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“I’m sorry.” He fumbled it as arousal and mortification warred inside him. “Sorry. That was—wasn’t—Just . . . really sorry.”
She continued to stare as he hurried away, his strides made awkward by the fresh fall of snow. She heard, somewhere in the roaring in her head, the beep of his key lock, and watched him climb into his car in the overhead light after he wrenched open the door.
He pulled out before she got her breath and her voice back. As he drove away, she managed a weak, “No problem.”
Feeling a lot more buzzed than she had on wine, she let herself into the house. She went to the kitchen, poured his untouched wine down the sink, followed it with what was left in hers. After looking blindly around, she turned, leaned back on the counter.
“Wow,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
SOME MORNINGS YOU JUST NEEDED MORE THAN A POP-TART and a hit of coffee, Mac decided. She figured she’d been spared the unhappiness of a hangover—thank you, Carter Maguire—but several fresh inches of snow meant she’d be hauling out the shovel. She wanted real fuel. Knowing where she’d find it, she pulled on her boots, dragged on her coat, and headed out.
And went back inside immediately for her camera.
The light, bold and bright, blasted out of the hard blue sky onto the still white sea. Untouched, untrampled, that sea spread over the ground, washed over it. Drowned it. Shrubs became hunched creatures crossing that frozen sea, and the rocks forming the lagoon of the swimming pool a tumbled barricade.
Her breath drew in, the cold like tiny shards of glass, then expelled in frigid clouds as she framed in the winter palace of a grove.
Landscapes and pictorials rarely gripped her imagination. But this, she thought, this black and white, with so many shades of each, the shadow and light under the almost savage blue sky demanded its moment. So many shapes, so many textures with branches buried and bark laced offered countless possibilities.
And the grand and gorgeous house rose out of the sea, an elegant and graceful island.
She worked her way to it, experimenting with angles, using the light, honing in on the sparkling cotton balls of azaleas that would burst into bloom come spring. A movement caught her eye, and as she turned to follow it she saw the cardinal take its perch on the snow-covered branch of a maple. It sat, a single spot of vivid red, and sang.
Mac crouched, zoomed in rather than risk going closer and losing the shot. Was it the same bird who’d smacked into her kitchen window? she wondered. If so, he certainly seemed undamaged and unruffled as he sat like a single flame on the white-laced branch.
She caught the moment then, taking three shots in rapid succession, slight changes in angles that coated her jeans with snow as she inched left.
Then the bird took wing, swooped over the frozen sea, through the bright light, and was gone.
Emmaline, beautiful Emmaline in her old navy coat, white cap and scarf trudged toward her through the snow. “I wondered how long I’d have to stand there until you finished or the damn bird took off. It’s
cold out here.”
“I love winter.” Mac swung the camera up again, and with Emma in the crosshairs, depressed the shutter.
“Don’t! God, I look awful.”
“You look cute. Gotta love the pink Uggs.”
“Why did I buy them in pink? What was I thinking?” She shook her head as she joined Mac, and both continued to the house. “I thought you’d already be inside, nagging Laurel to make breakfast. Wasn’t it you who called me and said
pancakes nearly an hour ago?”
“It was, and now we can both nag her into it. I got caught up. It’s amazing out here. The light, the tones, the texture. And that damn bird? Bonus round.”
“It’s twenty degrees, and after pancakes, we’re going to be shoveling this snow and freezing our asses off. Why can’t it always be summer?”
“We hardly ever get pancakes in the summer. Crepes maybe, but it’s not the same.”
As she stomped snow off her pink Uggs, Emma slid her baleful gaze toward Mac, then opened the door.
Mac scented coffee instantly. She dumped her gear, set her camera carefully on top of the dryer, then strode in to give Laurel a rib-crushing squeeze. “I knew I could count on you.”
“I saw you playing nature girl out the window, and figured you were coming over to whine for pancakes.” Hair clipped back, sleeves rolled up, Laurel measured out flour.
“I love you, and not only for your snowy-day pancakes.”
“Good, then set the table. Parker’s already up, answering e-mail.”
“Is she calling for snow removal?” Emma asked. “I’ve got three consults today.”
“For parking. The consensus is there’s not enough to call in the troops for the rest. We can handle it.”
Emma’s face clouded into a pout. “I hate shoveling snow.”
“Poor Em,” Mac and Laurel said together.
“Bitches.”
“I’ve got a breakfast story.” Riding on the impromptu photo session and the near occasion of pancakes, Mac dumped sugar in the coffee she’d poured. “A
sexy breakfast story.”
Emma paused in the act of opening a cabinet for plates. “Spill.”
“We’re not eating. Anyway, Parker’s not down yet.”
“I’m going up to drag her down. I want a sexy breakfast story to keep me warm while I’m shoveling this stupid snow.” Emma scurried out of the kitchen.
“Sexy breakfast story.” Considering Mac, Laurel picked up her wooden spoon to stir the batter. “Must involve Carter Maguire, unless you got an obscene phone call and consider that sexy.”
“Depends who’s calling.”
“He’s fairly adorable. Not your usual type, though.”
Mac looked back as she opened the drawer for flatware. “I have a type?”
“You know you do. Athletic, fun-loving, may have
creative bent but not a strict requirement, not too intense or serious-minded. Nothing in past history to include cerebral, scholarly, or quietly charming.”
It was Mac’s turn to pout. “I like smart guys. Maybe I just haven’t run into one who hit my hot-o-meter.”
“He’s also sweet. Not your usual.”
“I like sweet,” Mac objected. “Taste my coffee!”
With a laugh, Laurel set the batter down to get mixed berries out of the fridge. “Set the table, Elliot.”
“I’m doing it.” As she did, she evaluated Laurel’s list. Maybe it was accurate—to a point. “Everybody’s got a type. Parker’s got a type. Successful, well-groomed, well-read.”
“Bilingual a plus,” Laurel added as she washed berries. “Should be able to distinguish between Armani and Hugo Boss at twenty paces.”
“Emma’s got a type. They must be men.”
Laurel’s laugh rolled out as Emma came back in. “Parker’s heading down. What’s the joke?”
“You, sweetie. Griddle’s hot,” Laurel announced. “Better get moving.”
“Good morning, partners.” Parker swung in—dark jeans, cashmere sweater, her hair neatly tied back in a tail, makeup subtle. Mac had an errant thought that it would be easy to hate Parker if she didn’t love her. “I just booked three more appointments for the tour and pitch. God! I love the holidays. So many people get engaged during the holidays. And before you know it, it’ll be Valentine’s Day, and we’ll get more hits. Pancakes?”
“Get the syrup,” Laurel told her.
“The roads are clear. I don’t think we’ll have any cancellations on today’s schedule. Oh, and the Paulsons sent an e-mail—just back from their honeymoon. I’m going to pull off some quotes for the website.”
“No business,” Emma interrupted. “Mac has a sexy breakfast story.”
“Really?” Eyebrows lifted, Parker set the syrup and butter on the table of the breakfast nook. “Tell all.”
“It began, and sexy tales often do, when I spilled Diet Coke on my shirt.”
She started the story as Laurel brought a platter of pancakes to the table.
“He
said he walked into a wall,” Emma interrupted. “Poor Carter!” She snorted out a laugh as she cut the first tiny sliver of a single pancake.
“Hard,” Mac added. “I mean, the guy rammed it. In a cartoon, he’d have gone through the wall and left a Carter-shaped hole in it. Then he’s sitting on the floor and I’m trying to see how bad it is, and my tits are in his face—which he very politely points out.”
“ ‘Excuse me, Miss, your tits appear to be in my face’?”
Mac wagged her fork at Laurel. “Except he didn’t say tits, and he kind of stuttered. So I go pull a shirt out of the dryer, get him a bag of ice, and ultimately determine he probably doesn’t need the ER.”
She continued on while plowing her way through a short stack.
“I’m a little let down,” Laurel said. “I expect a sexy breakfast story to have sex, not just your very pretty boobs.”
“I’m not done. Part two begins when I’m back home working, and carelessly answer the phone. My mother.”
Smile fading, Parker shook her head. “That’s not sexy. I’ve told you to screen, Mac.”
“I know, I know, but it was the business line, and I wasn’t thinking. Anyway,
