“They’re not you, Mac,” Parker said quietly.

“No. I know. And maybe it’s cynical to believe they’re not so much the exception as par. But that’s how it strikes me. And I like the way my life’s working out, I’m comfortable with the direction of it.”

A little calmer, she sat again. “Carter’s a serious man. Under it all he’s a serious man with a traditional mind-set. He’s got a major crush on me, that’s what it is. A crush that’s been flickering in there for years. If I let this escalate, he’s going to start thinking about hiring us for the event. He’s going to end up asking Parker where he should buy the ring. I can’t do that to him. I was right to leave. It’s better to cut it off now than to—”

“Risk being happy with someone who’s crazy about you?” Emma suggested.

“Okay, when you put it like that . . . yes. From where I’m standing that’s about right.”

“Can I have him?”

Mac glared at Laurel. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“You know what it’s about right from where you’re standing?” Emma studied Mac with her big, dark eyes. “Because nobody’s ever been crazy about you before, not in a way that matters, that’s solid and real. And you’ve never felt it for anyone. That’s what I know because I’m in the same place—I’d say all of us are. The difference is, with me, I’m always hoping it’ll happen.”

“Hence, the serial dating.”

“Knock it off, Laurel,” Parker told her.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being a smart-ass because I’m jealous. Right down to my bones. Nobody’s ever seen only me.”

“But he’s seeing me through the filter of an old crush.”

“I don’t know him as well as you, in the biblical sense or otherwise, but he strikes me as smarter than that.”

“Love and smart don’t go hand in hand.”

“No, they don’t.” Laurel lifted her arms toward Mac. “And here stands living proof of that. You’re stupid in love with the guy.”

“You’re not helping. Parker?”

“You’re afraid you’ll crush him. That because he is, at the core, a nice guy, you’ll walk all over him on the way to breaking his heart and leaving him shattered.”

“That’s a little dramatic, but yes. Basically.”

“And you’re determined to believe yourself incapable of sustaining a mature, committed relationship. Of not only seeing yourself as not worthy of love, but doubting you’ve got the backbone and balls to work at maintaining it.”

“That’s a little harsh, but—”

“I think you underestimate him, and yourself.” She rose, walked to the mantel for a photograph framed in silver. “Remember this?”

Mac took the photo of Parker’s parents, caught in a laughing hug, their eyes full of delight, of life, of each other. “Of course, I do.”

“You took that, just a few months before they died. Of all the pictures I have of them, this is my favorite. You know why?”

It made Mac’s eyes sting to look at it. It always did.

“You can see how much they loved each other,” Parker continued. “How happy they made each other. They fought, and they argued, and I imagine there were times they each got thoroughly sick of each other. But they loved anyway. For half their lives, they made it work. You captured that in this picture. Because you saw that. You recognized that.”

“They were exceptional.”

“So are you. I don’t waste my time on friends who aren’t exceptional.” She took the photo, set it back on the mantel. “Take a breath, Mac. Love’s scary, and sometimes it’s transient. But it’s worth the risks and the nerves. It’s even worth the pain.”

SHE WASN’T SURE. HOW COULD ANYONE BE SURE? BUT MAC knew the single thing she could do, had to do, was put it all aside for work. Her partners, her business, their clients depended on her doing her part. So she had to settle down and respect priorities.

A good night’s sleep, she determined, an early start. And a complete and professional focus on her clients’ needs.

She spent a restless night arguing with herself, then thought—bitterly—that she hadn’t lost a night’s sleep over a man since she’d been sixteen.

She brewed coffee so strong it all but stood up and howled. But it smothered fatigue under a buzz of caffeine. Because the box of Pop-Tarts seemed to indicate she had the appetite and the emotional stability of a six-year-old, she prepared what she thought of as an adult breakfast of yogurt, fresh fruit, and a muffin she’d stolen from Laurel’s stash.

Dishes dutifully washed, she reviewed her notes for the day’s event, checked her equipment. A relatively small event, she mused as she selected what she needed. A single attendant serving as MOH. The client wanted intimacy, simplicity.

The bride, she knew, had opted to wear a tea length gown in blue, and a very smart hat in lieu of veil and headdress. She’d carry a trio of white gardenias, the stems wrapped in satin ribbon.

Good choices all, in Mac’s opinion, as this was a second marriage for both.

See?

“Don’t get started on that,” she muttered.

FOB would walk the bride down the aisle, but they were skipping the “giving away” part. Because, hello, already did that once before.

With her gear, the event schedule, and her notes in place, she checked the time. Plenty of it left to do a quick check on e-mail.

She toggled over, scanned and homed in instantly on an unopened from MaguireC101. She pushed away from her work station, paced around the studio.

She stalked back to the kitchen for another cup of brutal coffee.

She didn’t have to open the e-mail now. In fact she shouldn’t open it now. She had to keep her mind on work, didn’t she? That was the responsible thing to do. The grown-up thing, like yogurt and fresh fruit.

It couldn’t be urgent. He’d have called if there was anything important to tell her. Or to discuss.

Like, why did you blow me off after I got you off?

Not that he’d ever say anything so crude.

The thing to do was go upstairs, shower, dress, then go over to the main house for the review and setup. She didn’t have time for any personal . . .