The Sweetheart Secret (14 page)

“Three thirty.”

He remembered that night, the space beside him in the bed, finding Daisy in the next room, clad in one of his shirts and nothing more. “I got up, because the bed was cold, and you were wearing down a path between the door and the television.”

The smile widened. “You told me not to worry about the job interview because if that door shut, it meant a better one was going to open for me. It set my mind at ease, and I went back to sleep.”

Was that why he hadn't been able to sleep? Because the space beside him in his bed was empty? Or because a part of him was still so tuned to Daisy that he sensed when she was awake? “So what door are you worried about today?”

“The fridge door. You planning on eating anything?” Daisy nodded toward the open refrigerator. “Because I'm thinking that leftover pizza sounds really good right now.”

“Oh, that's not a healthy option. I should have an apple or . . . something.” Though none of that appealed to Colt, either. He wondered why she didn't want to open up to him, why she was keeping her worries to herself, then realized that he did the same thing, and had been for years.

She was working for him, nothing more. He wasn't here to solve her problems or ease her stresses. Or wonder what it would be like to have her warm his bed at night. But he did, damn it. More than he wanted to admit to her, or to himself.

Daisy reached past him, the soft cotton of her T-shirt gliding against his arm with a whisper. She grabbed the plate with the pizza, then looked up at him. “Come on, Colt. Live a little.”

“I'll, uh, have an apple instead.” He pivoted to the right and grabbed a Red Delicious out of the bowl on the counter. And tried not to think of the irony of him trying to avoid Daisy's temptations by opting for the biblically famous symbol of temptation.

“Suit yourself.” Daisy put the pizza in the microwave. While the food heated, she let the dog back in, then reached into the fridge for one of Grandpa Earl's beers. “Is it okay if I have one?”

“I won't mind, but Grandpa Earl might.”

“It's only been a day. I think he still likes me.” She popped the top and leaned against the counter, drinking from the bottle. “Might as well take advantage of that while I can.” She hoisted the beer in Colt's direction. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” He tapped the bottle with his apple, then took a bite. The microwave dinged. Daisy withdrew the pizza and leaned against the counter again. She picked off a piece of pepperoni and popped it in her mouth.

“Don't you, uh, want to sit down and eat that?” Colt gestured toward the kitchen table, with its napkins and place mats and civility.

She shook her head, a soft, sexy smile on her face. “It feels so much more decadent when you're standing up.”

Colt swallowed. Took another bite of the apple. It tasted flat and plain on his tongue, like it was made of cardboard. He moved a couple inches closer to Daisy, drawn to her, as he had been that first day with the cookies. She broke the rules, in every element of her life, and the part of Colt that chafed under his straight lines and organization, wanted more of that side of Daisy. Always had. To hell with the rules and his plans, and everything else.
It feels so much more decadent when you're standing up
.

That made him think of sex—hell, being in the same zip code as Daisy made him think of sex—and the time they'd rushed into their apartment, hot and ready for each other, and he'd lifted her onto the counter and plunged into her. It had been fiery and furious, one of those moments when common sense flew south of the border. So many of their days together had been like that—as if they were combustibles that exploded when they were brought together. And yes, many, many times, they had explored standing-up decadence.

Damn.

“Everything does,” he said.

And he didn't mean eating.

She dangled a slice of pepperoni in front of him. In the dim light, her eyes seemed wider and bigger, her smile sexier. “Are you sure I can't tempt you to try some?”

“My apple is . . .” He shook his head and let out a little laugh. Who was he fooling? “Okay. Not nearly as tempting as that pizza.”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe we should each try a bite and see. If you're willing to share, that is.” She leaned forward and opened her mouth.

God, this woman made everything around her pale in comparison. In the dark, intimate world of the kitchen, Colt could barely think, hardly breathe. His every thought centered around Daisy. Kissing Daisy. Touching Daisy. And holy hell, yes, fucking Daisy.

He moved the apple to her lips, and watched as she took a bite. He swallowed a groan. Damned good thing his sweats were baggy, or she would know how much that simple act had affected him.

“Now it's your turn, Colt,” she said, her voice soft and dark.

His gaze never left hers as he moved his mouth to eat the tiny pizza morsel. When he did, his lips met her fingers, and a fire roared to life in his gut. He swallowed. “Yours is, uh, definitely better.”

Another smile. “The bad things always are.”

Bad things, like Daisy Barton. A woman who made him want to run out on his obligations and head for a private beach where the only thing they had to wear was sunscreen.

“Want some more?” she asked.

Oh, he wanted more all right. Not just more pizza, but more of her. More of what had happened three months ago. More of what had happened back in her motel room. But more led to mistakes, and he was older, wiser now. Meaning he should know better. “I, uh, should get some sleep. My grandpa has a doctor appointment in the morning, and then I have rounds at Golden Years. It makes for a long Saturday.”

“Don't you take weekends off?”

“Not very often.”

“Then take this weekend off, or at least don't work Sunday. How about we pack a picnic lunch and eat on the beach this Sunday afternoon? You, me, your grandpa, and Major.” At the sound of his name, the dog thumped his tail.

A tempting thought, but then Colt remembered his standing Sunday date, and shook his head. “I . . . I can't. I have plans.”

“Plans? Like what? Maybe we can tag along. You said you wanted more family time, and this can be a way to get it.”

Colt shook his head again. “It's something I have to do alone.”

Hurt flashed in her eyes. “Oh. Okay.”

He wanted to explain, to tell her, but that would mean also telling her about what had happened to Henry, and Colt wasn't ready to do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Opening that door meant accepting the blame he held, and of all the burdens he carried, that was the one that could topple him. “Maybe another day we can do a picnic on the beach.”

“Okay.” She tore off a piece of pizza and ate it, but now there was a distinct sense of distance between them. “I can take your grandpa to the doctor, if you want. That's my job, after all.”

He gave up pretending he wanted the apple and tossed the remains into the trash. “Don't you have that meeting with Mike at the property?” Daisy had mentioned it to him at dinner earlier tonight. It was nice to see a local contractor getting the work, and from what he knew about Mike, the job would be fair and reasonable.

“I can reschedule.”

“No, you keep that meeting. I like to go to my grandfather's appointments with him. Make sure they cover all the bases, that he understands what they tell him, and that any follow-up appointments get made.”

She smiled. “Still a control freak?”

“Not me.” He put up his hands. “I'm just . . . conscientious.”

“Oh yeah? Then what would happen if I turned the tables on you?”

She did that just by being here. She did it with the pizza and the dog and her smile. She did it by the way she invaded his thoughts, made him crave the unfettered, uncomplicated life they'd once had. “You already have, Daisy.”

“Oh, Colton Harper, I can do so much more than that.” She tipped her beer toward him, then turned on her heel and headed down the hall to her room. The dog padded along behind her, leaving Colt standing in the kitchen, feeling jealous and hungry. And not just for pizza.

“The good news is—it's not a total teardown,” Mike Stark said. The tall, dark-haired contractor stood in the lobby of the Hideaway Inn on Saturday morning, a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other. The once grand entryway was decaying before Daisy's eyes. The striped wallpaper hung from the wall like limp spaghetti, and the staircase was missing treads, like gaps in a smile. The carpets had a musty, damp smell, there was a dark water spot on the ceiling, and nearly every square inch was coated with cobwebs and dust.

And that was just the lobby. What she'd seen in the other rooms, from leaky pipes to crumbling walls, all spelled disaster. Emma was right. This place was an albatross.

“Is it salvageable?” Daisy asked.

Mike took a look around the space. “What you see here is mostly cosmetic. There are some plumbing issues, and some updates that should be made to make it more efficient and eliminate problems down the road, but overall, the building has great bones. The other contractor was either incompetent or trying to milk you for more money. After looking around, I'm positive I can do the job for a whole lot less than the other contractor quoted you.”

Daisy smiled. “Really?”

Mike studied the papers on the clipboard and nodded. “Yup. Plus, I'll be doing this for close to cost, since you're a friend of the family, such as it is.” He looked up and grinned. “And just so you know, Greta is always looking to expand that family. So if you're not already married, she'll be finding you a Prince Charming faster than you can sneeze.”

“Oh, I'm not looking for a Prince Charming. Not now, maybe not ever.” She'd done the marriage route once—one very long marriage, it turned out—and it hadn't worked out. At all. It wasn't exactly called a success story to be married to the same man for fourteen years and only spending three weeks and one night with him.

Except she'd been tempted last night to take him back to her room and taste a lot more than just his Red Delicious. Thank God she'd come to her senses before she fell for the same foolish fairy tale that had her eloping in the first place. She really needed to learn to stay in bed at night.
Nothing good happens after eleven between a boy and a girl,
Aunt Clara had always said, and she'd been right.

“Don't say you're not looking for Prince Charming out loud in front of Greta.” Mike chuckled. “She'll make it her mission to convince you that everyone deserves to be paired up, like on Noah's Ark.”

Instead of responding, Daisy changed the subject. Back to her reason for being here—which had nothing to do with some two-by-two mission. Although, she needed to try to remember that when she was around Colt, too. Damn the man for bringing up that night all those years ago. It was one of her sweeter memories from their short-lived marriage. Colt, holding her tight and telling her it would all be fine, that she'd ace the interview and if they didn't give her the job, they were the ones losing out, not her. Colt had been a rock and an anchor for a girl who had never had a steady foundation to stand upon. And then, just when she'd begun to count on him, he was gone.

“Uh, Mike, when do you think you can start the work?” Daisy said. “I was hoping to reopen before the tourist season starts in January. And there's always demand for weddings on the beach.”

“You're in luck, because my crew just finished up a job this week, and if you give the go-ahead, they can get started on Monday. You'll mostly be talking to my partner, Nick Patterson. I'm still full-time in the Coast Guard, so he oversees the business for me. But he's got great experience, and he knows his way around power tools. You can trust him to do a high-quality job.”

“I remember Nick. He's a friend of . . . a friend.” She didn't go into specifics, hoping Greta hadn't told Mike she was still married to Colt. The fewer people who knew about that, the better. It would just invite questions that Daisy didn't want to answer.

“You know Nick?” Mike said. “Small world.”

She nodded. “I spent a summer in Rescue Bay, at the Hideaway Inn, helping my aunt. He was friends with some of the people I hung out with. Teenagers partying on the beach and all that.”

“Nick's a great guy, and an amazing carpenter. He'll take care of this building as if it were his own.”

“That's good to hear. This is my family's legacy . . .” Though the word
legacy
sounded odd to Daisy, who wouldn't call anything she'd gotten from Willow a legacy. “. . . and I want it done right. Now about financing—”

Mike waved that off. “I have an inkling of the issues you're facing. Greta said you're a close personal friend of Colt Harper's, and that to me is a good enough bond, until the bank loan is in your hands.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stark.” She put out her hand and they shook. The feeling of completing a deal, one that could transform her future, Emma's, maybe even this town's, sent a strange sense of accomplishment through Daisy. She'd taken the first and biggest step toward reopening the Hideaway Inn, and it felt good. Damned good. “Greta was right about you. She said you were fair and honest. Not to mention, almost family.”

Mike grinned. “An endorsement from Greta Winslow is akin to a USDA stamp around here. You must be pretty good stock yourself, since all she did was rave about you.”

“I don't know about that,” Daisy said, hugging her arms to her chest and looking around at the place that was finally on its way to becoming the home she remembered. “But I'm working on it.”

“Aren't we all?” Mike grinned again. He tore off the top sheet from his clipboard and handed it to her. He looked around the lobby and nodded. “I'm looking forward to seeing this place come to life again. You know, it seems like it's just been holding its breath, waiting for someone to come along and resurrect it.”

“That's a good way to look at it,” Daisy said. “A much more positive view than this place is falling down around our ears.”

“Well, it's also doing that.” Mike chuckled. “But that can all be fixed, and before you know it, it'll be back up and running.”

They walked toward the double front doors. Daisy scuffed at a piece of plaster on the wood floor. “I was thinking . . . what if you started on the outdoor area first, just cleaned it up, got the pavement power-washed . . . that kind of thing. Is that possible?”

Mike glanced down at his long list of projects for the bed and breakfast. “Most projects work from the roof on down, then from the inside out, with the landscaping being left for last. Why would you want to do that?”

“Luke mentioned that he and Olivia are looking for a place to hold their wedding. I know it'll be too early to have a full event here, but maybe it would be a nice test run for the Hideaway Inn.” And a way to get Emma down here. If Daisy called her cousin with an actual booked event—one that would need all hands on deck and a photographer to capture every moment—then maybe that would be just enough to get Emma to drive down.

Mike thought about it for a second, mulling his list and then glancing around the first floor. “You'd want to get the kitchen work started, and get this first-floor restroom renovated, but those should be doable. We can tackle the common areas first, work on the outside projects, then start hitting each guest room. The exterior needs to be shored up before the winter comes, anyway, so I don't think it'll take much adjusting of our timeline. Let me talk to Nick and see if that works for him.”

She liked Mike Stark, liked him a lot. She could see why Greta had sung his praises. He was fair and honest and easy to work with. “Thank you.”

“No, thank
you
. Rescue Bay needs a little shot in the tourism arm, and the Hideaway Inn is the first step toward making this town the destination it used to be.”

Daisy looked out the window at the deep blue green Gulf of Mexico, and the lush white sands lying empty, just waiting for life to return. “For more than just visitors,” she said softly. “And for more than just a weekend.”

*   *   *

Sunday morning rolled in as both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because it freed Colt from his daily schedule, and a curse, because it left him at home with far too much free time to kill with Daisy close by. Colt had enough frustration in his life, just with taking Grandpa to his appointments.

Yesterday's visit to the heart specialist in Tampa had gone about as well as wrangling pigs into a chute. Grandpa had let the doctor take his blood pressure and listen to his heart, then resorted to grunted answers after that. He'd refused to go for another EKG, refused to do any blood work, and just generally refused to cooperate. Eventually, Colt had thrown up his hands, thanked the doctor for his time, and driven Grandpa Earl home.

Colt had spent the rest of the day doing rounds, then getting caught up on paperwork back in his office. He hadn't gone home until well after dark, when Daisy and Grandpa were already asleep. He'd opened the fridge to find a dinner waiting for him, some kind of chicken sauté, with another slice of that amazing homemade bread. The dishes were done, the floor swept, the house quiet and clean.

He'd eaten alone at the kitchen table, wondering how he was going to keep on living with the woman who tortured him with scenes of domesticity. If theirs had been an ordinary marriage, he would have ended his day with climbing into bed with Daisy, hauling her close, and making warm, sweet, wonderful love to her. Instead he went upstairs to his own cold sheets and a vow to find a full-time nurse who didn't make him want to drizzle warm honey down her belly and take his time licking off every drop.

Damn.

Sunday morning, he got up at five, strapped on his running shoes, and pounded out a hard, fast six miles. If he thought the run would ease the tension in his chest, the constant craving for Daisy, he was wrong. As he turned the corner for his street, he saw a motorcycle parked outside his neighbor's house, sporting a
FOR SALE
sign.

He'd slowed his pace, and thought of the day he'd roared up to Daisy's house in Jacksonville, told her he couldn't live another moment without her, then zoomed out of Florida with Daisy clutching his waist. All bright-eyed and sure that if they were together, everything would be perfect from that day forward.

When he got back inside the house after his run, Daisy was in the kitchen, wearing a soft pink robe that fell to her knees, her feet bare. She was making coffee, seeming as at home in his house as he was. The dog sat at her feet, wagging his tail with hope for a snack.

It was like a scene out of a Rockwell painting, and for the hundredth time he wondered if it was also an image of the life he could have had—if he had stayed with Daisy all these years. Would they have been one of those couples who had Sunday breakfast together while the kids dashed around the table? One of those couples who held each other in bed while watching silly late-night movies? Or would Daisy be flitting away, as she had years ago? Off to another home, another job . . . another life?

She turned when he entered the kitchen, a half smile on her lips, and a mug in her hands. Colt's craving for her erupted again. Half of him wanted to turn around, buy that motorcycle, and roar on down the road with Daisy, until they found a place to be alone for a very, very long time.

This was why she was bad for him. She made him want the very life that had driven a wedge between them. That carefree, answering to no one, detached from everyone but each other. That was who Daisy was—and who Colt would never be. He'd detoured down that road once already. Not again.

“Want a cup?” she said.

He shook off the thoughts of motorcycles and running away. He had responsibilities here. A practice. A life. He couldn't indulge in crazy fantasies like that. “After I have some water. Damn, it's warm out there this morning.” He swiped the sweat off his brow and bent to take off his running shoes. When he straightened, he found Daisy standing before him, an icy glass in her hands. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” She thumbed toward the stove. “Your grandpa is finishing up in the bathroom, and I'm making him some eggs and turkey bacon. Do you want some?”

It was so damned domestic. So . . . married. “Daisy, you don't have to wait on me. I hired you to help my grandpa. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” She smiled. “But if I'm making something for your grandfather and me to eat, it's no trouble to make something for you, too. You can always pay me extra, if it makes you feel guilty.”

“Deal.” He sat at the kitchen table, sipping the water, and watching Daisy move around his kitchen. He hadn't had a woman in his kitchen in years.

Fourteen years, to be exact. During their short-lived marriage, there'd been more takeout than real meals, food they could grab and consume as fast as possible. They spent more time making sparks in the bedroom than worrying about what might be cooking in the oven. He'd never seen this nurturing side of Daisy and he had to admit he liked it, very much.