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“They can if they want.” Laurel glanced down at him. About five, she figured, and pretty cute. Or he would be if he wasn’t over-tired, wound up, and sulking. “But tomorrow all the men in the wedding party get to wear them. Wait. Maybe you’re not old enough to wear one.”
“I am, too!” Insult radiated. “I’m five.”
“Whew. That’s a relief,” she said as she walked him down toward the pond. “Because it would really mess everything up if we had to find another ring bearer by tomorrow. They can’t get married without the rings.”
“Why?”
“They just can’t. So if we had to find somebody else, it would really be hard.You’ve got a really important job.”
“More than Tissy?”
Tissy, Laurel interpreted, was the little sister. “Her job’s really important, too. She has a girl job, but you have a guy job. She doesn’t get to wear a tuxedo.”
“Not even if she wants to?”
“Nope, not even. Check it out,” she told him, and pointed at the lily pads. Near the edge one of them served as a float for a fat green frog.
When Del arrived he spotted her down at the pond, near the sweeping fronds of the willow, with her hand in the hand of a little boy with hair as bright and sunny as her own.
It gave him a quick start, a little jump in the belly. He’d seen her with kids before, he reminded himself. Weddings usually included a few. But ... There was something odd, maybe a little dreamy, about the picture they made, beside the pond, too far away for him to clearly see their faces. Just that sun-washed hair, and the joined hands.
As he watched they started back, the boy looking up at her, Laurel looking down at him.
“Hey, Del.”
He pulled himself out of that odd, dreamy picture and turned to Carter. “Hi. How’s it going?”
“Okay now, I’d say.Ten minutes ago, it was touch and go. We’re about to get started. Again.”
“One of those.”
“Oh yeah. I think Laurel ...There she is.”
Laurel stopped by a woman with a little girl on her hip, shared a quick word, an easy laugh with her. Then bent to the boy and murmured in his ear. He grinned as if she’d promised him a lifetime supply of cookies.
Del walked over to meet her halfway. “Make a new friend?” “Looks like. We’re running behind.”
“So I hear.”
“Parker’ll get it back on track,” she said even as Parker called for everyone to take their places.
Del stepped out of the way with Carter as Parker called out instructions, and the other three women guided and aligned.
It looked smooth as silk to him, with everyone smiling. He saw the boy and Laurel exchange a quick grin as he walked toward the pergola.
Moments later, she signaled to Del and slipped into the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HE FOUND HER IN THE MAIN KITCHEN, MOVING FAST.
“I’m a little behind,” she began. “It’s not like a Parker schedule, but—”
He stopped her by getting in her way, moving in, drawing her into a long, warm, indulgent kiss. And when he felt her go under, just a little, just enough, he eased back.
“Hi.”
“Well, hi. Was I saying something before all my brain cells went gooey?”
“Something about schedules.”
“Oh, yeah. That. Okay. I have a nice sauvignon blanc chilling. Why don’t you open it so we can try it out while I get things going.”
“I like when my main chore is opening the wine. What was the problem with the rehearsal?” he asked as he moved to oblige.
“What wasn’t, is more like it.” She shot him a look over her shoulder with those bluebell eyes. “The bride learned just this week she’s pregnant.”
“Uh-oh.”
“They’re good with it. In fact, they’ve turned the unexpected expecting into a surprise instead of a problem.”
“That’s good for everybody”
“Yeah, but it’s added some stress—and she’s more emotional and a whole lot tired. She’s crying, then the two kids are trying to murder each other, the MOG worked herself up, plus the heat got to her. Probably because she was worked up. Add in a groomsman who started celebrating a bit early. Just another day on the job.”
Laurel put water on for the pasta, added olive oil to a skillet, then moved past Del to retrieve the salad makings she’d prepared with Mrs. Grady’s help. “It’s a good thing I did most of this ahead, because I’d hoped to duck out of the rehearsal, but no dice.Thanks,” she added when he handed her a glass.
After sipping it, she began to peel and dice garlic.
“I should feel guilty about you cooking after you’ve put in a full day. Want me to chop something? I’m a reasonably experienced chopper.”
“No, we’re under control.”
Content to do nothing, he watched her add the garlic and some red pepper flakes to the oil. “This is new.”
“Hmm?”
“Seeing you cook. This kind of cooking, that is.”
“Oh, I dip my hand in every once in a while. I picked up some of it from Mrs. G, and some from working in restaurants. It’s an interesting change of pace. When it works.”
“You always look in charge in the kitchen. That was supposed to be a compliment,” he said when she frowned at him.
“I guess it is, as long as it doesn’t put me in the same camp as Julio.”
“Completely different camp. A different camp in a different country.”
She added some butter to the oil, got out the shrimp. “Good. Because I don’t often have—or want—company when I’m in the kitchen, but I rarely throw knives.” She added the shrimp to the oil, then pasta to the boiling water.
“Do you just keep everything that goes in, when and how, in your head?”
“Sometimes. Do you want a lesson?”
“I absolute
ly don’t. Real men grill.”
She laughed, and with spoon in one hand, pasta fork in the other, stirred skillet and pot at the same time. “Hand me the wine, will you?”
“Lush.” But he held it out.
She set down the pasta fork, then dumped a good cup of wine on the shrimp. Del visibly winced.
“It’s really good wine.”
“So it’s really good wine for cooking, too.”
“No question.” Her hands, he thought, were so quick, so competent. Had he ever noticed that before? “What are we having?”
“For the main? Seafood linguini.” She paused, took a sip from her glass. “Field green salad, some herb bread I baked for dipping. Vanilla bean cr?me br?l?e for dessert.”
He lowered his glass to stare at her—his Laurel, with her hair clipped up as always when she worked, her quick, competent hands busy. “You’re kidding.”
“I know you’re partial to cr?me br?l?e.” She lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug as the kitchen filled with scent. “If I’m going to cook, I might as well cook what you like.”
It occurred to him he should have brought her flowers or wine or ... something. And realized it hadn’t occurred to him because he was so used to coming here, coming home, to seeing her in his home.
Next time he wouldn’t forget.
When the wine came to a boil, she lowered the heat, covered it. Then tested the pasta, deemed it done, drained it.
She got a dish of olives out of the fridge. “To hold you off,” she said, then turned her attention to the salad.
“You know what I said about being in charge when you’re in the kitchen?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something about being in charge makes you just stunning.” She looked up, blinked in such obvious surprise he regretted not thinking of flowers even more.
“You’re already getting cr?me br?l?e,” she managed.
“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” Had he never told her that before, in just that way? “Cooking just spotlights it, the way dancing spotlights a dancer, or a sport spotlights an athlete. It just never struck me until now, I think because I’ve gotten used to seeing you at some stage or other of baking. It’s a kind of taking for granted. I need to be careful not to do that with you.”
“We don’t have to be careful with each other.”
“I think we do. Even more because we’re so used to each other.”
Maybe taking care was more accurate, he thought. Wasn’t she doing just that now? Taking care by making him a meal she knew he’d like particularly, and doing it because she knew he’d had a difficult day? This
