The man who stepped out wore an open coat, no hat, gloves, or scarf. The wind immediately kicked the dark hair around his ridiculously handsome face. One glance at Mac had his well-cut lips curving, and his sea-at-midnight eyes lighting.
“Hey, Macadamia.” He hoisted her up by the elbows, smacked a kiss to her lips. “Of all the gin joints in all the . . . Carter?” He dumped Mac back on her feet, shot out a friendly hand. “How the hell are you?”
“I’m fine, Del. How are you?”
“Good. It’s been too long. What’re you two doing here?”
“We thought, since we’re told they have food here, we’d eat.”
Del grinned at Mac. “That’s a plan. So you’re having dinner. Together. I didn’t realize you were an item.”
“We’re not,” they said together. Then Carter cleared his throat.
“We’re having dinner.”
“Yeah, that’s been established. I had a quick business meeting over a drink, and I’m meeting some friends across town. Or I’d come in and have one with you, and cross-examine the witnesses. But, gotta go. Later.”
Mac watched Delaney Brown jog toward the parking lot. “Who was that guy?” she asked, and made Carter laugh.
As she slid in, Mac wondered if Carter had requested a corner booth, or if they’d just gotten lucky. It added just a hint of intimacy to play against the upscale casual tone of the restaurant. She turned down the offer of a cocktail in favor of wine with dinner, then ignoring her menu, turned to Carter.
“So, the salad-eating squeaky violin. No follow-up?”
“I don’t think either party was interested in one.”
“Do you go on many blind dates?”
“That was my first and last. You?”
“Never. Too scary. Plus, the four of us made a pact, years ago, never to try to fix each other up. It’s worked out for the best. So, are you interested in sharing a bottle of wine, Dr. Maguire?”
He slid the wine list toward her. “You pick.”
“That’s brave of you.” She opened it, scanned. “I’m not a wine buff, I just take pictures of them, but they do have this Shiraz I like.”
Even as she spoke, their server stepped to the table with a bottle of Shiraz.
“That’s excellent service,” Mac commented.
“Mr. Maguire? Mr. Brown phoned and would like you to have this with his compliments. Or, if it doesn’t suit, whatever bottle you’d like.”
“Those Brown kids.” Mac shook her head. “They never miss. I’d love a glass, thanks. Okay?” she said to Carter.
“Sure. That was awfully nice of him.”
It was, Mac thought, as well as a subtle little wink. First chance he got, she knew, Del would be teasing her brainless.
SHE DIDN’T EAT LIKE A HORSE IN CARTER’S ESTIMATION, BUT she didn’t pick her way through a lonely salad for ninety minutes either. He liked the way she gestured with her wineglass or with her fork as she talked. And the way she stabbed a bite of his sea bass from his plate to try it without asking if he minded.
He wouldn’t have, but not asking was . . . friendlier.
“Here, take a hunk of this steak.” She cut off a portion.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Do you eat red meat?”
“Yes.”
“Just try it. It’s like we’ve got the surf and turf thing going.”
“All right. Do you want some of this rice?”
“No. I can never figure out why anyone would. Anyway, back to the topic at hand. You actually had your English Lit class watch
Clueless to evaluate the updating of Austen’s
Emma.”
“It demonstrates that literature—and storytelling—isn’t stagnant, that the themes, dynamics, even social mores of
Emma translate to the contemporary.”
“I wished I’d had teachers like you. Did you like it?
Clueless ?”
“Yes. It’s clever.”
“I love movies. We had a double-feature last night, but I OD’d on the pot pie and fell asleep during
Music and Lyrics. Hugh Grant.” She gestured with her wineglass again. “
Sense and Sensibility. Did you see it?”
“I did. I thought it was a lovely and respectful adaptation. Did you read it?”
“No. I know, terrible. I did read
Pride and Prejudice. Loved it. I keep meaning to read it again now that I’d have Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in my brain, so even better. What’s your favorite book-to-movie deal?”
“Personal favorite?
Mockingbird.”
“Oh, Gregory Peck. I read the book,” she added. “It’s great, but oh, Gregory Peck. Atticus Finch. The perfect father. That scene at the very end, where she’s—what’s her name?”
“Scout.”
“Yeah, where she’s narrating and you see him through the window, sitting beside his son’s bed. It kills me. It’s so beautiful. When I watched it as a kid, I used to imagine Atticus was my father. Or Gregory Peck—either one would do. He’d be there, when you woke up in the morning. I guess I’ve never gotten over that. Pitiful.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know what it’s like, growing up without a father. You don’t see yours often?”
“No, hardly ever. When I do—every few years—he’s enormously charming, very affectionate. I end up getting sucked in, then bruised when he goes off and ignores me immediately after. He’s an in-the-moment sort of person. If you’re not in that moment with him, you don’t exist.”
“It hurts you.”
“Yes, it does. Over and over. And that’s too depressing a topic for this really nice dinner. Give me one more. Another adaptation you like.”
He wanted to stroke her hair, to put an arm around her. But that wasn’t the comfort she wanted. He circled through his brain. “
Stand by Me.”
She frowned, obviously trying to place it. “I don’t know that one. Who wrote it? Steinbeck? Fitzgerald? Yeats?”
“Stephen King. It’s based on his novella
The Body.”
“Seriously? You read King? He scares the crap out of me, but I can’t resist it. Wait! That’s the one with the kids, the boys hiking to look for somebody, some dead guy, who maybe got hit by a train? I’m remembering this. Kiefer Sutherland plays a complete asshole hood. He was great.”
“It’s about friendship and loyalty. Coming of age, standing together.”
“You’re right,” she said, studying his face. “It is. I bet you’re a really amazing teacher.”
“Some days.”
She nudged her plate aside, then leaned back with her wine. “What do you do when you’re not teaching, reading, or watching movies based on novels or novellas?”
“That’s a lot right there.”
“Golf, rock climbing, stamp collecting?”
He smiled, shook his head. “No.”
“International intrigue, watercolors, duck hunting?”
“I had to give up the international intrigue due to travel fatigue. I’m pretty boring.”
“No, you’re not. And believe me I keep expecting you to be.”
“Ah . . . thank you?”
She leaned forward to poke a finger in his arm, leaned back again. “All right, Carter, now that you’ve indulged in—good God—nearly three-quarters of a single glass of wine—”
“I’m driving.”
“At the speed limit,” she agreed. “It’s time to tell me about Corrine.”
“Oh, well, there’s really nothing to tell.”
She saw it, just a flicker of it in his eyes. “She hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m insensitive and pushy.”
“No, you’re not. And I keep expecting you to be.”
She smiled. “Look how cute you are in your smarty-pants. Now why don’t you order dessert, so I can pretend to be self-righteous and not—then eat half of yours?”
They lingered. She’d forgotten what it was like to have a meal with a man she could have long, twisty conversation with. One who listened, who paid attention—whether or not he was thinking about the possible bonus round at the end of the evening.
He made her think, she realized. And entertained her. And damn it, the man was charming, in such a low-key, unstudied way.
Plus, when he’d put his glasses on to read the menu, it just set her juices on simmer.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked her when they walked back to the car. “It’s probably too late for a movie. A club?”
“I clubbed out with the pals the other night.” Another time though, she thought. It occurred to her she might’ve been very wrong in assuming Carter Maguire wouldn’t fit in the club scene. “I should get back. I’ve put in a few long ones this week, and I have work to catch up on tomorrow.”
He opened her door. “Are you going to see me again?”
It gave her a little jump in the belly that he’d ask, and just that way. Giving her the power, she thought. Terrifying. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Okay.”
When he’d joined her, started the car, she angled toward him. “Top five reasons you want to see me again.”
“Do they have to be in order of priority?”
Damn it,
damn it, she really liked him. “No. Just quick, top of your head answers.”