“I think it’s wonderful. So sweet. Nick made me dinner when we were first going out. It was a disaster.” She sighed, dreamily. “I just loved it.”
“You loved the disaster?”
“He tried so hard. Too hard, because he’s actually good in the kitchen. He screwed everything up because he was so worried about impressing me. Oh.” She sighed again, with a hand to her heart. “It was so sweet.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to screw everything up. Why isn’t there a handbook for this sort of thing?”
“No, no, you’re not supposed to. It just worked for him because, well, because.” She pulled open the fridge to snoop. “You’re marinating chicken. Carter, you’re marinating. It must be love.”
“Go away. Get out.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
His voice took on a dangerous bite. “I’m a man on the edge, Sherry.”
“Just change your shirt. Put on the blue one, the one Mom got you. It looks really good on you.”
“If I promise to change my shirt, will you leave?”
“Yes.”
“Before you leave will you pick out some music? Because I can’t take any more pressure.”
“Got you covered. Go up, change your shirt.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him out of the kitchen. “I’ll pick the mood music and be gone before you get down. Take the present up, will you? Don’t tell me where you hide it in case I try to sneak over and get it before V-Day.”
“Done.”
“Carter?” she added when he started upstairs. “Light the candles about ten minutes before she’s due.”
“Okay.”
“And have a nice time.”
“Thanks. Be sure to go away now.”
He changed the shirt, dawdling over it to give Sherry enough time to finish up and go. He hid the gift-wrapped box in his office closet.
When he went down, he found a sticky note on his CD player. Hit Play five minutes before she’s due. XXOO
“It’s like a war campaign,” Carter muttered, and crumpled up the note as he walked into the kitchen to start the chicken.
He minced, he crushed, he sautéed, measured, timed—and only burned himself once. When the chicken simmered fragrantly, he lit the candles on the table, the ones on the skinny sideboard. He set out the little bowls of olives and cashews. When he hit the five-minute mark, he switched on the stereo. Alanis Morissette.
Nice choice.
At seven, she knocked.
“I’m Parker-trained,” Mac told him when he opened the door. “So I’m obsessively prompt. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s absolutely okay. Let me take your coat. Oh, and . . .”
“Dessert,” she said, handing him the glossy Vows bakery box. “Italian cream cake, a personal favorite. Nice house, Carter. Very you,” she added wandering into the living room with its wall of books. “Oh, you have a cat.”
“I didn’t think to ask if you were allergic.”
“I’m not. Hello, pal.” She started to crouch, then stopped, angling her head. “You have a cat with three legs.”
“Triad. He was hit by a car.”
“Oh, poor baby!” Instantly, she was down on the floor, stroking and scratching the delighted cat. “It had to be awful for both of you. Thank God you were home.”
“No, actually I was driving home from school. They—the car in front of me hit him, and just kept going. I don’t understand how anybody could do that. When I pulled over, I thought he’d be dead, but he was lying there, in shock, I guess. The vet couldn’t save the leg, but he does okay.”
Mac continued to stroke the cat down his length as she stared at Carter. “I bet he does.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I would.” She gave Triad a last scratch, then rose. “And I’d like to check out what smells so good.”
“I thought that was you.”
“Besides me,” she said while he hung her coat tidily in his hall closet.
“Come on back.” He took her hand to lead her to the kitchen. “You look nice. I should’ve said that right away.”
“Only if you’re working off bullet points.”
As he felt himself wince, he was grateful her attention focused on the kitchen instead of his face.
“It really does smell good. What’ve you got going here, Carter?” She walked to the stove to sniff at the skillet.
“Well, let’s see. There’s a field green salad, rosemary chicken in a white wine reduction, roasted red-skinned potatoes, and asparagus.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me.”
“You don’t like asparagus? I can—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. You made all this?” She lifted the lid of the skillet.
“You’re not really supposed to take that off until . . . Well, okay.” He shrugged as she sniffed