And despite Del’s fumble in the night, he was agile, athletic, while Carter tended toward the klutzy.

Still, they were both so damn cute.

Obviously, the sturdy Mrs. Grady wasn’t immune. She worked at the stove—French toast winning the day—her eyes bright, her cheeks a little flushed. Happy to have the boys around, Laurel thought.

Parker came in from the terrace, slipping her BlackBerry into her pocket. She caught sight of Laurel. “Saturday evening’s bride. Basic nerves. All smooth. Emma and Jack are heading over, Mrs. G.”

“Well, if I’m cooking for an army, some of the troops had better sit. Keep your fingers off that bacon, boy,” she warned Del, “until you’re at the table like the civilized.”

“Just trying to get a head start. I’ll take it over. Hey, Laurel, how’s the head?”

“Still on my shoulders.” She set down the sketchbook, picked up the pitcher of juice.

“Morning.” Carter smiled at her. “What happened to your head?”

“Del beat it against the stairs.”

“After she hit me and ripped my shirt.”

“Because you were drunk and knocked me down.”

“I wasn’t drunk, and you fell.”

“That’s his story.”

“Sit down and behave,” Mrs. G ordered. She turned as Jack and Emma came in. “Are your hands clean?” she demanded of Jack.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then take this and go sit.”

He accepted the platter of French toast, sniffed deeply. “What did you make for everybody else?”

She laughed and swatted at him.

“Hey,” he said to Del.

They’d been friends since college, and as tight as brothers since Jack had relocated to Greenwich to open his architectural firm. He took his place at the breakfast nook, movie-star handsome with his wavy, dark blond hair, smoky eyes, quick grin.

The fact that he was dressed in a suit told Laurel he had a client meeting in his office rather than an appointment on a construction site.

“Shirt’s ripped,” Jack said to Del as he nabbed a slice of bacon.

“Laurel did it.”

Jack wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Feisty.”

“Idiot.”

They grinned at each other as Mac came in. “God! This better be worth it. Come here.” She grabbed Carter, yanked him against her for a noisy kiss. “I earned that.”

“You’re all... rosy,” he murmured and bent his head to kiss her again.

“Stop that nonsense and sit down before the food gets cold.” Mrs. G gave him a flick on the arm as she carried the coffeepot to the table to fill mugs.

Mrs. G was in her element, Laurel knew. She had a full brood to fuss over and order around. She’d revel in the number and the noise of them, and when she’d had enough of both, she’d kick them all out of her kitchen. Or retreat to her rooms for some peace and quiet.

But for now, with the scents of coffee and bacon and cinnamon, with platters being emptied and plates filled, Mrs. G had things just as she wanted.

Laurel understood the need to feed, the desire—even the passion—to put food in front of someone and urge them to eat. It was life and comfort, authority and satisfaction. And if you’d prepared that food with your own hands, your own skill, it was, in a very real way, love.

She supposed she’d learned some of that right here when Mrs. G had taught her how to roll out a pastry shell or mix batter or test a loaf of bread for doneness. More than the basics of baking, she’d learned if you put some love and pride into the mix, the dough rose truer.

“Head okay?” Del asked her.

“Yes, no thanks to you. Why?”

“Because you’re quiet.”

“Who can get a word in?” she asked as conversations crisscrossed the table.

“How about a professional query?”

She eyed him warily over a bite of French toast. “Such as?”

“I need a cake.”

“Everyone needs cake, Del.”

“That should be your slogan. Dara’s coming back from maternity leave. I thought we’d do a little office welcome back, happy baby and all that.”

It was a nice thing to do for his paralegal, and very like him. “When?”

“Ah, Thursday.”

“As in this Thursday?” Also just like him, she thought. “What kind of cake?”

“A good one.”

“That’s the only kind I make. Give me a clue here. How many people?”

“Maybe twenty.”

“Sheet or layered?”

He sent her a pleading look. “Help me, Laurel. You know Dara. Just whatever you figure.”

“Is she allergic to anything?”

“No. I don’t think.” He topped off her coffee an instant before she thought to do so herself. “It doesn’t have to be spectacular. Just a nice cake for an office deal. I could go to the market and pick one up but... that’s what I’d get,” he said, pointing at the scowl on her face. “I can pick it up Wednesday after work if you can squeeze it in.”

“I’ll squeeze it in because I like Dara.”

“Thanks.” He reached over to give her hand a pat. “Gotta run. I’ll pick up that paperwork Wednesday,” he told Parker. “Let me know about the other stuff when you figure it out.”

He stood, then walked to Mrs. G. “Thanks.”

He gave her a quick, casual kiss on the cheek first. Then came the hug, and it was the hug that always made Laurel’s heart mush. Serious grip, cheek to the hair, eyes closed, just a little sway. Del’s hugs mattered, she thought, and made him impossible to resist.

“Pretend to behave yourself,” Mrs. Grady ordered.

“That I can do. See you.” He gave a wave to the rest of the group, then went out the back.

“I’d better get moving, too. Mrs. G,”Jack said, “you are the goddess of the kitchen. The empress of epicure.”

She gave her big laugh at that. “Go to work.”

“Going.”

“I’d better get started, too. I’ll walk out with you,” Emma said.

“Actually, I’ve got something I’d like your take on,” Laurel said to Emma before she could rise.

“Then I get to have more coffee.” She shifted to fuss with the knot of Jack’s tie, then tugged it until their lips met. “Bye.”