Savor the Moment
Page 13
“You can have it after you’ve been on your feet for ten hours.”
“Might be worth it. Is that coffee fresh?”
“Enough.”
He helped himself. “Parker said you should think sexy, weepy, or silly. Whatever that means.”
Movie night, Laurel concluded. “Okay. You want your cake?”
“No rush.” He stepped over, used her knife to spread some Camembert on a rosemary cracker. “Good. What’s for dinner?”
“You’re eating it.”
The faintest of disapproving frowns clouded his eyes. “You have to do better than this, especially after a ten-hour day.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Impervious to the sarcasm, he tried a slice of apple. “I could’ve brought you something since part of the ten’s on me.”
“It’s not a big deal, and if I wanted something, I could make it, or tug on Mrs. G.”
Just one of his girls, she thought as frustration simmered. “Somehow we grown women get through the day without you fussing over our nutritional choices.”
“Champagne ought to put you in a better mood.” He cocked his head to scan her lists. “Why don’t you do that on the computer?”
“Because I’m doing it by hand, because I don’t have a printer down here, and because I didn’t feel like it. What’s it to you?”
Obviously amused, he leaned on the counter, bracing on his forearms. “You need a nap.”
“You need a dog.”
“I need a dog?”
“Yes, so you’d have someone to worry about, fuss over, and order around.”
“I like dogs, but I have you.” He stopped, laughed. “And that really came out wrong. Besides, ‘fuss over’ is what grandmothers do, so it’s an inaccurate term. Worrying about you is my job, not only as your lawyer and a silent partner in your business, but because you’re my girls. As for ordering you around, that only works about half the time, but five hundred’s a damn good batting average.”
“You’re a smug bastard, Delaney.”
“Can be,” he agreed and tried the Gouda. “You’re a moody woman, Laurel, but I don’t hold it against you.”
“You know your problem?”
“No.”
“Exactly.” She jabbed a finger at him as she hopped off the stool. “I’ll get your cake.”
“Why are you mad at me?” he demanded and trailed behind her to the walk-in refrigerator.
“I’m not mad, I’m irritated.” She picked up the cake she’d already boxed for travel. She might have turned and shoved it into his hands, but even irritated she took care with her work.
“Okay, why are you irritated?”
“Because you’re in my way.”
He held up his hands for peace, stepped aside so she could walk by him and set the cake on the counter. She flipped up the lid, flicked her hand toward it.
Cautious, because he was getting fairly irritated himself, he eased over and looked inside. And couldn’t help but smile.
The two round layers—tiers, he corrected—were glossy white, and decorated with colorful symbols of Dara’s current life. Briefcases, baby strollers, law books, rattles, rocking chairs, and laptops. In the center, a clever cartoon depiction of the new mother held a briefcase in one hand and a baby bottle in the other.
“It’s great. It’s perfect. She’s going to love it.”
“Bottom layer is yellow, buttercream filling. Top’s devil’s food with Swiss meringue. Make sure you keep it level.”
“Okay. I really appreciate it.”
When he reached for his wallet, she actually hissed. “You are not paying me. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I just wanted to ...What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you what the hell’s wrong with me.” She planted a hand on his chest to push him back a step. “You’re irritating and overbearing and self-righteous and patronizing.”
“Whoa. All this because I wanted to pay you for a cake I asked you to make? It’s your business, for Christ’s sake. You make cakes, people pay you.”
“One minute you’re fussing—and yes, the word is fussing—because I’m not eating the kind of dinner you approve of, and the next you’re pulling out your wallet like I’m the hired help.”
“That’s not what—Goddamn it, Laurel.”
“How can anybody keep up?” She threw her arms in the air. “Big brother, legal advisor, business associate, motherfucking hen. Why don’t you just pick one?”
“Because more than one applies.” He didn’t shout as she did, but his tone boiled just as hot. “And I’m nobody’s motherfucking hen.”
“Then stop trying to manage everyone’s lives.”
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining, and helping you manage is part of my job.”
“On the legal end, the business end, not on the personal end. Let me tell you something, and try to get this through that thick skull once and for all. I’m not your pet, I’m not your responsibility, I’m not your sister, I’m not your girl. I’m an adult, and I’m free to do what I want, when I want, without asking your permission or courting your approval.”
“And I’m not your whipping boy,” he shot back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can either tell me or take it out on somebody else.”
“You want to know what’s gotten into me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll show you.”
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was just the mad. Or maybe it was the look of baffled annoyance on his face. But she went with the impulse that had been bubbling inside her for years.
She grabbed him by the perfect knot of his elegant tie, jerked him down even as she gripped a handful of his hair, and yanked him forward. And she fixed her mouth to his in a hot, sizzling, frustrated kiss, one that gave her heart a jolt even as her mind purred: I knew it!
She threw him off balance—she meant to—so his hands came to her hips, and his fingers dug in for one gloriously heady moment.
She threw herself into that moment, to exploit, to savor, to absorb. Tastes and textures, heat and hunger, all there for the taking. She took exactly what she wanted, then shoved him away.
“Might be worth it. Is that coffee fresh?”
“Enough.”
He helped himself. “Parker said you should think sexy, weepy, or silly. Whatever that means.”
Movie night, Laurel concluded. “Okay. You want your cake?”
“No rush.” He stepped over, used her knife to spread some Camembert on a rosemary cracker. “Good. What’s for dinner?”
“You’re eating it.”
The faintest of disapproving frowns clouded his eyes. “You have to do better than this, especially after a ten-hour day.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Impervious to the sarcasm, he tried a slice of apple. “I could’ve brought you something since part of the ten’s on me.”
“It’s not a big deal, and if I wanted something, I could make it, or tug on Mrs. G.”
Just one of his girls, she thought as frustration simmered. “Somehow we grown women get through the day without you fussing over our nutritional choices.”
“Champagne ought to put you in a better mood.” He cocked his head to scan her lists. “Why don’t you do that on the computer?”
“Because I’m doing it by hand, because I don’t have a printer down here, and because I didn’t feel like it. What’s it to you?”
Obviously amused, he leaned on the counter, bracing on his forearms. “You need a nap.”
“You need a dog.”
“I need a dog?”
“Yes, so you’d have someone to worry about, fuss over, and order around.”
“I like dogs, but I have you.” He stopped, laughed. “And that really came out wrong. Besides, ‘fuss over’ is what grandmothers do, so it’s an inaccurate term. Worrying about you is my job, not only as your lawyer and a silent partner in your business, but because you’re my girls. As for ordering you around, that only works about half the time, but five hundred’s a damn good batting average.”
“You’re a smug bastard, Delaney.”
“Can be,” he agreed and tried the Gouda. “You’re a moody woman, Laurel, but I don’t hold it against you.”
“You know your problem?”
“No.”
“Exactly.” She jabbed a finger at him as she hopped off the stool. “I’ll get your cake.”
“Why are you mad at me?” he demanded and trailed behind her to the walk-in refrigerator.
“I’m not mad, I’m irritated.” She picked up the cake she’d already boxed for travel. She might have turned and shoved it into his hands, but even irritated she took care with her work.
“Okay, why are you irritated?”
“Because you’re in my way.”
He held up his hands for peace, stepped aside so she could walk by him and set the cake on the counter. She flipped up the lid, flicked her hand toward it.
Cautious, because he was getting fairly irritated himself, he eased over and looked inside. And couldn’t help but smile.
The two round layers—tiers, he corrected—were glossy white, and decorated with colorful symbols of Dara’s current life. Briefcases, baby strollers, law books, rattles, rocking chairs, and laptops. In the center, a clever cartoon depiction of the new mother held a briefcase in one hand and a baby bottle in the other.
“It’s great. It’s perfect. She’s going to love it.”
“Bottom layer is yellow, buttercream filling. Top’s devil’s food with Swiss meringue. Make sure you keep it level.”
“Okay. I really appreciate it.”
When he reached for his wallet, she actually hissed. “You are not paying me. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I just wanted to ...What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What the hell’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you what the hell’s wrong with me.” She planted a hand on his chest to push him back a step. “You’re irritating and overbearing and self-righteous and patronizing.”
“Whoa. All this because I wanted to pay you for a cake I asked you to make? It’s your business, for Christ’s sake. You make cakes, people pay you.”
“One minute you’re fussing—and yes, the word is fussing—because I’m not eating the kind of dinner you approve of, and the next you’re pulling out your wallet like I’m the hired help.”
“That’s not what—Goddamn it, Laurel.”
“How can anybody keep up?” She threw her arms in the air. “Big brother, legal advisor, business associate, motherfucking hen. Why don’t you just pick one?”
“Because more than one applies.” He didn’t shout as she did, but his tone boiled just as hot. “And I’m nobody’s motherfucking hen.”
“Then stop trying to manage everyone’s lives.”
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining, and helping you manage is part of my job.”
“On the legal end, the business end, not on the personal end. Let me tell you something, and try to get this through that thick skull once and for all. I’m not your pet, I’m not your responsibility, I’m not your sister, I’m not your girl. I’m an adult, and I’m free to do what I want, when I want, without asking your permission or courting your approval.”
“And I’m not your whipping boy,” he shot back. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can either tell me or take it out on somebody else.”
“You want to know what’s gotten into me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll show you.”
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was just the mad. Or maybe it was the look of baffled annoyance on his face. But she went with the impulse that had been bubbling inside her for years.
She grabbed him by the perfect knot of his elegant tie, jerked him down even as she gripped a handful of his hair, and yanked him forward. And she fixed her mouth to his in a hot, sizzling, frustrated kiss, one that gave her heart a jolt even as her mind purred: I knew it!
She threw him off balance—she meant to—so his hands came to her hips, and his fingers dug in for one gloriously heady moment.
She threw herself into that moment, to exploit, to savor, to absorb. Tastes and textures, heat and hunger, all there for the taking. She took exactly what she wanted, then shoved him away.
