Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

“Oh, poor thing.” She laughed at him then unlocked the passenger side door. “Just in here. I’m already pretty loaded in the back.”

“So I see,” he said as he glanced at the plants and bags in the backseat. “It looks like you’ve got a busy evening planned, but if you want to change your mind, I’ll take you to dinner.” He trailed a flirtatious finger down her arm. “Or better yet, give you that flying lesson we used to talk about.”

“Thanks, Rico, but I’m seeing someone.”

“It ought to be me. Feel free to change your mind about that, too—anytime—and give me a call.”

“If I do you’ll be the first.” She brushed her lips over his cheek before rounding the hood to her door. “Do you remember Jill Burke?”

“Ah . . . little blonde, big laugh.”

“Yes. She’s single again, too.”

“Is that so?”

“You should call her. I bet she’d love a flying lesson.”

His grin flashed adding a sparkle to his eyes and reminding her why she’d enjoyed spending time with him. She got in, and sent him a wave as she drove away.

Considering the planters, plants, groceries, Emma parked in the back of Jack’s building and as close to the steps as she could manage. She angled her head as she studied the little kitchen deck, then nodded. The planters would do very well there, very well indeed.

Eager to get started, she walked around to the front of the building to use the main entrance. The beveled glass in the door and the tall front windows brought in pretty light, adding a sense of style and comfort to the reception area. He’d been right to keep it cozy rather than sleek, she thought. It projected calm and quiet dignity, while she knew in the individual offices and planning rooms chaos often reigned.

“Hi, Michelle.”

“Emma.” The woman working on a computer at a ruthlessly organized desk stopped to shift her chair. “How are you?”

“I’m great. How are you feeling?”

“Twenty-nine weeks and counting.” Michelle patted her baby belly. “We’re perfect. I love your sandals.”

“Me, too. I just bought them.”

“They’re great. Monday night date, right?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“New plan. Is Jack busy? I haven’t actually told him the new plan.”

“He’s not back yet. Running late, glitch on a site. Not very happy with the subs or the new county inspector, or, well, anything just at the moment.”

“Oh.” Emma winced. “Well, my new plan is either very good or very bad under those circumstances.”

“Can you share?”

“Sure. I thought I’d cook dinner, surprise him with that and some planters for his little deck. Dinner and a movie at home, instead of going out.”

“If you want my opinion, it’s inspired. I think he’d be thrilled to have a home-cooked meal after the day he’s put in. You can call and check, but he may be in round three with the building inspector.”

“Why don’t we just let that play out? The problem is, Michelle, I don’t have a key.”

There was a beat, just a quick bump of surprise. “Oh, well, that’s no problem.” Michelle opened a drawer of her desk to fish out a spare set.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” And how mortifying is it, Emma thought, to have to ask?

“I can’t think of why it wouldn’t be. You and Jack have been friends for years, and now you’re . . .”

“Yes, we are,” Emma said, deliberately bright. “Second problem? The two planters I bought weigh about fifty pounds each.”

“Chip’s in the back. I’ll send him out.”

“Thanks, Michelle,” Emma said as she took the keys. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She closed her hand around the keys as she started around to the back again. No point, she told herself, in feeling embarrassed. No point in feeling slighted that the man she’d been sleeping with for nearly three months—and had known for more than a decade—hadn’t bothered to give her a key.

It wasn’t symbolic, for God’s sake. He wasn’t locking her out. He was just . . .

It didn’t matter. She would forge ahead with her plans for the evening. Give him flowers, cook him dinner, and tell him she loved him.

And, damn it, she was going to ask for a key.

She spent a happy hour putting away groceries, arranging the sunflowers she’d brought from her stock for his kitchen counter, then prepping the planters.

She’d been right, she thought, about how perfect they’d be flanking the door. Deep, bold spots of color, she decided as she tucked red salvia behind purple heliotrope. The combination of plants she’d chosen would give him color and bloom all season, and be even showier when the lobelia spilled and the sweet alys sum foamed over the lip.

A nice welcome home, she thought, every time he walked up the stairs. And, she thought with a little smile, a living reminder of the woman who’d laid out that welcome.

Sitting back on her heels, she studied the result. “Gorgeous, if I do say so myself.”

After stacking the empty pots and cell packs, she shifted to duplicate the arrangement in the second urn.

She wondered if he had a watering can, then decided probably not. She should’ve thought of that, but they’d make do until he got one. Happy to have her hands in dirt, she hummed along with the radio she’d switched on. His front entrance planters needed more zip, she mused as she worked. She’d try to pick up a few more things in the next week or so.

When she’d finished, she swept up the spilled dirt, then carried the plastic trays and pots, her gardening tools down to her car. Brushing off her hands she looked up to admire the work.

Flowers, she’d always thought, were an essential element of home. Now he had them. And, she’d always believed, flowers planted with love bloomed more beautifully. If true, these would be spectacular right up to the first hard frost.

When she checked the time, she dashed back up the stairs. She needed to wash up and start on dinner, especially since she’d decided to add an appetizer to the menu.

Dirty, sweaty, and still pissed off due to the disappearing plumber and a rookie building inspector with an attitude, Jack turned toward the rear of his offices.

He wanted a shower, a beer, maybe a handful of aspirin. If the general contractor wasn’t going to fire the asshole plumber—who also happened to be his brother-in-law—then he could explain the delay to the client. And he could take on the building inspector who decided to throw his weight around because a doorway was a damn seven-eighths of an inch off.

Okay, maybe the aspirin, the shower, then the drink.

Maybe that would smooth out a day that had begun with a call at six A.M. from a client with a tape measure who’d gone ballistic because the framing for his service bar came in at five feet eight inches instead of six feet.

Not that he blamed the client. He’d felt ballistic himself. Six feet on the plans meant six feet on the job, not whatever the sub decided would do.

And, Jack thought as he tried to roll the worst of the tension out of his shoulders, the day had just gone downhill from there. If he was going to put in a twelve-hour day, at least he wanted to finish up feeling he’d accomplished something instead of just riding around the goddamn county putting out fires.

He made the last turn, telling himself to be grateful he was home, where, since the office was now closed, nobody—please God—was going to ask him to fix anything, negotiate anything, or argue about anything.

When he spotted Emma’s car he struggled to think past the headache. Had he mixed things up? Had they planned to meet in town, go from there?

No, no, dinner, maybe a movie—which he’d intended to switch to carry-out, possibly a DVD, and that after he’d had a chance to cool off and settle down. Except he’d forgotten to call her about that as he’d been hip-deep in crises and complaints.

But if she was in town somewhere, he could just . . .

His mind switched gears as he noticed his back door open to the screen, and the pots of flowers beside it. He sat where he was a moment, then tossed his sunglasses on the dash. When he stepped out of the truck, he heard the music pouring through the screen door.

Where the hell did the plants come from? he wondered as fresh irritation banged against an already full-blown headache. And why the hell was his door open?

He wanted air-conditioning, a cool shower, and five damn minutes to shake off the worst of the day. Now he had flowers he’d have to remember to water, music blasting, and somebody who’d require attention and conversation in his house.

He trudged up the steps, scowled at the plants, pushed through the screen door.

And there she was, singing along with the radio—which was blasting through his aching head, cooking something on his stove when he’d set his system on take-out pizza, and his spare keys sat on the counter beside a vase of enormous sunflowers that made his eyes throb.

She shook the frying pan with one hand, reached for a glass of wine with the other—then saw him.

“Oh!” She laughed when her hand jerked on the handle of the pan. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Not surprising, as you’re entertaining the neighborhood with . . . Jesus, is that ABBA?”

“What? Oh, the music. It is loud.” She gave the pan another shake before adjusting the heat under it. With an easy side step, she picked up the remote, lowered the volume on the stereo. “Cooking music. I thought I’d surprise you with a ready-made meal. These scallops just need another minute. The sauce is already done, so you can have a little something right away. How about a glass of wine?”

“No. Thanks.” He reached over her head into the cabinet for a bottle of aspirin.

“Hard day.” In sympathy, she rubbed a hand down his arm as he fought open the bottle. “Michelle told me. Why don’t you sit down for a minute, get your bearings?”

“I’m filthy. I need a shower.”

“Well, you’re right about that.” She rose on her toes to brush a light kiss on his lips. “I’ll get you some ice water.”

“I can get it.” He moved past her to the refrigerator. “Michelle gave you the key?”

“She said you were stuck out on a job, and having a bad day. I had the food out in the car, so . . .” She shook the pan again, turned off the flame. “I’ve got a flank steak marinating. Red meat ought to help your headache. You can just clean up and relax. Or I can hold dinner awhile if you want to stretch out until you feel better.”

“What is all this, Emma?” Even at the lower volume, the music scraped against his nerves. He grabbed the remote, turned it off. “Did you haul those pots up here?”

“Chip did the heavy work. I had the best time picking out the urns, the plants.” She sprinkled the scallops with a mixture of cilantro, garlic, and lime, poured on the sauce she’d prepared. “They really pop against the house, don’t they? I wanted to do something to thank you for New York, and when inspiration hit, I juggled a few things and hit the road.”

She set the empty bowl in the sink, turned. Her smile faded. “And I miscalculated, didn’t I?”

“It’s been a lousy day, that’s all.”

“Which I’ve added to, clearly.”

“Yes. No.” He pressed his fingers to the drill trying to bore through his temple. “It’s been a bad day. I just need to smooth out some. You should’ve called if you wanted to . . . do this.”

Without thinking, out of sheer habit, he picked up the spare keys and shoved them in his pocket.

He might as well have slapped her.

“Don’t worry, Jack, I didn’t hang anything of mine in a closet, put anything in a drawer. My toothbrush is still in my bag.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My trespassing only went as far as the kitchen, and it won’t happen again. I didn’t run out and make a copy of your precious keys, and I hope you won’t give Michelle any grief for giving them to me.”

“Give me a small break, Emma.”

“Give you a break? Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have to tell her I didn’t have a key? To know we’ve been sleeping together since April and I can’t be trusted.”

“It has nothing to do with trust. I just never—”

“Bullshit, Jack. Just bullshit. Every time I stay here—which is very rare because it’s your space, I have to make sure I don’t leave so much as a stray hairpin behind because, dear God, what’s next? An actual hairbrush? A shirt? Before you know it I’ll actually feel welcome here.”

“You are welcome here. Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to fight with you.”