Bed of Roses by Nora Roberts

it’s not. Is it?”
    “This isn’t like you, Em. You are the goddess of handling men and romantic or sexual situations.”
    “I know . It’s just this is Jack. It’s not supposed to be . . .” She waved her arms in the air. “Something to handle. I’m making too much of it. It was just a moment, just the circumstances. Just a thing. Now it’s done, so it’s not a thing.”
    “Emma, you tend to romanticize men, potential relationships, but you never get flustered over them. You’re flustered.”
    “Because it’s Jack! What if you were standing around, minding your own business, baking, and Jack came in and kissed you stupid. Or Del did. You’d be flustered.”
    “The only reason either of them come in here is to mooch baked goods. As Del just demonstrated. When did this happen? The night you broke down?”
    “No. It almost did. There was a second there . . . I think because there was a second there, it just led into it happening. During the reception Saturday.”
    “Right, right, you said Parker beeped you. Well, how was it? How did it rank on the patented Emmaline Grant spark-o-meter?”
    Emma let out a breath, pointed her thumb up, then swiped a hand through an imaginary line. “Slapped the top of the red zone before it broke the meter.”
    With her lips pursed, Laurel nodded. “I always suspected that about Jack. He has that red zone vibe about him. What are you going to do about it?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t decided. It’s thrown me off. I need to get my balance back, then figure out what to do. Or not do.”
    “Then you have to tell me, and also let me know when the gag order is lifted.”
    “All right, but meanwhile, not a word.” Emma picked up the cheese tray. “Let’s go be businesswomen.”
    Vows housed its conference room in what had been the library. The books remained, framing the room and giving way in spaces for photos and mementos. The room maintained its warmth, its elegance, even as it served for business.
    Parker sat at the big inlaid table, laptop and BlackBerry at the ready. As the morning client meetings and tours were complete for the day, she’d hung her suit jacket on the back of the chair. Mac sat across from her, long legs stretched out, wearing the jeans and sweater that served her for her workday.
    When Emma set the tray on the table, Mac levered herself up to snag a cluster of grapes. “You guys are late.”
    “Del stopped by the kitchen. Before we start business, who’s up for dinner and a movie night?”
    “Me, me!” Mac shot up a hand. “Carter has a teacher thing, and that saves me from working until he gets back. I put in a full one today.”
    “As it happens, my calendar is clear.” Laurel laid the cookie plate beside the platter.
    Parker merely picked up the house phone, pressed a button. “Hey, Mrs. G, can you handle the four of us for dinner? That’d be great. Thanks.” She hung up. “We’ll have chicken and like it.”
    “Works for me.” Mac bit into a grape.
    “All right then, the first order of business is Whitney Folk Harrigan, aka Monster Bride. As Laurel knows, I received an e-mail from her wherein she lists several bullet points addressing what she feels we could improve.”
    “Bitch.” Mac leaned up this time to spread some goat cheese on a rosemary cracker. “We kicked severe ass on that event.”
    “We should’ve kicked her severe ass,” Laurel commented.
    “Whitney feels, in no particular order of importance, that . . .” Parker opened a file to read from the e-mail she’d printed out. “The champagne was inadequately chilled, the service during dinner was slow, the gardens lacked enough color and bloom, the photographer spent more time than she deems necessary on the wedding party when the bride deserved more attention, and the offerings on the dessert table weren’t as varied or as well presented as she’d hoped. She adds that she felt rushed and/or neglected by the wedding planner during some parts of the