She slipped on a nightshirt, a robe, tucked her phone in the robe pocket. She considered a long, hot bath, but exed it out since long, hot baths encouraged thinking and dreaming. She didn’t care to do either.

Instead, she fixed her mind on the next day’s schedule while she cleansed, toned, moisturized her face.

Glowy, she thought, giving her reflection a cool stare. What a silly word. It wasn’t even a word in the first place, and totally inaccurate.

Laurel had romance fever. Nearly all brides caught it, and due to its side effects they saw everything and everyone through a pretty haze of love.

Nice for them, she admitted as she took the band from her hair. Good business for Vows.

And speaking of business, she’d take an hour now to input all the new data from the evening consult and the initial choices made by the clients.

An estimated 225 on the guest list, she thought as she wandered back into the bedroom with the intention of going to work on her laptop in her sitting room. A bridal party of six, including a flower girl who’d be five by the June wedding.

The bride’s favorite flower was peony, her color choices—for now anyway—pink and green. Soft tones.

Soft, Parker thought again, and changed direction to open her terrace doors and step out. She’d just get a little air first, just take in a little of the night air.

The bride wanted soft and delicate. She’d asked Parker to meet her at the salon to view the gown she’d chosen, which proved she was a bride who understood that the wedding dress created the center of whatever tone or theme or mood the wedding took.

All those lovely, floaty layers, Parker recalled, the subtle gleam of seed pearls and tender touches of lace.

Pastels and peonies, shimmering tulle, and whispered promises.

She could see it. She would see to it. She excelled at seeing to things.

There was no reason, no good reason to feel so restless, so unsettled, so addled.

No reason to stand here looking out at night-drenched gardens remembering the unexpected thrill of a motorcycle ride that had lasted only minutes.

And had been fast and dangerous and foolishly exciting.

Like, very like, the hard, rough kiss of a brash man in her own foyer.

She wasn’t interested in those things.Absolutely not. Intrigued, maybe, but intrigued was a different matter. She found sharks intriguing when they swam their eerily silent way in the tank at an aquarium, but that didn’t mean she had any interest in taking a dip with them.

Which wasn’t a fair comparison, she admitted with a sigh. Not fair at all.

Malcolm might be cocky, he might be brash, but he wasn’t a shark. He’d been so natural with Mrs. G, and even a bit sweet in that area. She had unerring radar for phonies when it came to their behavior with those she loved, and there hadn’t been a phony note in Malcolm’s.

Then there was his friendship with Del. Del might tolerate professional relationships with phonies and sharks, but never a personal one.

So the problem, if there was a problem, was obviously with her. She’d just have to correct it. Correcting, solving, and eliminating problems was her stock-in-trade.

She’d just figure out the solution to this one, implement it, then move on. She needed to ascertain and identify said problem first, but she had a pretty good idea of its root.

At some level of the intrigue—not interest, but intrigue—at some level of that level, she was attracted.

In an elemental, strictly chemical way.

She was human, she was healthy, and Laurel was right. Malcolm was hot. In his primal, rough-edged manner.

Motorcycles and leather, torn denim and cocky grins. Hard hands, a hungry mouth.

Parker pressed a hand to her belly.Yes, definitely an aspect of attraction. Now that she’d admitted it, she could work out the best way to defuse it.

Like a bomb.

Like the bomb that had gone off inside her when he’d yanked her . . . Yanked her, she thought again. She didn’t like being yanked.

Did she?

“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.You fixed problems with answers, not more questions.

She wished she didn’t have so many damn questions.

In her pocket, her phone rang. She plucked it out like a woman reaching for a float in a stormy sea.

“Thank God.” She breathed out relief. Crazy Bride would absolutely, no question, give her a problem she could efficiently solve. And keep her mind off her own.

“Hi, Sabina! What can I do for you?”

CHAPTER FOUR

PARKER PREPPED FOR THE MORNING STAFF MEETING WITH BLACKBerry and laptop. She sat at the large round table in what had been the library of her home and now served as Vows’ conference room.

The walls of books and the rich scent of leather remained, and on brisk fall or cold winter mornings a fire would snap away in the hearth as it had for as long as she could remember. Lamps that warmed cozy seating arrangements had belonged to her grandmother. The rugs, a bit faded and frayed with time and use, came down from a generation before that. Framed articles on Vows and the women behind it were displayed artfully on the walls between cabinets.

On the long table nearby, her mother’s silver coffee service gleamed, and under it, tucked behind the antique doors, sat an office-sized refrigerator stocked with water and soft drinks.

To her mind the room epitomized the blending of tradition and enterprise essential to her goals for herself and her business.

She checked the day’s agenda, including the morning appointments, the afternoon’s bridal shower, and the rehearsal for Friday evening’s event. Her phone signaled as Mac came in with a basket of muffins.

“Laurel’s on her way. Emma says she’s not late.”

Parker nodded. “Friday night’s bride. Good morning, Cecily! Ready for the big day?”

She nodded again as Mac held the coffeepot over Parker’s cup. “Um-hmm. That’s so sweet. Yes, we can do that. Oh, absolutely.” She listened, winced only a little.

“I think that’s incredibly generous of you and Marcus. I know you must be,” she responded.“Listen, I’m just thinking, just throwing this out there. I wonder if considering the wedding cake and the groom’s cake, another might be overkill. Not quite as special as you’d like. What about a cupcake? Heart-shaped, elaborately frosted with their names on it. It would fit right on the head table in front of them. Be exclusively theirs.”

Listening again, Parker began to key in data one-handed on her laptop.“Leave it to me.You know Laurel will make it beautiful, and very special.”