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“It’s not. And I actually think quite a bit of myself. What I should be, Carter, is on my knees asking you if you’d have me. And I can’t get it out. It’s stuck. It’s stuck right here.” She pressed her fist to her chest. “And every time it starts to loosen, just a little, something slams it back down. You’re so much better than I deserve.”
“Don’t do that to me.” He took her by the shoulders. “Don’t put me somewhere I don’t want to be.”
“I don’t know what I’d have said if there’d been a ring in that box. And that scares me. I don’t know, and I can’t see if whatever I’d have said would’ve been the right thing or the wrong thing for both of us. I have to see. I know the angle’s wrong. More, the lens is defective, and I
know it.”
She stepped back from him. “I want to change it, and that’s a first.”
“That’s a start. I’ll settle for that, for now.”
“You shouldn’t settle for anything. That’s my point.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, or who to love. You’re the one. You’re going to be the one tomorrow, and fifty years from tomorrow.”
“I’ve never been the one. Not for anybody.”
He closed the distance between them. “You’ll get used to it.” He tipped her face up to his, kissed her.
“Why? Why am I the one?”
“Because my life opened up, and it flooded with color when you walked back into it.”
She wrapped her arms tight around him, pressed her face to his shoulder as emotion swamped her. “If you asked, I couldn’t say no.”
“That’s not good enough, for either of us. When I ask, you need to want to say yes.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAC HEARD THE THUMP, THE HISS OF BREATH, AND OPENED one eye. Snuggled in bed, she watched Carter hobble over to get his shoes.
“What time is it?”
“Early. Go back to sleep. I managed to get up, shower, and nearly get dressed before I ran into something and woke you up.”
“It’s all right. I should get up, get an early start anyway.” Her eyes drooped closed again.
Carrying his shoes—and limping only a little—he walked over to kiss the top of her head. She made a murmuring sound of pleasure, and dropped back into sleep.
By the time she surfaced, the sun was beaming in.
Not such an early start after all, she mused as she rolled out of bed. Still, one of the perks of running your own business—and having no morning appointments—was sleeping in a little. She started for the bathroom, then shook her head and went back to make the bed.
It was the new Mac, she reminded herself. The tidy and organized in all areas of her personal and professional lives Mackensie Elliot. The Mac with the new, fabulously designed closet where everything had its place—and was in it.
She fluffed the pillows, smoothed the sheets, spread the duvet neatly. See, she told herself as she did every morning, it only took two minutes. With a nod of satisfaction, she surveyed her room.
No clothes tossed anywhere, no shoes kicked under a chair, no jewelry carelessly scattered on the dresser. This was the room of a grown-up, a woman of taste—and a woman in control.
She showered, then reminded herself to hang up the towel. In the bedroom she gave herself the pleasure of opening her closet and just standing there, looking at it.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
Her clothes hung in precise lines, according to function and color. Every pair of her impressive collection of shoes nestled inside its clear protective box, in stacks of type. Evening shoes, daywear, sandals, boots—pumps, peeps, spikes, wedges.
Things of beauty.
Handbags, again by function and color, sat easily accessed in generous cubbies. Inside the glossy white drawers of the built-ins lived scarves—once doomed to tangled knots or jumbled piles, neatly folded, as did her dressier sweaters, her hosiery.
It made getting dressed an absolute stress-free pleasure. No more hunting, no more cursing, no more wondering where the hell she’d put that blue shirt with the French cuffs then having to settle for another blue shirt when she couldn’t find it.
Because the blue shirt with the French cuffs was right there, where it belonged.
She pulled on a white tank, a navy V-neck with jeans, suitable wardrobe for the morning’s work, and the early afternoon shoot. Satisfied and smug, she strolled out.
Strode back in to stuff her pajamas in the hamper.
She walked downstairs just as Emma came in the front door.
“I’m out of coffee. Help me.”
“Sure. I was just about to . . . Oh, Carter must’ve made some before he left.”
“I don’t want to hate you for having someone who’ll make coffee while you sleep, but I need caffeine for my altruistic side to wake up.” Emma poured herself a mug, all but inhaled the first sip. “Life. It’s good again.”
Mac poured her own and drank in agreement. “Wanna see my closet?”
“I’ve seen it three times now. Yes, it’s the queen of all the closets in all the land.”
“Well, Parker’s is the queen.”
“Parker’s is the goddess of closets. You take queen. Saturday’s bride called,” Emma continued. “She thinks she wants to change the flower girl flowers from rose petals in a basket to a blush pink pomander.”
“I thought she changed from the pomander to the basket.”
“Yes. And from crescent bouquet to cascade and back again.” Emma closed her big brown eyes, circled her neck. “I’ll be glad when this one’s over.”
“She’s the kind who makes Carter’s sister right.”
“Sherry?”
“No, his older sister who says weddings are too stressful, too elaborate, and basically too big a deal. It’s just one day.”
“It’s
the day. Plus, you know, our livelihood.”
“Agreed. But Saturday’s bride is going to be a handful right up to the walk down the aisle. She called me yesterday, and faxed a shot she’d found in a magazine. Which she wants me to duplicate on Saturday. Hey, no problem. Except for the fact her dress is completely different, as is her body type, her headdress, her hair. Oh, and we don’t happen to have the stone archway from an ancient Irish castle for her to pose in. At least not right handy.”
“It’s just nerves. The nerves of a control freak. I need another hit, then I’ve got to get to work.” Emma topped off
the mug. “I’ll bring it back.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“I’ll bring the entire collection back,” Emma promised and scooted out.
Alone, Mac turned to open a cupboard. Some sugar and preservatives, she thought, along with her coffee. When she opened the cupboard, she found a shiny red apple in front of the box of Pop-Tarts. The note propped on it read:
Eat me, too!
She snorted out a laugh as she took the apple, and laid the note on the counter. Sweet boy, she thought, taking a bite. Funny boy. What could she do for him short of marrying him at this stage?
She destroyed him with La Perla, she’d cooked an actual meal. She—“The photograph!”
She dashed to her workstation to boot up her computer. She hadn’t forgotten about phase three of the gift. She just hadn’t been able to decide which shot, and how to present it.
“Should be working, should be working,” she mumbled. “But it’ll only take a minute.”
It took her more than forty, but she selected the shot—one of the post-kiss, cheek-to-cheek images. He looked so relaxed and happy, and she . . . right there with him, she mused as she studied the final result. Tweaked, cropped, printed, and framed. To do it right she boxed it, tied it with a red ribbon, and tucked a sprig of silk lily of the valley in the bow.
Delighted, she printed out another of the shots for herself, selected a frame. She put the finished photo in a drawer. She wouldn’t set it out until he had his.
She turned music on, clicked the volume down to background. She worked, happy with the world in general, until the timer she’d set beeped telling her it was time to set up for her studio shoot.
Engagement portrait. She a doctor, he a musician. Mac had some ideas for them, and had asked him to bring his guitar. Medium gray background, bride and groom sitting on the floor and—
She turned, a fat floor pillow in her hands as her door burst open. Her mother all but exploded into the room, wrapped in a new jacket of sheared silver mink.
“Mackensie! Look!” She did a twirl, ending in a hipshot runway pose.
“You can’t be here now,” Mac said flatly. “I have clients coming.”
“I’m a client. I’m here for a consult. I came here first, but we have to get the rest of the team. Oh, Mac!” Linda rushed forward, all scissoring legs, gorgeous shoes, sumptuous fur. “I’m getting married!”
Caught in her mother’s perfumed embrace, Mac just closed her eyes. “Congratulations. Again.”
“Oh, don’t be that way.” Linda eased back, pouted for half a second, then did another laughing spin. “Be happy. Be happy for me. I’m so happy! Look what Ari brought me back from Paris.”
“Yes, it’s a beautiful jacket.”
“It really is.” Tipping her head down, Linda rubbed her chin against the fur. “But that’s not all!” She flung out her hand, wiggled her fingers. On the third
