“Thanks. Be sure to go away now.”

He changed the shirt, dawdling over it to give Sherry enough time to finish up and go. He hid the gift-wrapped box in his office closet.

When he went down, he found a sticky note on his CD player. Hit Play five minutes before she’s due. XXOO

“It’s like a war campaign,” Carter muttered, and crumpled up the note as he walked into the kitchen to start the chicken.

He minced, he crushed, he sautéed, measured, timed—and only burned himself once. When the chicken simmered fragrantly, he lit the candles on the table, the ones on the skinny sideboard. He set out the little bowls of olives and cashews. When he hit the five-minute mark, he switched on the stereo. Alanis Morissette.

Nice choice.

At seven, she knocked.

“I’m Parker-trained,” Mac told him when he opened the door. “So I’m obsessively prompt. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s absolutely okay. Let me take your coat. Oh, and . . .”

“Dessert,” she said, handing him the glossy Vows bakery box. “Italian cream cake, a personal favorite. Nice house, Carter. Very you,” she added wandering into the living room with its wall of books. “Oh, you have a cat.”

“I didn’t think to ask if you were allergic.”

“I’m not. Hello, pal.” She started to crouch, then stopped, angling her head. “You have a cat with three legs.”

“Triad. He was hit by a car.”

“Oh, poor baby!” Instantly, she was down on the floor, stroking and scratching the delighted cat. “It had to be awful for both of you. Thank God you were home.”

“No, actually I was driving home from school. They—the car in front of me hit him, and just kept going. I don’t understand how anybody could do that. When I pulled over, I thought he’d be dead, but he was lying there, in shock, I guess. The vet couldn’t save the leg, but he does okay.”

Mac continued to stroke the cat down his length as she stared at Carter. “I bet he does.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“I would.” She gave Triad a last scratch, then rose. “And I’d like to check out what smells so good.”

“I thought that was you.”

“Besides me,” she said while he hung her coat tidily in his hall closet.

“Come on back.” He took her hand to lead her to the kitchen. “You look nice. I should’ve said that right away.”

“Only if you’re working off bullet points.”

As he felt himself wince, he was grateful her attention focused on the kitchen instead of his face.

“It really does smell good. What’ve you got going here, Carter?” She walked to the stove to sniff at the skillet.

“Well, let’s see. There’s a field green salad, rosemary chicken in a white wine reduction, roasted red-skinned potatoes, and asparagus.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me.”

“You don’t like asparagus? I can—”

“No, that’s not what I mean. You made all this?” She lifted the lid of the skillet.

“You’re not really supposed to take that off until . . . Well, okay.” He shrugged as she sniffed again, then replaced the lid.

“This is trouble, Carter.”

“Why? Is it the chicken?”

“You went to all this trouble. I figured you’d toss a couple steaks under the broiler, or dump a jar of Ragú in a pot and call it your own. But this is cooking. Considerable time and trouble. I’m wowed. And look at the pretty table you made.”

She wandered into the dining room to walk around it. “You’re just a man of levels, aren’t you?”

“Why didn’t I think of the Ragú?” He picked up the bottle of wine he’d opened. “I got white because of the chicken, but I didn’t know what kind you liked. This is supposed to be good.”

“Supposed?”

“I don’t know a lot about wine. I looked it up.”

She took the glass he offered, sampled, watching him all the while. “Your research paid off.”

“Mackensie.” He leaned down, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “There. I feel better.”

“Than?”

“Probably every man within a twenty-mile radius because they can’t kiss you in the kitchen.”

“You’re dazzling me, Carter.”

“That was part of the plan. I just have to put a few things together. You should sit down.”

“I could help.”

“I have a system—I hope. If you’re in the system, it changes the, well, system. I did a draft Tuesday night, so I think I have it down.”

“A draft?”

He asked himself why he’d babbled that one out as he adjusted the heat under the skillet. “Ah, well, I wasn’t sure how it might turn out, and there’s the whole getting everything done at the right time. So, I did a draft of the meal.”

“You had a dinner rehearsal?”

“More or less. Bob’s wife had her book club meeting, so he came by. I cooked. We ate. So, you should be safe. How did your studying go?”

“My studying?”

“For the presentation on Monday.”

“I am so ready. Which is good because starting tomorrow we’re booked back-to-back. We had a roundup this morning, two rehearsals this afternoon. The second of which was full of pitfalls as the maid of honor and best man, who are recent exes since his affair with his business partner came to light, aren’t speaking.”

“How do you handle that?”

“Like you would a handful of sweating dy***ite. The wedding biz isn’t for sissies.”

“I can see that.”

“And come Monday, we’ll be putting on a show for Mrs. Seaman Furniture that’ll make her stand up and cheer.”

“Seaman Furniture’s the potential client?”

“Technically Seaman Furniture’s daughter, but the mother’s paying the freight.”

“We’ll be eating on a table and sitting in chairs I bought there. I’d say that counts as good luck.”

They sat in the lucky chairs at the lucky table with candlelight and wine and music. She was, Mac realized, being thoroughly and unashamedly romanced.