“I’ve got a breakfast story.” Riding on the impromptu photo session and the near occasion of pancakes, Mac dumped sugar in the coffee she’d poured. “A sexy breakfast story.”

Emma paused in the act of opening a cabinet for plates. “Spill.”

“We’re not eating. Anyway, Parker’s not down yet.”

“I’m going up to drag her down. I want a sexy breakfast story to keep me warm while I’m shoveling this stupid snow.” Emma scurried out of the kitchen.

“Sexy breakfast story.” Considering Mac, Laurel picked up her wooden spoon to stir the batter. “Must involve Carter Maguire, unless you got an obscene phone call and consider that sexy.”

“Depends who’s calling.”

“He’s fairly adorable. Not your usual type, though.”

Mac looked back as she opened the drawer for flatware. “I have a type?”

“You know you do. Athletic, fun-loving, may have creative bent but not a strict requirement, not too intense or serious-minded. Nothing in past history to include cerebral, scholarly, or quietly charming.”

It was Mac’s turn to pout. “I like smart guys. Maybe I just haven’t run into one who hit my hot-o-meter.”

“He’s also sweet. Not your usual.”

“I like sweet,” Mac objected. “Taste my coffee!”

With a laugh, Laurel set the batter down to get mixed berries out of the fridge. “Set the table, Elliot.”

“I’m doing it.” As she did, she evaluated Laurel’s list. Maybe it was accurate—to a point. “Everybody’s got a type. Parker’s got a type. Successful, well-groomed, well-read.”

“Bilingual a plus,” Laurel added as she washed berries. “Should be able to distinguish between Armani and Hugo Boss at twenty paces.”

“Emma’s got a type. They must be men.”

Laurel’s laugh rolled out as Emma came back in. “Parker’s heading down. What’s the joke?”

“You, sweetie. Griddle’s hot,” Laurel announced. “Better get moving.”

“Good morning, partners.” Parker swung in—dark jeans, cashmere sweater, her hair neatly tied back in a tail, makeup subtle. Mac had an errant thought that it would be easy to hate Parker if she didn’t love her. “I just booked three more appointments for the tour and pitch. God! I love the holidays. So many people get engaged during the holidays. And before you know it, it’ll be Valentine’s Day, and we’ll get more hits. Pancakes?”

“Get the syrup,” Laurel told her.

“The roads are clear. I don’t think we’ll have any cancellations on today’s schedule. Oh, and the Paulsons sent an e-mail—just back from their honeymoon. I’m going to pull off some quotes for the website.”

“No business,” Emma interrupted. “Mac has a sexy breakfast story.”

“Really?” Eyebrows lifted, Parker set the syrup and butter on the table of the breakfast nook. “Tell all.”

“It began, and sexy tales often do, when I spilled Diet Coke on my shirt.”

She started the story as Laurel brought a platter of pancakes to the table.

“He said he walked into a wall,” Emma interrupted. “Poor Carter!” She snorted out a laugh as she cut the first tiny sliver of a single pancake.

“Hard,” Mac added. “I mean, the guy rammed it. In a cartoon, he’d have gone through the wall and left a Carter-shaped hole in it. Then he’s sitting on the floor and I’m trying to see how bad it is, and my tits are in his face—which he very politely points out.”

“ ‘Excuse me, Miss, your tits appear to be in my face’?”

Mac wagged her fork at Laurel. “Except he didn’t say tits, and he kind of stuttered. So I go pull a shirt out of the dryer, get him a bag of ice, and ultimately determine he probably doesn’t need the ER.”

She continued on while plowing her way through a short stack.

“I’m a little let down,” Laurel said. “I expect a sexy breakfast story to have sex, not just your very pretty boobs.”

“I’m not done. Part two begins when I’m back home working, and carelessly answer the phone. My mother.”

Smile fading, Parker shook her head. “That’s not sexy. I’ve told you to screen, Mac.”

“I know, I know, but it was the business line, and I wasn’t thinking. Anyway, I did worse. She broke up with her latest, and went on one of her riffs. She’s shattered, she’s devastated, blah blah blah. The pain and suffering requires a week in a Florida spa and three thousand from me.”

“You didn’t,” Emma murmured. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Mac shrugged, stabbed another forkful of pancakes. “I wish I could say no.”

“Honey, you’ve got to stop,” Laurel told her. “You just have to stop.”

“I know.” Under the table, Emma rubbed Mac’s knee in sympathy. “I know, but I cracked, that’s all. After which I opened a fresh bottle of wine and proceeded to drown my sorrow and disgust.”

“You should’ve come back here.” Parker reached out, touched Mac’s hand. “We were here.”

“I know that, too. I was too mad, sad, and full of self-pity and disgust. Then guess who knocked on my door?”

“Oh-oh.” Laurel’s eyes popped. “Tell me you didn’t have drunk, self-pity sex with Carter—but if so, please include all details.”

“I invited him in for a drink.”

“Oh, boy!” In celebration, Emma ate another sliver of pancake.

“I dumped all over him. My family, suck, suck, suck. The guy comes by to drop off a package and ends up with a half-drunk woman in the middle of a pity party. He listened, which I didn’t really understand at the time, being half drunk and on a rant, but he listened to me. Then he took me out for a walk. He just put my coat on me, buttoned it up like I was three, and took me out. Where he listened some more until I’d pretty well run it down. Then he walked me back and—”

“You invite him back in and have sex,” Emma prompted.

“Get your own sexy breakfast story. I felt mildly embarrassed, and really grateful, so I give him a little peck. A ‘thanks, pal’ kind of peck. The next thing I know I’m in the middle of a brain-frying, blood-pumping, jungle-drum-beating kiss. The jerk-you-forward-then-shove-you-back-against-a-solid-surface type.”