Half mad, he flipped her onto her back, ready to rip her clothes away. Her elbow smacked the floor with a sound like a gunshot. Stars burst in front of her eyes.

“Oh! God!”

“What? Emma. Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry. Let me see.”

“No. Wait.” Dazed, tingling, and not a little stupefied, she managed to sit up. “Funny bone. Ha-ha. Oh, God,” she said again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Here.” He started to rub her forearm to help with the needles and pins he imagined were stabbing her, and struggling to steady his breathing, wheezed.

“You’re laughing.”

“No. No. I’m too overcome with lust and passion to draw a clear breath.”

“You’re laughing.” She jabbed him in the chest with the index finger of her good arm.

“No. I’m fighting manfully not to.” Which was, he mused, likely the first time he’d done so while sporting a massive hard-on. “Is it better? Any better?” he asked, and made the mistake of looking over, and into her eyes.

The laugh sparkled in them, like gold over brown. He lost the fight, simply collapsed and gave in to the belly laugh. “Really sorry.”

“Why? When you showed such exquisite finesse.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say. You’re the one who headed for the floor when I’ve got a perfectly good couch ten feet away, and a damn fine bed up those stairs. But no, you can’t control yourself long enough to let me get us to a soft surface.”

“Only a wimp requires a soft surface for sex.”

He shifted his gaze over with a slow, hot smile. “I ain’t no wimp, sister.” He sat up. “Let’s try take two.”

“Wait.” She slapped a hand on his chest. “Mmm, nice pecs, by the way. But wait.” Lifting her still tingling arm she pushed back her hair. “Jack, what are we doing?”

“If I have to explain it, I’m doing it wrong.”

“No, really. I mean . . .” She glanced down at her open shirt, and the lacy white bra perkily peeking out. “Look at us. Look at me.”

“Believe me, I was. Am. Want to keep doing that. You have this seriously crazy body. I just want to—”

“Yes, I get that. Back at you, but, Jack, we can’t just . . . We got off the track here.”

“Down the track, heading for home, from my viewpoint. Give me five minutes to mesh viewpoints. One. Give me one.”

“It would probably take under thirty seconds. But no,” she added when he grinned. “Really. We can’t just do this, like this. Or at all. Maybe.” Everything inside her hitched and sparked and wanted.

“I’m not sure. We need to think, muse, mull, maybe ponder and brood. Jack, we’re friends.”

“I’m feeling pretty damn friendly.”

Her eyes went soft as she reached out to lay her hand on his cheek. “We’re friends.”

“We are.”

“More, we have friends who are friends. So many connections. So as much as I’d like to say ‘what the hell, let’s try out that couch, then the bed and maybe take round three on the floor—’ ”

“Emmaline.” His eyes were deep, dark smoke. “You’re killing me.”

“Sex isn’t a kiss on the back stairs. Even a really great kiss on the back stairs. So we have to think and so on before we decide. I refuse to not be friends with you, Jack, just because right now I really want you naked. You’re important.”

He heaved a sigh. “I wish you hadn’t said that. You’re important. You always have been.”

“Then let’s take a little time and think this through.” She eased back and began to button her shirt.

“You don’t know how sorry I am to see you do that.”

“Yes, I do. About as sorry as I am to do it. Don’t get up,” she said, and got to her feet, picked up the purse she’d dropped when he’d grabbed her. “If it’s any consolation, I’m going to have a miserable night thinking about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t stopped to think.”

“It isn’t, because I’m going to have the same.”

“Well.” She glanced back as she headed for the door. “You started it.”


In the morning, after the predicted miserable night, Emma wanted the comfort of pals and Mrs. Grady’s pancakes. She bargained with herself. She could have the pals, no question, but she could only have the pancakes if she first faced the dreaded home gym.

She dragged on her gear and began the resented, caffeine-deprived trudge to the main house. On the way, she veered toward Mac’s studio. She could see no good reason why her friend shouldn’t suffer along with her.

Without thinking she walked right in, angled toward the kitchen. There was Mac, in cotton boxers and a tank, leaning against the counter with a wide grin and a cup of coffee. And Carter opposite her, mirroring the pose and the grin, in his tweed jacket.

She should’ve knocked, Emma thought instantly. She had to remember to start knocking now that Carter lived here, too.

Mac glanced her way, lifted her cup in casual greeting. “Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you out of coffee again?”

“No, I—”

“There’s plenty,” Carter told her. “I made a full pot.”

Emma gave him a sorrowful look. “I don’t know why you have to marry her instead of me.”

The tips of his ears went a little pink, but he shrugged. “Well, maybe if things don’t work out . . .”

“He thinks he’s cute,” Mac said dryly. “And damn it, he’s right.” She stepped over, gave his tie a tug.

The kiss was light and sweet, to Emma’s eye. The kind of morning kiss between lovers who knew there would be time, lots of time, for deeper, hotter kisses.

She envied the light and sweet outrageously.

“Go to school, Professor. Enlighten young minds.”

“That’s the plan.” He picked up his briefcase, brushed his hand over Mac’s bright hair. “See you tonight. Bye, Emma.”

“Bye.”

He opened the door, glanced back, and rapped his elbow on the jamb. “Damn it,” he muttered, and closed the door behind him.

“He does that about every third time he . . . What’s with you?” Mac demanded. “You went all blushy.”

“Nothing.” But she caught herself rubbing her own elbow and remembering. “Nothing. I just stopped by on my way over to the torture chamber. I plan on begging Mrs. G for pancakes after I’ve suffered.”

“Give me two minutes to change.”

While Mac dashed upstairs, Emma paced. There had to be a simple, subtle, sensible way to explain to Mac what had happened with Jack. What was happening with Jack. To ask her for dispensation from the no-sleeping-with-friends’-exes rule.

Mac and Jack were friends, so that had to be a point. And more, bigger, huge, was the fact that Mac was madly and totally in love with Carter. She was getting married, for God’s sake. What kind of friend would hold another friend to the no-exes rule when she was getting married to Mr. Adorable?

It was just selfish and narrow-minded and mean.

“Let’s go before I change my mind.” With a hoodie flopping open over a sports bra and bike pants, Mac jogged into the kitchen. “I can feel my bis and tris beefing up. Killer arms, you are mine!”

“Why do you have to be that way?” Emma demanded.

“Way? What?”

“We’ve been friends since we were babies. I don’t know why you’d be so hard-assed about this when you don’t want him.”

“Who? Carter? Yes, I do. You didn’t have any coffee this morning, did you?”

“If I have coffee, my brain wakes up enough to find reasons not to work out. And that’s not the point.”

“Okay. Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you. You’re the one who’s mad at me.”

“Then say you’re sorry and all’s forgiven.” Mac opened the door and sailed out.

“Why should I be sorry? I stopped.” Emma slammed the door behind them.

“Stopped what?”

“Stopped . . .” Groaning, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “It’s caffeine deprivation. My mind’s blurring. I’m starting in the middle. Or maybe the end.”

“I demand to know why I’m mad at you so I can put some effort into it. You bitch.”

Emma sucked in a breath, held it. “I kissed Jack. Or he kissed me. He started it. And then he poofed, so I went over there to give him a piece of my mind, and he did it again. Then I did it again. Then we were rolling around on the floor and clothes were coming off until I rapped my elbow. Really hard. And it brought me back to my senses. So I stopped and you’ve got no reason to be mad.”

Mac, who’d been gaping at Emma since the first sentence, just kept gaping. “What? What?” She banged her palm on one ear, shook her head as if to shake out water.

“What?”

“I’m not saying it all again. The point is I stopped, and I said I’m sorry.”

“To Jack?”

“No—well, yes—but to you. I’m telling you I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For God’s sake, Mac, the rule.”

“Okay.” Mac stopped, fisted her hands on her hips and stared off into space. “No, I’m still confused. So let’s try this.” She made exaggerated wiping gestures with both hands. “There’s the board, and it’s all cleaned off. Let’s start fresh. You and Jack—wow—one minute to absorb . . . Done. You and Jack shared a big sloppy.”

“It wasn’t sloppy. He’s an excellent kisser, as you very well know.”

“I do?”

“And I’m not sorry for that one. Not really, because it was completely out of the blue. All right, not completely, since I got the vibes when we were under the hood.”

“Hood? What . . . Oh, the car. God, only someone who’s known you forever could interpret half of what you’re saying.”

“But I wasn’t expecting him to bring me a glass of wine while I was taking a quick break, just sitting on the back stairs, minding my own business.”

“Wine, back stairs,” Mac mumbled. “MBB. The wedding.”

“Then he gave me a shoulder rub, so I should’ve known, but I was going. I was going back to the reception and then we were standing there and he kissed me. Then Parker beeped me, and I had to go, and I realized what I’d done. It’s not really a betrayal, not really. You have Carter.”

“What do I have to do with this?”

“But I didn’t sleep with him, and that’s the fine point of it.”

A bird winged by, singing like a mad thing. Without sparing it a glance, Emma slapped her hands on her hips and scowled. “The kissing came as a surprise, both times. And the rolling around was just in the heat of the moment. I stopped, so I didn’t—technically—break the rule, but I’m apologizing anyway.”

“I’ll happily accept your apology if you’ll just tell me what the hell I have to do with this!”

“The ex rule.”

“The . . . Oh, the EX rule. Still confused as to my . . . Wait. You think Jack and I were . . . You think I had sex with Jack? Jack Cooke?”

“Of course, Jack Cooke.”

“I never had sex with Jack.”

Emma poked her. “Yes, you did.”

Mac poked her back. “No, I didn’t, and I ought to know who I did or didn’t have sex with, and Jack and I never did the deed. We never even got close to doing the deed. I have not rolled around on the floor removing clothes with Jack.”

“But . . .” Baffled, almost weak with it, Emma dropped her arms to her side. “But when he first started coming home with Del, for vacations and holidays during college, the two of you . . .”

“Flirted. Period. Start and stop. We never hit the sheets, or the floor, or the wall, or any other surface together in any way approaching nakedness. Clear?”

“I always thought . . .”

Mac quirked her eyebrows. “You could’ve asked.”

“No, because,

damn it, I wanted to flirt with him, and you already were, so I couldn’t, and I thought what I thought. And then when it was obvious you were just friends again, the rule went into effect. I thought.”

“You’ve had a thing for Jack, all this time?”

“On and off. I channeled it into other areas, or restrained it, due to the rule. But recently it’s gotten more problematic, the channeling and the restraining. God.” Emma slapped her hands over her face. “I’m an idiot.”

“You slut.” Face stern, Mac folded her arms over her chest. “You almost had sex with a man I never had sex with. What kind of friend are you?”

Emma hung her head as her lips twitched. “I said I was sorry.”

“I may forgive you, but only after you tell me all—coherently and in minute detail.” Grabbing Emma’s arm, Mac jogged the rest of the way to the house. “Which means after coffee, which means after workout.”

“We could skip the workout and go straight to coffee.”

“No, I’m pumped to pump.” Mac led the way through the side door of the main house and toward the stairs. When they reached the third floor, Laurel and Parker came out of the gym. “Em kissed Jack and they almost had sex.”