“Now we’re talking.”

She captured the movement, the energy, as garment bags and totes were unloaded, as women milled together. And undoubtedly, she thought, caught the tension as well.

“Parker, what will I do if—”

“Not a thing,” Parker assured the bride. “We’re completely on top of it. All you have to do is be beautiful, be happy, and we’ll handle the rest. Let’s go up. There’s a bottle of champagne waiting.”

Giving Carter the come-ahead signal, Mac skirted around Parker and the bridal party. “We get a glass of champagne in her, and in the MOH. Celebrate their friendship,” Mac said as she bounded up the stairs. “It’s about the journey, and in this case, that relationship is part of the whole. We’ll play on that, so instead of keeping a little distance between them as I initially figured, we document the unity. The bride prep as female bond as much as mating ritual.”

“Okay.” He turned into the room behind Mac. “It’s a lovely space.” He scanned lace, flowers, candles, swags of silk. “Ah, very female.”

“Well, duh.” Mac pulled out the second camera body, strapped it on.

“Should I be in here? It doesn’t seem quite . . . proper.”

“I may be able to use you. But for now, you’re stationed at the door. Nobody gets in without the password.”

“What’s the password?”

“Make one up.”

He took up his station as Parker swept the bride past him. A brunette stopped, gave him a once-over that made his stomach twitch.

“Jack?”

“Ah, no. I’m Carter.”

“Oh. Too bad.” She gave him a hard, sharp smile. “Stick around, Carter. You may come in handy.”

The door closed with a snap. Through the panel he could hear female voices, then the happy pop of a cork leaving the bottle. The laughter that followed had to be a good sign.

Moments later a small troop of men and women carting totes and cases started toward him.

“Excuse me,” he began, and the door swung open behind him.

“It’s okay, Carter. They’re hair and face.” Parker gestured them in. “Let Jack through when he gets here.”

The door shut again, and the noise level rose behind it.

He wondered if this was typical, if Mac and the rest of them repeated this pattern several times a week. Emotion, immediacy, red alerts, strange codes, headsets, walkie-talkies. It was like a continuous battle.

Or a long-running Broadway show.

Either way, he decided he’d be exhausted at the end of every day.

Mac opened the door, stuck a glass of champagne in his hand. “Here you go.” And closed the door again.

He stared down at the glass, wondered if he was allowed to drink on duty. Amused at himself, he shrugged, took a sip.

He glanced over at the man who turned at the top of the steps and started his way.

“Hey, Carter, how’s it going?”

Jack wore a dark suit with subtle chalk stripes. His dark blond hair curled casually around his face. Eyes, smoky gray and friendly, sparked under brows arched in question. “You in the wedding?”

“No. I’m helping out.”

“Me, too.” He dipped his hands in his pockets, relaxed. Jack Cooke always appeared relaxed to Carter. “So, I’ve got a date in there. Did you happen to get a look at her? Megan. Meg to her pals.”

“Oh, the maid of honor. Yes, she’s in there.”

“Well?” Jack waited a beat. “Give me a gauge. Parker gave me the ‘she’s beautiful’ routine, but Parker had an agenda. I’m in either way, but I might as well get an objective opinion.”

“Very attractive. Brunette.”

“Mood?”

“A little scary, actually. They’re doing something with hair in there now.”

“Great.” Jack blew out a breath. “What we do for friendship and a case of good wine. Well, into the breach.” He knocked. “Foreign chromosome,” he called out.

Parker opened the door. “Perfect timing,” she said and yanked him in.

Carter leaned against the wall beside the door, sipped champagne, and pondered human rituals.

The next time the door opened, Mac pulled him in.

Women sat under protective cloaks while hairdressers plied their trade with implements that always made Carter vaguely uneasy. If hair was straight, here was a strange tool to curl it. If hair was curly, another tool would straighten it.

Why was the question.

But he kept it to himself and held a light meter when he was told to, a length of white lace over a window, a lens. He didn’t mind, even when Jack deserted the field and he was left the lone male among the female army.

He’d never seen Mac work before, and that alone was both education and pleasure. Confident, intent, he thought, with efficiency and fluidity in her movements. She changed angles, cameras, lenses, circling and winding through the women, speaking rarely to those she photographed.

She let them be, he realized. How they were and who they were.

She tapped her headset. “Groom’s heading in. We’re on the move.”

Solidarity wasn’t the theme here, Carter noted, as the best man didn’t arrive with his brother. Mac did her work, in the cold, with her breath wisping vapors.

“Groom’s coming up,” she said into headset. “CBBM among the missing. Got it.” She turned to Carter. “We’ve set a lookout for the ass**le. I’m going to go set for the formal gown portraits. Why don’t you find Jack and Del, relax awhile?”

“All right.” He looked around the Parlor at the rows of white draped chairs, the floods of flowers, the groupings of candles. “It’s quite a transformation. Like magic.”

“Yeah, and magic takes sweat. I’ll find you.”

He didn’t doubt that, but wasn’t sure where he should go to be found.

He wandered through the flowers and tulle, the tiny sparkling lights and into the Grand Hall. There, with some relief, he found Jack and Del, sitting at the bar.

“Want a beer?” Del called out.

“No. Thanks. I’m just getting out of the way.”

“Best place for all of us,” Jack agreed. “You hit the nail with Megan.” Jack lifted his bottle of Bass. “There are worse ways to spend a Saturday than comforting a pretty brunette. Canape?”