The Sweetheart Rules (29 page)

Straight lines.

To most people, straight lines were a shape—technically an absence of shape, since straight lines formed nothing of substance. But to Colton Harper, straight lines were a code, a motto. A way of life. Since the day he’d entered medical school, he’d never deviated outside the lines and columns and tidy spaces where he lived his life.

That day, he’d finally grown up, instead of leaving common sense in the exhaust fumes of a ‘93 Harley Softail. He’d wiped his past clean, become a doctor, and buried all traces of the Colton Harper he used to be.

Until three months ago, when a bad day had turned into a bottle of wine, a platter of blazin’ hot buffalo wings and one night in a king-sized bed at a hotel in New Orleans. One misstep—but it was done, over, in the past, and he was moving forward, back on the prescribed, planned, straight path where he was simply Doctor Colton Harper, upstanding citizen of Rescue Bay.

Not Colt Harper, the motorcycle-riding dropout with a checkered past. No, not him. Never again.

“Doc? Did you hear me?”

Colt jerked his attention back to his patient. His second most frustrating patient, truth be told, and the reason he’d saved the appointment with Greta Winslow for the end of the day, because if he started a Monday with a visit from the stubborn Greta, he’d end up barking at everyone else who followed.

Greta was an eighty-three-year-old firecracker—petite and wiry, but determined to sneak bourbon into her morning coffee and avoid all things green and leafy. She disproved his constant healthy-living lectures by having the constitution of a thoroughbred mare. There were days when Colt swore Greta had been put here just to test his commitment to the Hippocratic oath.

Colt gave her a well-practiced smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Winslow. What did you say?”

“I asked if it was possible to be allergic to someone.” Greta leaned forward and arched a thin gray brow. “As in the mere sight of his blindingly white head and ugly moon pie face gives you the dry heaves.”

Colt bit back a laugh. No doubt, Greta was referring to her much-maligned neighbor, Harold Twohig. The feud between the two residents of Golden Years Retirement Home was part and parcel of Rescue Bay’s daily gossip chatter. “As far as I know, that is not medically possible.”

“As far as you know. Which means there is still a possibility it could be true.” Greta sat back, crossed her arms over her blue sweater, and harrumphed. “Which means I need a prescription.”

He glanced down at Greta’s chart—hard copy today because his tablet had met with an unfortunate family accident yesterday. “Prescription for what? You seem to be doing pretty well lately.”

“A prescription ordering me to stay away from Harold Twohig for my mental and gastrointestinal health.” Greta put out her palm, expectant. “Just write that out, Doc. I’ll sign it for you, save you some time.”

He chuckled. “All you need to do is turn the other way when you see him coming. He’ll get the hint.”

Greta pshawed. “That man is as dense as butternut squash. He’s got it in his head that he is in love with me. Lord help me, I think he’s delusional.”

“Nothing wrong with a man determined to be with the woman he loves.”

She snorted. “Harold isn’t in love with anything besides his mirror.”

Colt shook his head, then scanned the top sheet of the chart, double-checking he’d covered all the basics for Greta’s checkup. As he did, he glanced at his watch, and did a mental calculation of the minutes until he would be home. If Colt was lucky, things would go well tonight.

Okay, given the way the last six months had gone,
well
wouldn’t be a word to describe his evenings with Grandpa Earl. They were like two battering rams—with one of them being stubborn, uncooperative, and cranky.

And then there was Grandpa Earl, who was all that times two.

Maybe he should just face facts and find Grandpa Earl a bed in a nursing home. Maybe living with his only grandson wasn’t the best choice. For either of them.

Colt signed off on the bottom of the paperwork, then handed Greta the orange sheet, with an extra note scribbled at the bottom. “Good job on the walking. Same recommendation as last time—”

“Eat more vegetables, drink less bourbon.” Greta made a face. “You are a party pooper, Doc. You know, you really should try letting loose once in a while. Have some bourbon. Cheat at a game of cards. Not that
I
cheat, of course.”

“Of course not.” He grinned.

She flicked at his tie. “I just think you should loosen the reins.”

If Greta only knew that three months ago her buttoned-up, teetotaling, straitlaced physician had done all the things he’d told his patients not to do. At the time, Colt had convinced himself he’d had a good reason to let loose, to have a little fun—

To take a trip down memory lane. More than a trip, more like an all-night journey.

As soon as he got back to Rescue Bay, he had thrown himself into the predictable routine of shingles vaccinations, blood pressure checks and glucose level tests, because the more he organized himself into those straight lines, the further that one crazy weekend disappeared into his memory. And the more he could tell himself it had been an aberration, nothing more. A crazy sidestep into a past he had left far behind him. A past filled with secrets no one here knew. Or ever would, if he had anything to say about it.

So he focused on his practice and his grandfather, and told himself he was happy. One day after another, following a predictable routine, with no surprises. Just the way Colt liked things.

Then the door to the exam room burst open and turned Colt’s mostly predictable, mostly perfect life upside down. The chart in his hands fluttered to the floor. A pile of multicolored papers scattered like leaves in the wind, scuttling beneath the swivel chair, the exam table.

In the doorway stood the last woman in the world he wanted to see, even if she was tall, curvy and smoking hot. Judging by the fury on her face, he wasn’t high on her friends and family list either.

“What the hell is this?” she said, waving a manila envelope in his face.

“Daisy? How did you… where did you… what are you… ?” His brain misfired and his words got lost in his throat.

Frannie, Colt’s assistant, squeezed past Daisy and into the room. Her florid face was blotched with red and her normally neat chignon had come undone. “Doc, I’m sorry. I tried to stop her, but she was like a wildcat—”

Wildcat.
That was the perfect word for Daisy Barton. She stood there, brunette hair cascading down her shoulders, a figure hugging red dress that made the word
hourglass
seem like a sin, and full crimson lips that could tempt a man into doing things he knew he shouldn’t. Colt’s chest tightened and those straight lines began to curve. “It’s okay, Frannie. I’ll handle this.” He returned his attention to Daisy. “Please wait outside. We can talk about this later.”

Daisy put her hands on his hips. “Talk? Honey, you were never interested in
talking
with me.”

Across from him, Greta’s mouth formed a surprised O. She glanced at Daisy, then at Colt. “Why, Doc Harper, you do surprise me.”

Damn. If he knew Greta, this little encounter with Daisy was going to be all over the Rescue Bay gossip channel before the end of the day. That was the last thing he needed.

“I’m with a patient right now, Daisy,” he said, forcing a cool, detached, professional tone to his voice, when all his brain could do was picture her naked and on top of him, that wild tangle of hair kissing the tops of her breasts, and tickling against his hands. “Please wait for me in the lobby.”

She eyed him, her big brown eyes like pools of molten chocolate. “You’re going to make your
wife
wait?”

Oh, shit. Now he knew why Daisy had come in like a tornado.

“Hold the phone. Did you say…
wife
?” Greta kept glancing between Daisy and Colt, as if she’d just realized Big Foot and the Abominable Snowman were involved in a clandestine affair.

Colt could feel those straight lines dissolving into a tangled, messy web. He glared at Daisy. “Please. Wait. In. The. Lobby.”

Daisy took a step forward, placed the envelope in his hand, then pressed a hard, short, ice-cold kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be outside, dear,” she said, with a slash of sarcasm on the
dear
. “But I won’t wait long.”

Then she was gone. The door shut, and Colt jerked into action. He bent down, gathering the papers he’d dropped earlier, stuffing the envelope Daisy had given him to the back of the pile. He straightened, then let out an oomph when something—or someone—slapped him on the back. “What the—”

“How could you not tell me you’re married?” Greta asked. “And to a beautiful girl like that, too.”

“I’m
not
married. Well, technically, maybe I still am, but…” He shook his head. What was he doing? Confiding in Greta Winslow? “I don’t share my personal life with my patients, Mrs. Winslow.”

“I think your personal life just shared itself, Doc.” Greta waved toward the closed door. “Where have you been hiding her anyway?”

“It’s… complicated.” Yeah, that was the word for it. Complicated. And crazy. And a mess he didn’t need right now. “I would appreciate it if this… incident stayed between us.”

She propped a fist on her waist and eyed him. “Are you going to give me a prescription to keep Harold Twohig away?”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“I’m bargaining. That’s different.” She shrugged. “And legal.”

“Mrs. Winslow, I have no doubt you can handle Mr. Twohig on your own. You are a smart and resourceful woman.”

She snorted. “You’re the one with the PhD. And if you ask me, you’re a blooming idiot.”

“Mrs. Winslow—”

She hopped off the exam table and stood in front of him, hands on her hips, her chin upturned in defiant argument. “Women like that don’t come along every day. Heck, God doesn’t even
make
females that look like that every day. I don’t know what you did to let her get away, but you need to go get her, and keep her this time.”

“Mrs. Winslow, we’re in the middle of—”

“We’re done. I’m the last patient of the day. Don’t think I don’t know you save me for last.” She wagged a finger at him. “Now go after that girl and apologize for whatever you did wrong. She’s your wife.”

“She’s not. She’s…” He let out a gust. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not. You
make
it complicated. If you ask me, the secret to life is easy. Go for what makes you happy.” She gave him a light jab on the shoulder, which required quite the stretch from her five-foot-three frame to reach his six-foot-one height. “Even if it’s bourbon in your coffee. Take my advice, Doc. Before your life gets sucked into a whirling drain filled with crappy food and pesky old men.”

The door shut behind Greta. Colt stood there, the chart in his hands, all organized and tidy again. The rest of him, though, was a rat’s nest. What the hell was Daisy doing here? She could have simply signed the papers and put them in the pre-addressed, stamped envelope he’d included. Instead, she’d come all the way from Louisiana to Rescue Bay and dropped a bomb in his lap.

He dropped the chart on the exam table, then exited the room. The lobby was empty, save for Frannie, who was still sputtering an apology. Colt waved it off, then exited through the side door, skirting the small brick building that housed his practice. He caught up to Daisy just as she was climbing into a dented gray Toyota sedan.

He put a hand on the door before she could shut it. Her perfume, dark and rich like a good coffee, wafted up to tease at his senses, urge him to lean in closer, to linger along the curve of her neck. He gripped the hard metal of the door instead. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you sign the papers and mail them back to me?”

“Because I don’t want a divorce.”

The words hung in the air, six words he never expected to hear. Hell, he hadn’t expected to find out he was still married to her when he asked his lawyer to unearth a copy of the divorce decree.
A mistake in the filing,
his lawyer had said, and sent a new set of divorce papers off to Daisy.
A quick, easy process,
his lawyer had promised.

Apparently his lawyer had never met Daisy Barton.

“Daisy, we haven’t been together in fourteen years—”

“What was that back in June?”

“An… aberration.”

She snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

“We had one night”—one crazy, hot, turn-a-man-inside-out night—“and that was it. It was wrong and when I realized that our divorce was never final, I sent you the papers. I don’t understand the problem, Daisy. We never had a real marriage to begin with.”

“Well we do now, my dear husband. All legal and everything. In fact, next month is our fifteenth anniversary. Maybe we should think of doing something.” The ice in her voice chilled the warm Florida air.

Was she insane? There was no way he was going to celebrate their anniversary or anything of the sort. He thrust the envelope of divorce papers at her, but she ignored them. “Just sign, and we can be done with this insanity. I’m dating someone else.” Well, technically, he wasn’t dating anyone, but Daisy didn’t need to know that.

“So sorry to put a crimp in your social life with our marriage.” She turned away from him, facing the windshield, her features cold and stony.

“A marriage that has been over since we were nineteen. A marriage that only lasted three weeks. A marriage we ended by mutual agreement years ago.”

“Maybe so.”

“Then sign the papers.” He shook them at her, but still she ignored them. “We’ll be rid of each other once and for all. Isn’t that what you want, too?”

She bit her lip, and the gesture sent a fire roaring through him that nearly made him groan. Damn. This was why he didn’t want to be with Daisy. Because every time he got close to her, his brain turned into a pile of useless goo. “No, I don’t. Not yet.”

“What do you mean—
not yet
?”

She blew her bangs out of her face and stared straight ahead, her hands resting on the steering wheel, keys in the ignition. A tiny pair of bright pink plastic dice dangled from the ring, tick-tocking back and forth against the metal keys. “It’s complicated.”