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And what his grandmother always used for backyard parties, he thought.
“And you have perfect glasses for the sangria. Short, thick, colored stems and napkins in bright stripes I thought—”
She broke off when he pulled her in and kissed her.
“I take that as a yes.”
“Use whatever you want.”
“I think we’ll skip the Waterford and fine china. I know I’m obsessing, at least a little.”
“At least. Morgan.” She smelled of peaches. “Let’s sit down a minute.”
“All right. Wait! It’s nearly two. They’re coming around six for cocktails.”
“That’s four hours.”
“Yes, but I have things. A lot of things. I saw this summer table setting idea on HGTV I want to try.”
“Of course you did.”
“So flowers, vases, and candles and all of it. I’m in charge of the potatoes, then there’s serving dishes. And I have to get myself together so I look good.”
“You look good.”
“Please. I’m still dealing with the shame of this outfit when your mother dropped by looking like the cover of a magazine with the caption ‘Casual summer chic.’”
“Are you going to be like this anytime people come over here?”
“I hope not, but I think I have to get over this hump, successfully. It’s your house, your siblings, the chief of police. It’s a big hump for me.”
“Okay then. What’s next?”
She let out a long sigh. “Thanks.”
He shrugged it off as she went to get the napkins to practice some clever fold for the table look she wanted.
It could wait, he decided. What he wanted to say to her could wait. And he’d take more time to think.
It took damn near the four hours for her to satisfy herself with every detail. Flowers, candles, napkins. Her focus remained intense, though she chatted away while she prepped her potatoes, while he marinated chicken, the vegetables he’d roast, made the barbecue sauce.
And again, as they worked together, it struck how well she fit. How her anticipation of the evening had him looking forward to it all more than he’d expected.
She put on a dress—she sure had the legs for it. Just a breezy number in pale, pale green that made him give thanks for summer.
At last, when she stood outside, giving her tablescape a last, critical look, she nodded.
“It looks good, right? It all looks good.”
“It ought to. You know, you spent all that time fancy folding the napkins, tucking a nasturtium in each one—precisely—and people are just going to open them up.”
“The nasturtiums are pretty, and edible—so there’s that.”
“There’s that. I’m getting a beer.”
“Or,” she said as he started toward the copper tub where, at her insistence, he’d nestled beer and wine in ice, “you could sample the sangria.”
“I thought it was still blending.”
