She rechecked her list of errands to run the next morning.

She didn’t consider it busywork. She made it a habit, a strict one, to start every Monday with a clean desk.

Satisfied, she opened the file on the book proposal she’d been toying with, did some tweaking. Almost ready, she thought, to show to her partners, get their input, have a serious discussion on moving forward.

By eleven, she was in bed with a book.

By eleven ten, she was staring at the ceiling thinking about an entry on her calendar.

Tues, 7:00: Malcolm.

Why had she said yes that way? Well, she knew exactly why she’d said yes, so it was ridiculous to ask herself the question. She’d been sexually flustered and aroused and interested. No point in pretending otherwise.

So flustered, aroused, and interested, she hadn’t even asked where he planned to go, what he planned to do.

How was she supposed to dress, for God’s sake? How was she supposed to prepare without the smallest detail to go on? Did he plan to take her to dinner, a movie, a play, straight to a motel?

And why would they go to a motel when they both had homes?

And why couldn’t she stop thinking and just read her damn book?

She could just call him and find out. But she didn’t want to call him. Any normal man would’ve said, I’ll pick you up at seven, we’ll go to dinner. Then she’d know what to expect.

She certainly wasn’t going to dress up when he’d probably pick her up on his motorcycle. She didn’t even know if he had a car.

Why didn’t she know that?

She could ask Del. She’d feel stupid asking Del. She felt stupid thinking about asking Del.

She felt stupid.

She’d let him put his hands all over her, was unquestionably thinking about letting him do it again—and more—and she didn’t even know if he owned a car. Or how he lived, or what he did with his free time, except play poker on poker night with her brother and his friends.

“I could drive,” she murmured. “I could insist we take my car, then . . .”

When her phone rang, she snatched it off the night table, thrilled to get her mind off her own personal insanity and onto a bride.

“Hi, Emily. What can I do for you?”

MONDAY MORNING, DRESSED IN A RUSTY RED JACKET AND BLACK pants, with heels low enough to suit errands, stylish enough to handle appointments, Parker hauled her dry cleaning bag to the stairs.

“Here, I’ll get that.” Heading over from his wing, Del shifted his briefcase to take the bag.“Dry cleaning? If I take this down to your car, will you drop mine off, too?”

“Can do, but make it quick.” She tapped her watch. “I’m on a schedule.”

“There’s breaking news.” He set the bag and briefcase down. “Be there in two. Don’t carry that down.”

“You might as well get Laurel’s while you’re at it,” she called after him.

“Make that five.”

She started to pick up the bag again, shrugged, carried his briefcase down instead. Emma strolled out of the parlor.

“Hey. I copped coffee from Mrs. G, so I thought I’d check the house flowers while I was here. Heading out?”

“Monday morning errands, then a consult at the bridal shop, and so on.”

“Dry cleaning.” Emma waved her hands.“Can you take mine?”

“If you get it here fast.”

“I’m practically back already,” Emma claimed as she dashed out the door.

Parker checked her watch, then walked back to pick up the weekly cleaning from Mrs. Grady.

By the time she’d loaded that in her car, Del came out with two more bags. “I can pick this up when it’s ready,” he told her. “But maybe I need to rent a truck.”

“Not done yet. Emma’s getting hers.”

He tossed the bags in. “You know, with the amount you have, they’d pick up and deliver.”

“Yes, but I’m going right by there anyway.” She took in a deep breath. “Fall’s coming.You can smell it. The leaves are starting to turn already.” Stupid, stupid, she thought, but couldn’t stop herself. “I guess when the weather turns, Malcolm must have to stow his motorcycle.”

“Mostly. He’s got a ’Vette, some vintage deal he restored. Pretty slick. He won’t let anybody else drive it. And he’s got a truck.” He shot her a look. “Worried about your transportation?”

“Not especially.That’s a lot of vehicles for one person.”

“It’s his deal. He picks up vintage cars at auctions, restores them, flips them like houses. Seems there’s a hell of a market for that kind of thing, done right.” He reached around to tug her ponytail. “Maybe he’ll teach you to rebuild an engine.”

“A useful skill, I’m sure, but I don’t think so.” She glanced over to see both Emma and Carter carting laundry bags. “Maybe we could use that truck.”

“Ran into Mac on my way.” Emma puffed out a few breaths. “So we’ve got the whole haul.”

“Are you sure you can manage all this?” Carter asked Parker. Didn’t she always? she thought but only pointed to the car. “Load it in.” And she’d make sure it was labeled on the other end.

“I can pick it up—” Carter began.

“Del’s on return detail. That’ll be Thursday,” Parker told her brother. “After two. Don’t forget. Full consult on the Foster-Ginnero wedding,” she said to Emma as she rounded the car.“Five sharp.”

“All over it. Thanks, Parker.”

She drove out, imagining both Del and Carter would be on their way close behind her. Jack, she knew, had already left for an early meeting on a job site. Emma would shortly begin processing the morning’s flower deliveries while Mac worked through the morning on photos—and handled an afternoon studio shoot, and Laurel baked for an outside job for Wednesday evening.

A full day for all, she mused. Just the way she liked it.

She dropped off the dry cleaning first, personally tagging each bag.

Systematically, she worked down her list. Banking, stationery store, office supplies, stops to replace the supplies she’d been called on to use during the past week’s events. She added to her in-house supply of emergency party favors, thank-you gifts, hostess gifts, loading all carefully in her car, in order.