“You look good.”
“Please. I’m still dealing with the shame of this outfit when your mother dropped by looking like the cover of a magazine with the caption ‘Casual summer chic.’”
“Are you going to be like this anytime people come over here?”
“I hope not, but I think I have to get over this hump, successfully. It’s your house, your siblings, the chief of police. It’s a big hump for me.”
“Okay then. What’s next?”
She let out a long sigh. “Thanks.”
He shrugged it off as she went to get the napkins to practice some clever fold for the table look she wanted.
It could wait, he decided. What he wanted to say to her could wait. And he’d take more time to think.
* * *
It took damn near the four hours for her to satisfy herself with every detail. Flowers, candles, napkins. Her focus remained intense, though she chatted away while she prepped her potatoes, while he marinated chicken, the vegetables he’d roast, made the barbecue sauce.
And again, as they worked together, it struck how well she fit. How her anticipation of the evening had him looking forward to it all more than he’d expected.
She put on a dress—she sure had the legs for it. Just a breezy number in pale, pale green that made him give thanks for summer.
At last, when she stood outside, giving her tablescape a last, critical look, she nodded.
“It looks good, right? It all looks good.”
“It ought to. You know, you spent all that time fancy folding the napkins, tucking a nasturtium in each one—precisely—and people are just going to open them up.”
“The nasturtiums are pretty, and edible—so there’s that.”
“There’s that. I’m getting a beer.”
“Or,” she said as he started toward the copper tub where, at her insistence, he’d nestled beer and wine in ice, “you could sample the sangria.”
“I thought it was still blending.”
“It’s had six hours, so that’ll do. Just a sample,” she said as she headed inside. “If you don’t like, you don’t like.”
He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him. “I just want a damn beer. I folded frigging napkins. Dragged out the ironing board I barely remember I have so she could press the table runner that’s going to end up with barbecue sauce on it. I deserve a beer.”
Howl muttered back, and Miles heard sympathy. Maybe solidarity.
She carried the pitcher to the table with the copper tub, the glassware, cocktail napkins, flowers, more candles.
“I added some club soda just now for a little sparkle.”
She poured two fingers in a glass, walked over, and offered.
“Just see what you think.”
He took a sip, scowled.
“Not good?”
“No, I’m irritated because it is good, and I wanted a beer.”
“You can always have a beer,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
He heard Nell’s voice from inside. “We’re here! I’m putting dessert on the counter.”
“Crap.” Morgan actually slapped the heel of her hand on her forehead. “I made cobbler. I forgot she was making dessert. We’ll leave the cobbler inside.”
“Hell no, we’ll have both. It’s fine.”
Nell stepped out with Jake. She, too, wore a summer dress, and Miles did his best not to imagine Jake had “thoughts” when he’d seen Nell in it.
She stopped, stared at the table.
“Well, wow. Just wow.” She looked over at Morgan. “It all looks so happy! Oh, is that sangria? Let’s have some. Jake, if Morgan made it, it’s going to be great.”
Miles thought he caught Jake’s longing glance toward the beer, but he said, “I’m game.”
By the time Liam arrived, they sat around a third table drinking sangria. He brought a sloe-eyed, raven-haired beauty named Dawn. It took Miles about ten minutes to judge she didn’t fit. Nice enough, but not someone who’d slide in when Liam was ready. Or when he wasn’t.
On the other hand, he couldn’t say the same about Nell and Jake. He knew them both too well to ignore what he saw with his own eyes.
They worked.
Liam kept the ladies entertained while Miles started the grill. And Jake joined him.
“You’ll hurt her,” Miles said. “She’ll hurt you. People do along the way, can’t help it, because people. And that’s between the two involved.”
“That’s life.”