Authors: Maggie McConnell
“Quit stalling,” Daisy said, poised to spring from her chair.
“I’m not—”
She started to rise.
“I wasn’t looking at her,” Max said in a hushed tone. “I was looking at
him
.”
The anger melted from her face. “OhmyGod. Are you gay?”
Max jerked back. “No!”
“Well, why in the world would you be looking at
him
and not
her
?”
“I was looking at them
both
,” Max huffed, mentally congratulating himself for his quick thinking. “He’s the state representative from Seward. But that is definitely
not
his wife.”
Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Really?”
“No. I’m making it up.”
“That I believe.”
“I guess this is one of those times when a uniform would come in handy, eh?” Max might very well have dislocated a shoulder from patting himself on the back until he saw the pained expression on Daisy’s face and realized the low blow he’d struck. Suddenly there it was, in the pit of his stomach, a small knot of guilt. All because he couldn’t admit he was looking at the blonde.
No
. Because he couldn’t
stop
looking at the blonde.
No
. Because he
wanted
the blonde. And Daisy’s cabin.
This was why he never involved himself with a complicated woman!
“Daisy . . . ,” Max began, not sure what to say but willing to say almost anything to get rid of this foreign feeling.
“Y’ know what, Max? You’re absolutely right. First, your personal life is none of my business—any more than what you eat for breakfast is. And I had no right to imply you were lying. After all, why would you lie to me—it’s not like you’re trying to get
me
into bed.” She paused, then softly added, “I guess I’m a little sensitive about blondes.” The corners of her mouth almost lifted in a smile.
Almost
. “But I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on you. And from this moment on”—thumping the table with her right index finger—“I’m going to stop being defensive and critical and . . . and analytical and . . . opinionated. Instead I’m going to be—
“Bland and boring?” Max realized too late he’d spoken his thoughts.
Daisy perked, then looked at him sideways. “I thought you liked bland and boring.”
“I like
easy
. And
that
you are not. You’re critical and opinionated and a little odd—”
“If this is about the sheets—”
“The sheets, the lettuce, the dog food—”
Damn
, Max silently swore, regretting he’d brought up the subject.
“The dog food?”
But since he had
...
“I saw the can of dog food yesterday, on the bed stand . . . next to the jar of baby food.”
“Ohhhh. I can explain.”
“Unless you’re hiding a dog somewhere, I don’t want to know.”
“It’s not a dog, it’s a—”
His hand shot up. “Sometimes it’s better not to know too much about a person.”
“Max, you’re being ridiculous. I have a perfectly legitimate reason—”
“Look, Daisy, I’m sure you can make anything taste good, but I don’t want to know about it. We’re just two ships passing. And there’s a lawsuit between us, remember? It’s better if we keep it . . . superficial. So, please,
don’t
tell me about the dog food.”
Daisy stared at Max. Max stared at Daisy. Then, without a word, Daisy returned her attention to the menu.
Not only was the knot still there, it had grown, like a ball of string you kept adding to. He took a breath, feeling very nearly desperate. “I think you’re . . .
interesting.
”
She lifted her eyes from the menu.
“Annoying, yes, critical, opinionated, and odd, but
interesting
. You can’t change who you are. Which was what I was trying to say before we got off on the dog food.”
Her green eyes softened but still harbored something indiscernible, while the corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “I have a turtle. A western box turtle. Her name is Elizabeth. Which is why I have the dog food and the baby food and why I was begging your lettuce and tomatoes. So I’m not as odd as you think.”
Max stared. “You have a turtle? And you named her . . .”
“Elizabeth.”
“And you brought her with you?”
“I’ve had her since I was twelve,” she answered defensively.
He slowly shook his head. “Daisy, you
are
as odd as I think.”
“What’s so odd about having a turtle?”
“Name one other
adult
who has a turtle.” He didn’t know what pets, if any, the women passing through his bed had. In fact, until he visited Tina’s condo, he hadn’t known she had a cat.
“Jiminy Christmas, Elizabeth’s a turtle, not a platypus. So what if I don’t know anyone else who has a turtle? It’s not like
you
have to take care of her. Why is this a big deal?”
Because it was one more piece of the Daisy Moon puzzle he didn’t want to have. Because he’d unwittingly flashed on Daisy as a twelve-year-old—with scraped knees and pigtails.
And
the notion that, for twenty-plus years, this woman next to him had been hauling around a turtle, was somehow endearing, if not inspiring. Loyalty like that didn’t come around that often. All of which made Max feel like racing to the nearest exit . . . or marrying her on the spot.
“It’s
not
a big deal,” Max insisted. In a few more hours he’d be forever rid of Daisy and, hopefully, these unsettling feelings. “It was just unexpected. I never pictured you with a turtle named . . .”
“Elizabeth,” Daisy reminded him yet again with impatient emphasis. “So what
did
you picture me with?”
“I didn’t.”
“Really?” She sounded a little hurt. “I pictured you with lizards and snakes and frogs and—”
“All manner of reptile?”
Daisy twitched back. “Not
only
reptiles, but that was a clever comeback.” She smiled. “I pictured you—as a kid, I mean—with all sorts of animals. A real softie. Maybe because of what your mom said about that nest of baby birds you raised—”
Ah, yes, his
mis
-matchmaking mother.
“—Now I figure you have a dog.”
“Can we please order breakfast before it becomes lunch?” Max craned his neck in an exaggerated search for the waitress.
Daisy frowned. “A cat?”
“No and no.”
“I know you have
something
. . .”
Max pressed the table and leaned into her. “
This
is the annoying part I keep talking about. You don’t know when to quit.”
Daisy winced but was spared further response by the arrival of the waitress. Max ordered his usual plus a refill on his coffee while Daisy ordered strawberry crepes, orange juice, and hot water. The waitress scribbled down their choices, took their menus, and left, seemingly relieved.
It took a few moments, then Daisy looked at Max. “Y’ know what I just realized?”
“The mind boggles.”
“I just realized that I know practically nothing about you. And none of what I do know has come from your own disclosure.”
“Maybe that should tell you something.”
“It’s beginning to tell me a lot. Like maybe giving you the key to my cabin isn’t such a good idea.”
“I don’t recall confessions being part of the deal.” Actually, Max didn’t recall any of the deal, or even if there was one, but he was pretty sure confessions never came up. “And if you want confessions, then you can just keep your damn key.”
Softening, Daisy said, “I’m not asking for
confessions
. I just don’t see the harm in telling me a little bit about yourself, like”—she glanced at the
Flying
magazine beside his fork—“you’re a pilot. That’s not too personal, is it? As a matter of fact, it’s something we kind of have in common . . .”
As Daisy talked, his memory started to rewind. She had mentioned something about him flying, and recently, but what exactly had been said? And how had she known?
“Max? Hello?”
Max refocused on Daisy’s hand, waving like a metronome in front of him. “What?”
“Oh, never mind.” She dug into the front pocket of her jeans and slapped a key on the table. “Here’s your damn cabin key. That’s why I was late for breakfast. I picked up another key. Well, that and I stopped by the purser’s to see if, by some miracle, they’d found Myron Porter or my Lexus, but no such luck. Anyway, I thought you should have your own key so you can come and go as you please.”
Max looked at the key, then looked at Daisy.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He reached for the key.
“No, go ahead. You obviously have an opinion.”
Max wanted to ask why she’d gone to the trouble for a few hours’ inconvenience; why she didn’t simply give him
her
key when she left, but, looking at Daisy’s steeled expression—as if she was waiting for his criticism—said instead, “That was very thoughtful.”
Her steel melted. “Oh.”
The seconds ticked. The waitress arrived with Daisy’s orange juice and hot water, then poured coffee into Max’s cup. Daisy retrieved a tea bag from her purse and pushed it into the little pot of steaming water. It wasn’t long before spicy tendrils spun into the air around the table.
Max wondered if Daisy always carried her own tea—like his mother did—then berated himself for his curiosity. He didn’t care if Daisy always had a stash of tea. It was just another detail he didn’t need. He scrunched the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms and reached for his cup.
“That’s a nice sweater,” Daisy finally said, remembering it from the duffel bag. “What is that? Silk?”
Max reflexively looked down on the steel-blue, knobby weave his mother had bought him.
“No idea.”
“You obviously don’t do your own laundry.” Daisy poured tea from her pot into her cup. She looked up, then rolled her eyes at Max’s stony silence. “Oh, come on.
Laundry?
Don’t you think this privacy obsession of yours is bordering on the pathological?”
“I can see how you might think so, Ms.
I’m an open book.
”
“I’m not either an open book. There are lots of things you don’t know about me.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starters—”
“
Really
?”
Daisy bunched her brows.
“You’re about to prove my point.” Then his words took on steam. “Do you realize that before I even knew your last name, I knew you were going through a messy breakup, that your fiancé cheated, you were moving, you’re a clean nut and a control freak, that you’re sentimental with high-end taste
and
that you’re a chef without a restaurant.” Max breathed and calmed his speech. “This is exactly why Myron Porter picked you. And the same reason your fiancé screwed you out of the restaurant.”
Daisy looked stunned.
“My point is, Daisy, that you’re too damn open and too damn honest and too damn trusting. And you expect everyone else to be like you and they’re not.
I’m
not.”
After a moment, Daisy shrugged as if Max’s speech was water off her back. “Well, maybe I should be a little more guarded. But it wouldn’t hurt if you were a little
less
guarded.”
“Then who would pay for breakfast?”
“Look,” she said. “I’m just going through a little bad luck. But this
blip
in my life hardly defines me. Before this nightmare, I was executive chef at a four-star restaurant. And I’ll be that again. I might even fall in love again. And while I won’t be quite so blind next time, I will never be so . . . so . . .
afraid . . .
that I can’t talk about
laundry
.”
“Nice speech. Try paying the check with it.”
Daisy considered whipping out her meal vouchers, but Max needed a dose of guilt. “Fine,” she said, snatching her purse where it hung from the chair back. She rooted inside and pulled out a notebook and pen. “Last night I had the scallops and a Coke”—she scribbled on her pad—“plus tip . . .”
“What are you doing?”
She glanced up. “Oh, and one cherry tomato for Elizabeth . . .”
“Daisy—”
Pen to paper. “And for breakfast I’m having the crepes and juice plus tip . . .”
“This isn’t necessary. We have a deal.”
“Surely they don’t charge for hot water . . .” She wrote something down anyway. “But I am
not
paying for lunch yesterday. You showed up on your own without any suggestion from me.”
“You still ate it,” Max teased. “And you took my lettuce.”
“I’ll pay for the lettuce.” She scribbled in the notebook. “Twenty-five cents?”
Max grinned. The lengths Daisy was willing to go to for a point! “I’m kidding. I will gladly sacrifice my lettuce for a twenty-something turtle. As for the rest of it—”
“I’ll pay you back,” she said, zipping up her purse.
“I don’t want you to pay me back.”
Daisy looked at Max with the most soul-baring eyes that had ever been cast his way.
“Do you think I
like
relying on you?” she began with honest emotion. “Do you think I’m having fun eating off your charity? I
hate
that you have to feed me and Elizabeth. I
hate
the situation that I’m in, and I hate that I let myself get in it. Although, I still think your lawsuit is a crock. But,” she continued before Max could comment, “I promised myself this morning that I would stop taking my problems out on you, so excuse me if I’m just trying to make a little lemonade from my lemons. I had no idea laundry held such a hotbed of emotion for you. And from now on, we
won’t
talk about anything even remotely personal and I
will
pay you back because the last person in the world I want to owe is
you
.” For a few more seconds her eyes blazed for emphasis, then Daisy primly attended to her tea.
Well, he
might’ve
had that coming, Max allowed, politely appearing not to notice Daisy’s trembling hands as she poured from her teapot. He
was
being kind of a prick this morning for reasons he didn’t completely understand. Not that he would admit that. No, this situation called for something light and witty. Some clever quip to break the tension. Thanks to the arrival of their breakfast, he had a moment’s reprieve to think about it. Daisy smiled her approval to the waitress, and after confirmation that nothing else was needed, the young woman happily moved on.