shot her a concerned look. “Everything okay?”
“Tell you later,” Emma mouthed as she arranged some of the medallion-size tarts on a white plate. She walked over to the commercial coffee machine which came with the building and made two macchiatos, then carried the lot to her office.
Cherie was on the phone and looked up as Emma placed the tray on her desk. “Ah, here she is now. You can talk to her yourself, Nate.”
Before Emma could shake her head in protest, the BlackBerry was thrust into her hand. She pulled professionalism around her like a cloak. “Hello, Dr. Hale.”
“It was Nate last time, Emma.”
No man should have a voice as rich as triple-chocolate fudge brownies, she thought as a shiver of response slid down her spine. And there was a last time? Who knew? “Ah, yes, Nate, we have met.”
“And how.”
The insinuation sent heat arrowing from her head to her stomach. No, no, this had to stop. Head agreed, body didn’t get the memo. “I’m afraid my business isn’t fully operational yet,” she said. “My mother tells me your birthday is in three weeks, but catering large-scale events isn’t an option for at least another three months.”
“Saying no isn’t an option.”
What Dr. Hale wants, Dr. Hale gets. Emma felt a jolt of frustration. No wonder Cherie was so keen on having Emma work for him. Nate and her mother were cut from the same cloth. “Acknowledging limitations isn’t failure,” she said. “It’s a good business practice.”
“True, but overcoming those limitations is preferable.”
A vision flashed through her mind of Nate facing some huge challenge in the operating room, finding a way around it and saving the patient at the last minute. Wasn’t that what always happened with his type? Her father’s stories of his heroic interventions had been regular dinner table fare when she was growing up.
“I’ll keep your advice in mind,” she agreed crisply. “How many guests are you expecting?”
“Fifty at a minimum. I’m thinking of having the party on the terrace—sit-down, of course.”
He must have some terrace. A sit-down dinner for fifty would be way off her radar. “Look, Nate, I’ll gladly put together some options and email them to you to see if anything I can do meets your requirements.” Her tone told him she doubted it would.
“No.”
“Just—no?”
“I’d rather discuss this with you face-to-face.” She heard the tap of keys as he consulted his schedule. “How does Friday sound?”
“I’m committed on Friday.” She had a breakfast meeting with Carla Geering, a talented chef Emma had known since catering college, and Margaret Jennings, a self-taught cook who helped with the chef’s dinners once a month. Both were prepared to leave good jobs to join Emma as soon as she was ready. She looked forward to their meetings. All three of them came away inspired and excited about what lay ahead.
But Emma’s answer would have been the same whatever day he’d suggested, and she had a feeling he suspected as much.
“I’m sure you can uncommit yourself. I’ll see you at my place at eleven.”
Just time for her to keep her breakfast date before seeing him. He reeled off the address, which she scribbled down, aware of Cherie watching her keenly.
“Unless you’d like me to pick you up,” he added. “I remember the address.”
His tone suggested he remembered far more than she wanted him to. Was one impulsive action going to haunt her forever? “I’ll find my own way,” she said quickly. Meeting the lion in his den didn’t appeal, either, but it was better than a live-action replay of a night she would rather not think about. Maybe by Friday she’d have swine flu and be in quarantine, she thought. Or maybe she’d be at Nathan Hale’s house. Either way, his catering options wouldn’t change, so he’d have to accept what her business could provide or find someone else. She knew which she preferred.
Or did she? Wasn’t she the slightest bit intrigued at the prospect of seeing him again? Another thought struck her. “Will your partner want to participate in the discussion?” The idea of him living with someone was surprisingly unsettling.
“No partner, female or male,” he informed her, sounding amused. “Not that the question worried you last time.”
Last time was an aberration, she wanted to say, but was restrained by her mother listening across the desk. “We can discuss everything when I see you,” she said, hoping Nate would get the message.
In the background she heard him being paged. “I have to go.” He sounded reluctant. Imagination, she decided. “I’ll look forward to discussing—everything—on Friday.”
She handed the phone back to her mother. “Happy now?”
Cherie stood up. “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m trying to help your business. What made you ask Nate if he has a partner?”
Her mother was like a bloodhound when it came to her daughter and men. “If he’d had one, I’d rather meet with them together. Saves a lot of time and disagreements.”
“Not to mention ensuring you’re aware of any potential…um…obstacles.”
“Nate can have a harem for all I care. This is purely professional.”
“Pity.” Cherie sounded genuinely disappointed.
“Honestly, Ma, haven’t you given up matchmaking by now?”
Her mother’s shoulders lifted. “I didn’t make you go home with him.”
“I didn’t go home with him. He gave me a ride, that’s all.”
“In that case, why so defensive?”
Emma shot her mother a chilly glare. “Telling Dad that if I can’t be a doctor I can at least marry one might have something to do with it.”
Her brother had shared the information with Emma, saying he wanted her to be forewarned. Not that the news came as a surprise.
Her mother colored slightly, although media experience kept her body language in check. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“Then you don’t deny saying it?”
“I can’t deny that I’d be pleased to have you carry on the family tradition in some way.”
Emma splayed her hands. “Can’t you stop being media medico for ten seconds and give me a straight answer? If you’re planning on fixing me up with Nate Hale, I’m entitled to know.”
“Emma, what’s gotten into you? He’s having a party. You’re a caterer. Why should you suspect me of a hidden agenda?”
“Because I know you. And obviously my choice of career bothers you as much as it ever did.”
“Nonsense.
