Authors: Maggie McConnell
Max picked up his fork. “Bon appétit.” He inwardly cringed as the words cleared his mouth. Light and witty? More like dumb and dumber.
Daisy cocked her head at him. “
Vraiment? Vous voulez jouter en français? Allons-y!
” She waited, superiority sparking her eyes.
Of course, Daisy spoke French, Max realized too late. And while he should’ve been guarded about what was surely to come, he was instead oddly intrigued.
“Ahh.
Vous ne comprenez pas
,” she said sympathetically when Max offered no response other than a curious expression. “
Vous ne parlez pas français. Vous êtes un imbécile ignorant
.” She shook her head sadly. “
Quel dommage
.”
Yes, indeed, nothing made a woman’s lips more kissable than a little French, even when those same lips were calling him an ignorant fool.
“
Aussi
,” Daisy added coyly, when one dark brow inched up roguishly. “
Aussi, vous êtes beau, charmant, et spirituel, mais désagréable, ergoteur, et difficile
.
Pourquoi?
”
The seconds ticked as the words lingered, chipping away at his resolve. Then he shook off the spell. “You have me at a loss.”
Daisy smiled sweetly. “
La plupart du temps
.”
“Okay, you can stop now.”
Napkin in her lap, Daisy picked up her fork with a self-satisfied air.
Two bites of egg later... “So, where did you learn French?”
Daisy dabbed her lips with her napkin and looked at Max. “A little personal, don’t you think?” Back to her crepes.
His plate was almost clean before he tried again. “I do my own laundry.”
Daisy turned toward him. “Really?” As if their French interlude had never occurred.
“Well, most of it. I do send stuff to the dry cleaners.”
“You own clothes that need to be dry-cleaned?”
Max indignantly raised his brows. “Well, I do have a Sunday go-to-meetin’ suit.”
“You have a suit?”
“I have five suits, to be exact, plus a number of sport coats, and this is exactly why I don’t like talking about personal things. I tell you I do my own laundry and now you know how many suits I have. You have no limits.”
“You have five suits
and
sport coats? What do you do, Max? When you’re not moving trucks north.”
“Enough,” Max declared. “Max Kendall has left the building.”
“I studied French in high school and college,” Daisy began. “And then I spent two years in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu. In Seattle, I belong to a French-speaking lunch group. There’re five of us. Charity and me and three others who get together twice a month to practice our French. That’s where I met Charity, actually, over ten years ago.”
“How old are you?” Max asked, kicking himself afterward.
“Now
that
is personal.” But Daisy smiled as she said it.
“Forget I asked. Really. I mean it.”
“Thirty-five. I graduated high school at seventeen. And the rest adds up.”
Max mentally bowed to his mom’s intuition, then braced himself for Daisy’s inevitable next question, which, of course, he’d have to answer because she had answered his.
Instead, Daisy reached for her orange juice, draining the glass. “Well”—she glanced at her watch—“I guess I ought to get going. We should be docking in Ketchikan soon and I want to spend as much time on dry land as possible.” She scooted her chair away from the table. “I don’t suppose you’re getting off... ?”
“Walking around Ketchikan for three or four hours probably isn’t the best thing for my knee. But you’ll like the town and especially some of the shops—” Max stopped when his brain caught up with his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Actually, I can shop without spending a dime. Looking is almost as much fun as buying. And it’s not like I need anything.” She paused. “Actually, I need everything. So, are you going back to the cabin?”
“Naaah. I think I’ll sit here and finish my coffee, then maybe go up to the solarium.”
Daisy stood and Max politely followed suit. “Thanks for breakfast and I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
It was one of those awkward moments where the best good-bye was less than obvious. Should he shake Daisy’s hand, peck her cheek, give her a hug or—
“Catch y’ later, Max.”
She left before Max had even gotten through his choices. He watched her maneuver through the restaurant until she was out the door and gone from view. Then he took his seat, regretting that he hadn’t done something to acknowledge their parting. At the very least, he should’ve insisted she take some money.
The ship bellowed its impending arrival in Ketchikan.
But it wasn’t too late. They hadn’t docked yet. Daisy would still be in the cabin. For Daisy’s sake, he should give her the kind of good-bye she would remember. The kind of good-bye that would take the edge off her lousy trip. The kind of good-bye—
“Excuse me, sir?” The waiter held out a small pink envelope; its perfumed scent sparked his imagination. “The lady asked me to give this to you.”
His spirits rising, Max took the envelope, was about to lift the flap when he realized the young man still stood by the table. He’d never paid out so much in tips, Max silently groused, handing the waiter a five.
Alone at the table, Max pulled the folded stationery from the envelope and got a dose of Chanel. He read the script, his spirits flagging by the final word.
He returned the note to its envelope and stuck it between the pages of his magazine.
Another soulful call to the passengers, and diners rose in concert. Soon the restaurant looked like a scene from a disaster flick. With Max as the lone survivor.
He relaxed into his chair, stretching his legs in front of him. He had a system. And it worked. So why rock the boat, make waves, go against the current? Why look for trouble, tempt Fate, spit into the wind?
Why fix something that ain’t broke?
“Are you done here?”
Completely and totally
, he thought but answered the waitress with a simple yes.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“What else could I possibly need?”
The young woman curled an errant strand of hair behind her ear, then began collecting plates and silverware. “Apple strudel?”
Obviously, the waitress didn’t recognize a rhetorical question. “I’ll just take the check,” Max said.
“Be right back,” she said, her hands laden with dishes.
“And maybe,” he added before she completed her turn, “a very small piece of apple strudel.”
Daisy could not believe her lousy luck. In one hand, she held Max’s passport. In the other, the sealed manila envelope it was supposed to be in.
“This is what happens when you steal,” she chastised herself. “Remember that, Elizabeth,” she warned the turtle, who was plowing a corner of the cabin. Daisy put down the passport and envelope and crawled the short distance to Elizabeth. Lifting the turtle, Daisy looked into her trusting eyes, kissed her little turtle nose, then turned her one-eighty. Soon Elizabeth was off and, not running, exactly, in another direction. If only Daisy had someone who could pluck
her
out of corners.
Obviously Max didn’t trust her, she thought, more indignant than the situation warranted. But what, exactly, did this sealed envelope mean? Did Max know his passport was missing—and she was the culprit? Was he now challenging her to put it back? Or had he only
suspected
Daisy’s snooping—overlooking the missing document—and thus sealed the envelope to prevent her further prying?
Whatever the scenario, Daisy couldn’t win. She had to return his passport. Somehow, some way, before they disembarked at Haines. He couldn’t get off the ferry—at any port—without it. And to think she’d suggested he might want to join her in Ketchikan. Of course, that was before she knew about the sealed envelope. Still, how lucky for her that he’d declined.
Luck certainly was fickle. One moment it was lousy, the next good. Back to her lousy luck and the sealed envelope.
Examining the seal, she wiggled her little finger into the tiny space between flap and envelope, but there was no way she could pry the flap free without ripping. She was pretty much stuck with no choice—confessing and begging for mercy. She shuddered at the distasteful image. Besides, knowing how Max guarded his privacy, she wasn’t sure of either his compassion or his forgiveness.
As her mind dwelled on her latest corner, she moved Elizabeth from
her
latest corner into the shower stall, where she left her with the first of her two cherry tomatoes. She looked at the remaining cherry tomato . . .
Another cherry tomato!
That’s all she needed. Or, in this case, another envelope. It was so obvious, why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?
Her heart pounding with hope, she scrambled for her own suitcase, lying open on the sofa, and burrowed beneath her clothes for the manila envelope containing the information on Wild Man Lodge. And just that quickly, her hope was gone. Why must she label every damn thing?
She returned the envelope to its designated spot, then looked out the window. On the dock, half a dozen workers tended to the ferry’s arrival while a flock of seagulls watched from the pillars. A hodgepodge of tourists—from one of the cruise ships, no doubt—milled about the dock while local fishermen walked past.
Her eyes traveled from one direction to the next and saw a town that looked, well, uncomplicated and inviting. Towering spruce crowded the hills beyond and tickled the underbellies of marshmallow clouds. Spots of brilliant color hailed her from flowerbeds and hanging baskets. She could practically smell the ozone. Similar to the semi-isolated islands off the Washington coast, Ketchikan portrayed a virginal inexperience with the seamier side of life.
She turned from the window and slumped on the sofa. Maybe she could find a job in Ketchikan, she ruefully thought, since once Max discovered her trespass, he’d surely call off their deal and she’d be wherever her fanny landed.
“How stupid
am
I?” She wasn’t looking for a chanterelle mushroom. How hard could it be to find another manila envelope somewhere on this ship? Possibly the purser’s office. And if not there, surely in Ketchikan.
That meant, however, that she’d be stuck with Max’s passport for a few more hours. But at least he wasn’t going anywhere. If she hurried, she might even take care of this problem
before
she left the ship. Then she’d have a couple of carefree hours in Ketchikan without a ticking bomb.
Relief washed over her; she returned Max’s manila envelope to his bag and stuffed his passport underneath her extra pairs of panties. She closed her suitcase. Then she locked it. She set it on the floor beside the bed before thinking better of that location. She looked at the closet.
Out of sight, out of mind
. Just in case Max did come back to the cabin, there was no reason to tempt
him
with
her
suitcase. Not that he would snoop. Max would probably find the whole idea beneath him. And he wasn’t that curious about her. Besides, as he’d said, she was pretty much an open book. Still, better safe than sorry.
With suitcase in hand, she’d taken only the first step when she heard the key rattling the cabin door lock. She stopped. The door opened and Max Kendall dwarfed the frame, looking very Max Kendall. Boyishly appealing, yet roguishly grown-up.
His eyes caught hers, then dropped to the suitcase in her hand before returning to her face.
“I caught you.”
“Caught me doing what?”
“Caught you before you left,” he explained, with a head cock after.
She relaxed. “I thought you weren’t coming back to the cabin.”
“I, uh . . .” Then, as if realizing he was still standing in the doorway, Max stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “I, uh . . . wanted to give you some money . . . for Ketchikan.” He gently tossed his magazine on the vanity and reached for his wallet.
“No way, Max. Not in a million years.”
Max grabbed her free hand and stuffed two hundred-dollar bills into it. “You can pay me back,” he said, forcing her fingers closed. “With interest.”
Daisy hesitated, feeling like pond scum for the previous hundred she’d stolen. Still, she was in a very precarious financial position. “With interest,” she insisted. “And . . . thank you.”
Max stuffed his wallet into his back pocket. “What I really . . . I . . . came because I didn’t like the way we left things.”
“Oh?”
“I, uh, thought we should have a better good-bye.”
“Oh.”
“Actually, I thought,
you
deserved a better good-bye.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t suppose you could put your suitcase down for a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Y’ know”—Max inched back as if assessing Daisy—“I think this is the least talkative I’ve ever heard you.”
“Well, it’s a little hard to come up with conversation when you’re speaking Greek.”
“Yeah, okay, maybe this
is
a little out of character for me . . .”
Her brows flicked up.
“I had apple strudel. I never have apple strudel. It’s not my usual.”
“You came here to tell me you had apple strudel?”
“The thing is . . . I liked it. For a change, I mean. Once. Not every day, of course.”
“Max—”
“The truth is . . .” He stepped toward her. “The truth is . . . I feel bad about giving you such a hard time at breakfast.”
“Ohhhh. This is an apology.”
“No, absolutely not.” Max retracted the step he’d just taken. “This is absolutely
not
an apology.”
Daisy huffed. Normally, she’d take great satisfaction in Max’s guilt and take equal pleasure in the banter that would surely follow. However, she was a woman on a mission, and she didn’t have the time, not with Otter Bite hanging by a manila envelope. “Fine. Thank you for coming here
not
to apologize and for that apple strudel thing. And”—she momentarily softened—“the money. But I just don’t have the time for whatever this is.”
Once again he stepped toward her. “You’re making this extremely difficult.”