“That’s pretty good,” she murmured.

“It’s pretty true.” He dipped his head to brush her lips with his. “Hi, Laurel.”

“Hi, Del.”

“If you give Parker those flowers, I’ll buy you some more.”

It was, she thought, the perfect amount of beeswax in the sugar. “Okay”

HOLIDAYS, THE REAL DEAL WITH NO WORK ON THE SLATE, WERE SO rare Laurel’s internal clock woke her at six sharp. She started to roll out of bed when she remembered she didn’t have to roll out. She snuggled back in with the same sort of giddy wonder she’d felt as a child with an unexpected snow day.

Even as she sighed and closed her eyes again, she thought of Del in another bed, conveniently close by.

She could get up after all, sneak into his room, into his bed. All bets off.

It was Independence Day, after all. Why not be independent? He wasn’t likely to complain or yell for help. She could change into something sexier than her tank and boxers. She had the equipment. The blue teddy would do the job. Or maybe the silk chemise with the pastel flower pattern, or ...

Thinking about it, she fell back to sleep.

Opportunity missed, she thought as she wandered down to the family kitchen nearly three hours later. Probably for the best as the others would surely gloat about her and Del losing the bet. This was the best way, the way to show they both were adults with willpower and sense. Just a couple more weeks, really, so no big deal.

Breakfast scents and voices filled the kitchen. And there he was, looking all gorgeous and relaxed, drinking coffee and flirting with Mrs. G. She could only wish she’d followed through on that early-morning thought.

“And she’s up,” Mac announced. “Just in time. We’re having the ginormous holiday breakfast, which, thanks to Del’s persuasive powers, includes Belgian waffles.”

“Yum.”

“I’ll say. We’re going to do nothing but eat and fat-ass all day, until we go to the park and eat and fat-ass there. Including you.” Mac pointed at Parker.

“Not all fat asses are created equal. I’m going to do a little reorganizing in my office. It relaxes me.”

“Your office is already organized to Obsessiveville,” Emma pointed out.

“It’s where I live, where I make my home.”

“Nag the girl while you finish setting the table,” Mrs. Grady ordered. “I haven’t got all day.”

“We’re eating on the terrace because, holiday.” Mac picked up a stack of plates, shaking her head when Carter started to take them from her. “Uh-uh, cutie. Grab something unbreakable.”

“Good thought.”

“We’re having mimosas, like grown-ups.” Emma handed Carter the bread basket. “What this is, is a prelude for our vacation next month, where every day’s a holiday”

“I’ll tend bar.” Jack hefted the champagne and a pitcher of orange juice.

“Someone should’ve woken me up. I’d have given you a hand with this, Mrs. G.”

“Under control.” Mrs. Grady flicked her spatula. “Get the rest out there.We’ll be ready in two minutes.”

“Nice start to the day.” Laurel glanced at Del as they carried platters outside. “Your idea?”

“Who wants to be inside on a day like this?”

Laurel remembered how often there’d been fun summer meals on the terrace when she’d visited as a child. Flowers, good dishes, and easy company on lovely, lazy mornings.

They’d already put tables together to accommodate the whole group, draped them in pretty cloths, and, yes, there were flowers and good dishes, and the sparkle of crystal in the morning sunlight.

She’d forgotten what it was to indulge like this with nothing more pressing on the day than enjoyment.

She took the glass Jack offered her. “Thanks.”Took a sip. “You could have a career.”

He gave her hair a friendly tug. “A fallback’s always good.”

When Mrs. G came out with the last platter, Del took it from her. “Head of the table for you, Waffle Queen.”

Of course she loved him, Laurel thought, watching as he fussed over Mrs. Grady until she was settled with a mimosa in her hand. How could she help it?

She stepped up, kissed his cheek. “Good job.”

It would be like this from now on, she realized. Oh, not Belgian waffles and mimosas on the terrace. But this group, this family. These voices, these faces, on holidays and impromptu family meals.

Voices crisscrossed the table along with the food. A sliver of waffle for Emma, fruit for Parker while she talked to Carter about a book they’d both read recently. Heaps of whipped cream for Mac, and Del arguing with Jack about a call on a baseball game.

“What’s on your mind, girl?” Mrs. Grady asked her.

“Hardly anything. It’s a nice change.”

Mrs. Grady leaned over, lowered her voice. “Are you going to show them the design you just worked up?”

“Should I?”

“Eat first.”

Mac tapped her spoon on her glass. “I want to announce we’re holding tours after breakfast for the new Carter Maguire Library. Carter and I hauled half a million books up there last night, so we expect lavish praise, with some left over for the architect.” She lifted her glass to Jack.

“It wasn’t more than a quarter million books,” Carter corrected. “But it’s great. Really great, Jack.”

“Nothing I like more than satisfied clients.” He aimed a look at Emma. “Well, almost nothing.”

“And no more hammering, sawing, painting. Not that we’re complaining,” Mac said. “But, oh boy.”

“Hammering and so forth starts next door next week,” Jack warned her.

“Earplugs,” Mac said to Emma. “Highly recommended.”

“I can take it. For a new cooler and work space, I can take it.”

“We’ll be doing some work on your space in tandem, Laurel.”

“She’ll bitch.” Mac waved her fork. “Me? I’m a saint, but she’ll bitch and complain.”

“Probably.” Laurel shrugged and finished her waffle.

“We’ll block off the work area from your kitchen,” Jack told her. “Keep out of your space as much as possible.”

“She’ll still bitch. It’s her nature.”