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shadow of the academy, with all the ghosts stirring in its corridors, all the old dreams shifting.
“Way to go, Dr. Maguire,” someone called out, with a few hoots of approval following.
Her face full of fun, she gave his tie another tug. “Now I’ve ruined your reputation.”
“Or seriously improved it.” He cleared his throat when they reached her car. “I suppose you’ll be busy all week with the proposal.”
“Busy, yes,” she agreed when he opened the door for her. “But I’ll come up for air.”
“I could make you dinner, maybe Thursday, if you could come up for air then.”
“You cook?”
“I’m not entirely sure. It’s a gamble.”
“I’m not opposed to gambling, especially when food’s involved. Seven? Your place?”
“That would be perfect. I’ll give you my address.”
“I can find you.” She got in the car. “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, then went breathless with laughter at his expression. “That wasn’t a metaphor for sex, Carter. I meant actual dessert. I’ll hit Laurel up for something.”
“Understood. But I do love a good metaphor.”
She drove away shaking her head. Points for the professor. Now she had until Thursday to decide if she’d settle for a piece of Laurel’s Italian cream cake, or add on the metaphor.
CHAPTER TEN
CARTER CHECKED THE TABLE IN WHAT PASSED FOR HIS DINING room for a third time. He rarely used it as he tended to eat at the kitchen counter or at his desk. In fact, this was the first time he’d put a tablecloth on it.
He thought it hit the right tone between fussy and casual. White plates on a dark blue cloth, and the yellow stripes in the napkins brightened it up. He thought. He hoped.
He took the trio of votive candles off the table, they were too studied. Then put them back. It looked unfinished without them.
After dragging his hand through his hair, ordering himself to stop obsessing, he turned his back on the table to go into the kitchen.
That was the real worry, after all.
The menu passed muster. He’d run it by the Domestic Science instructor, adjusted for her suggestions, and added her recipe for the honey vinaigrette for the field greens salad.
She’d given him a list—what had to be done and when, how much time to allow, and helpful suggestions for presentation.
Presentation, apparently, was as important as the food. Which was why he now owned a tablecloth and cheerful napkins.
He’d had his dry run. Everything was set, everything looked . . . fine.
He had nearly an hour to drive himself completely crazy. In that spirit, he eased open the drawer holding Bob’s list. The list Carter promised himself he would ignore.
“Music. Damn it. I’d have thought of it,” he muttered to Bob’s spirit. “I would have.”
He hurried to the living room to tear through his collection of CDs. The cat uncurled itself from a chair and walked its lop-sided way to join him.
“It’s not going to be Barry White, I don’t care what Bob says about slam dunk. No offense to Mr. White, but we’re not going to be a clich?. Right?”
Triad bumped his head against Carter’s knee.
While he obsessed over CDs, the door opened and Sherry burst in.
“Hi! Can I leave this here?”
“Yes. Why? What is it?”
“It’s a Valentine’s Day present for Nick. It’s a doctor’s bag. I had it engraved, and just picked it up. He’s going to love it! I know if I take it home I won’t be able to resist giving it to him now. So you have to hide it from him. And me.” She sniffed the air. “Are you cooking?”
“Yes. God, is something burning?”
He was up like a shot.
“No, it smells good. Really good.” Since he was already running toward the kitchen she went after him. “And not like the grilled cheese sandwiches you usually . . . Wow, Carter, look! You have food in the oven. Oh, the table’s so pretty. Candles and wineglasses and . . . You’re cooking dinner for a woman.” She drilled her finger into his belly the way she had ever since they’d been kids. “Mackensie Elliot!”
“Stop.” He could literally feel the fresh nerves sprouting in his stomach. “I’m begging you. I’m already a lunatic.”
“I think it’s wonderful. So sweet. Nick made me dinner when we were first going out. It was a disaster.” She sighed, dreamily. “I just loved it.”
“You loved the disaster?”
“He tried so hard. Too hard, because he’s actually good in the kitchen. He screwed everything up because he was so worried about impressing me. Oh.” She sighed again, with a hand to her heart. “It was so sweet.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to screw everything up. Why isn’t there a handbook for this sort of thing?”
“No, no, you’re not supposed to. It just worked for him because, well, because.” She pulled open the fridge to snoop. “You’re marinating chicken. Carter, you’re
marinating. It must be love.”
“Go away. Get out.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
His voice took on a dangerous bite. “I’m a man on the edge, Sherry.”
“Just change your shirt. Put on the blue one, the one Mom got you. It looks really good on you.”
“If I promise to change my shirt, will you leave?”
“Yes.”
“Before you leave will you pick out some music? Because I can’t take any more pressure.”
“Got you covered. Go up, change your shirt.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him out of the kitchen. “I’ll pick the mood music and be gone before you get down. Take the present up, will you? Don’t tell me where you hide it in case I try to sneak over and get it before V-Day.”
“Done.”
“Carter?” she added when he started upstairs. “Light the candles about ten minutes before she’s due.”
“Okay.”
“And have a nice time.”
“Thanks. Be sure to go away now.”
He changed the shirt, dawdling over it to give Sherry enough time to finish up and go. He hid the gift-wrapped box in his office closet.
When he went down, he found a sticky note on his CD player.
Hit Play five minutes before she’s due. XXOO
“It’s like a war campaign,” Carter muttered, and crumpled up the note as he walked into the kitchen to start the chicken.
He minced, he crushed, he saut?ed, measured, timed—and only burned himself once. When the chicken simmered fragrantly, he lit the candles on the table, the ones on the skinny sideboard. He set out the little bowls of olives and cashews. When he hit the five-minute mark, he switched on the stereo. Alanis Morissette.
Nice choice.
At seven, she knocked.
“I’m Parker-trained,” Mac told him when he opened the door. “So I’m obsessively prompt. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s absolutely okay. Let me take your coat. Oh, and . . .”
“Dessert,” she said, handing him the glossy Vows bakery box. “Italian cream cake, a personal favorite. Nice house, Carter. Very you,” she added wandering into the living room with its wall of books. “Oh, you have a cat.”
“I didn’t think to ask if you were allergic.”
“I’m not. Hello, pal.” She started to crouch, then stopped, angling her head. “You have a cat with three legs.”
“Triad. He was hit by a car.”
“Oh, poor baby!” Instantly, she was down on the floor, stroking and scratching the delighted cat. “It had to be awful for both of you. Thank God you were home.”
“No, actually I was driving home from school. They—the car in front of me hit him, and just kept going. I don’t understand how anybody could do that. When I pulled over, I thought he’d be dead, but he was lying there, in shock, I guess. The vet couldn’t save the leg, but he does okay.”
Mac continued to stroke the cat down his length as she
stared at Carter. “I bet he does.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I would.” She gave Triad a last scratch, then rose. “And I’d like to check out what smells so good.”
“I thought that was you.”
“Besides me,” she said while he hung her coat tidily in his hall closet.
“Come on back.” He took her hand to lead her to the kitchen. “You look nice. I should’ve said that right away.”
“Only if you’re working off bullet points.”
As he felt himself wince, he was grateful her attention focused on the kitchen instead of his face.
“It really does smell good. What’ve you got going here, Carter?” She walked to the stove to sniff at the skillet.
“Well, let’s see. There’s a field green salad, rosemary chicken in a white wine reduction, roasted red-skinned potatoes, and asparagus.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me.”
