Charity stopped counting bills. “You clean up real nice, Daisy Mae. What I wouldn’t give to have your hair when it looks like that”—she scooped salmon pâté onto a cracker and popped it into her mouth—“an’ your talen’ with foo’. Mmmmmmm.”
“You don’t think it’s too frou-frou?”
“Your hair is perfect.”
“The pâté. I’m trying some new recipes. I was going for sophisticated, but maybe I should stick to basics. It’s not called Wild Man Lodge for nothing.” Daisy thought about the rustic cabins shown on the website and imagined what the photos didn’t reveal—spiders, dust, musty sheets, screeching faucets, rusty water, mice—
“I’m sure you’ll find a bunch of business types pretending to be wild men. They’ll love your food and they’ll love you.”
Daisy hadn’t mentioned the website to Charity. It was bad enough she was going to the ends of the earth; the third-world living conditions only made it worse. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I took this job.” I was thinking I had no choice, Daisy reminded herself as she bulldozed a cracker into the salmon.
“You were thinking you need to start over. You were thinking you need an adventure. You were thinking you need a change. And you’re right. You can always come home. Lots of restaurants in Seattle would jump at the chance to have you as their chef. Fireflies is not the only game in town,” she said. “And Jason’s going to rue the day he lost you as chef... and his wife. I’ve seen his girlfriend—”
“Fiancée,” Daisy corrected.
“Soon to be ex-wife,” Charity quipped. “She’s working her way up the food chain. Not that I’ll be sorry when she dumps his cheating ass.”
Daisy wasn’t sure which was worse—losing her place in Jason’s heart or losing her place in the restaurant she had nurtured into Seattle’s most popular and prosperous.
Even the name Fireflies had been her brainchild, along with the twinkling lights scattered around the romantic restaurant and the Mason jars glowing with fake fireflies on the linen-covered tables. Like an old-fashioned summer evening—
“In a couple of months it will all be forgotten,” Charity added. “People understand.”
Daisy thought about her job search and all her phone calls that were never returned—something else she hadn’t mentioned to Charity. “People might understand, but men don’t. And men own the four-star restaurants. And men are the executive chefs at those restaurants. And men do the hiring for their kitchens. And men don’t hire volatile, violent women. If I were a man, I’d have my own television show by now.”
“You’re not volatile or violent. The judge had just rejected your claim in the restaurant you’d given your heart and soul to for ten years! That same restaurant in which Jason had always promised you a partnership—”
Next time, get it in writing, her attorney had said. Or get married. Never trust love to be fair.
“—and Jason—the gutless prick—was gloating up a storm. He had no reason to fire you in the first place, let alone have his attorney do it in a letter. You showed considerable restraint. I would’ve torched the place and taken a meat cleaver to the man’s dick.”
“You’re just saying that.”
Charity shrugged. “You broke a few dishes. Big deal.”
“A few?”
“What’s done is done. And people will forget.”
“Not the Royal Academy of Chefs.”
“I know that gold spatula means a lot—”
“Golden Spoon,” Daisy corrected peevishly. “It took me years to get it and those bastards took it away.”
“For un-chef-like conduct, yes, I know. But you don’t need those stuffy ol’ cooks. You’re no more talented with that spoon than you are without it. Nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed.”
“Only circumstances. You are still fabulous.”
“I had four stars. Four shining stars.”
“You’ll get it all back, Daisy. Your stars, your spoon. The great reviews. You’ll see.”
Daisy sighed, unconvinced, but for tonight she’d let it go—as if she had a choice. She dug another cracker into the salmon. “So you don’t think it’s too frou-frou?”
“The pâté is sublime.”
“No, my hair.” The frenzied mass had been tamed into sensual spirals that gently caressed her shoulders.
“Your hair is a traffic-stopper.”
“Like an accident?”
“Stop it! You’re gorgeous. I love that sweater.” The teal cashmere highlighted Daisy’s eyes. “Have some wine.”
“If I drink that, I’ll fall asleep in my marinara. I was up most of last night.”
“Listening to Lady Antebellum. But you’ve got too much adrenaline to fall asleep. You need to take the edge off.”
Daisy’s hand quivered as she reached for the goblet. All she had to do was get through this evening and then she’d never ever date again. One, two, three swallows.
“Slow down! I said take the edge off. You’re whacking the whole plank.”
Four, five, six swallows . . . and the glass was empty. “How much did we make?”
“Including the big-ticket items . . . $4,722.”
“Wow! And to think it originally cost about thirty thousand.”
“Everything was used and unwanted.”
“Not everything.”
“Moving on.”
“Speaking of which, I better go.”
“You’ve still got time. You don’t want to arrive early and appear eager.”
Daisy dug out keys from her evening purse and discovered two foil-wrapped Trojans. She held them up. “What’re these?”
Charity smiled. “Safety in numbers.”
“I don’t need safety and certainly not in numbers.” But she dropped them back into her clutch. Then she cocked her head at Charity. “What’re you doing with condoms?”
“They’re for Bob’s Pretty Woman fantasy. The billionaire and the prosti—”
“Too much info.” Daisy grabbed her keys and then set them back down. “I forgot to feed Elizabeth.”
“I’ll feed Elizabeth. You go.”
“Don’t you have to be on a street corner?”
“Bob’s going to the game with his buddies.”
“Oh no, lawyers unleashed.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Elizabeth can be finicky.”
“I’ve watched you feed her a million times.”
“I know, but—”
“You’re going to be late.”
Daisy glanced at her watch, then picked up her keys a second time. “There’s an open jar of baby food in the fridge. Microwave it for ten seconds and put it in her dish. Give her a teaspoon of Mighty Dog on the side—”
“Yeah, yeah, go.”
“—AND shred some lettuce and chop up a cherry tomato.”
“I’ll feed Lizzie, put her in jammies, and tell her a bedtime story. She won’t even know you’re gone.”
“She doesn’t like being called Lizzie.”
“How about The Tortoise and the Hare?”
“Her favorite is Beauty and the Beast.”
“Go!”
She dragged herself out of the kitchen.
“Daisy—”
Looking back, Daisy saw hope in her best friend’s eyes.
“—Try to get lucky.”
Chapter Four
Max Kendall sat at the bar and ordered an Alaskan Amber. About five-forty and Mama Mia’s was emptying of Mariners’ fans on their way to Safeco Field after an early dinner.
Violins crooned softly from the sound system. The subtle aroma of basil and garlic wafted through the restaurant. Candle flames flickered on the tables in the cozy dining room. But all Max could think about was his ruined Saturday night. The Kansas City Royals were in town and he and his dad had tickets. What Max wouldn’t give to be driving there instead of sitting here.
Mothers!
He might still make the fourth inn
ing if he and Daisy beat the date crowd and didn’t get bogged down with drinks, appetizers, and small talk. If they were seated right now, they could be finished by seven-thirty. But that would require his date to actually be—
“Max?”
He swiveled toward the sultry voice . . . and smiled.
“I thought that was you.” The blonde hugged him. “The lighting’s so dim I wasn’t sure. You look great.”
“Ditto.” Her sassy perfume enveloped him, triggering memories. “How long has it been?”
“A year.”
Max frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Time flies.”
“Still with Alaska Airlines?”
“Of course. How’s the lodge?”
“Booked through fall.”
“I’ve got happy memories of that place.”
“We can always make more.”
“I should come back,” she teased. “Just to get a proper good-bye.”
He quirked his head at her.
“You kissed me, got out of bed, and said I’ll miss you. Meat Loaf was playing in the background. ‘Two Out of Three.’ That’s the last I saw of you.”
“I had a fishing charter and you were going back to Seattle.” Not that he precisely remembered—was she kidding about Meat Loaf?—but that was his typical no-frills good-bye.
“One of these days, Max—” Tina smiled. “What are you doing in Seattle—alone on a Saturday night?”
“Visiting my parents and buying a new truck. I’m meeting someone for dinner, but they’re late. Sit down, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I’d love to, believe me, but I’m here with my fiancé. We’re going to the Mariners’ game—”
“Fiancé?”
Tina turned toward the dining room and fluttered fingers at an expensively dressed man who, even in the flattering light, looked much too reserved for the adventurous pilot Max remembered. Even his smile was cautious. Or was it hostile?
“Wow,” Max said, catching the blinding glint off her left hand. “That’s some rock.”
“Three carats,” she gushed. “But, look, if you’re in town for a few days, call me. I’m not in the cockpit until Tuesday. Do you still have my cell number?”
“Yep.”
She hesitated, then her voice became wistful. “I never stopped thinking about you, Max.”
“You should have called.”
“You live in the present. I want a future.”
Max thought he should say something, but what? Surely Tina was joking; she hadn’t actually considered him husband material, had she?
“It really is good seeing you.” She leaned forward as if she might kiss him, stopping short. “Call me.” Then she turned and navigated her way through the dining room, rejoining her fiancé, who—it seemed to Max—had a bull’s-eye on him.
Max swiveled back toward the bar. That was interesting. But he didn’t dwell. He hoped Tina would be happy with her three-carat man. Then he patted himself on the back for being a guy who never bore grudges or regrets, and always wished the best for an ex.
He checked his watch. Why were women always late? And it did seem to be a female thing. Just as waiting seemed to be a male thing. He drank his beer down to the foam. One more Amber, then he would reclaim his night.
“Sorry I’m late,” Daisy said breathlessly. She laid her purse on the bar and slid onto the stool beside Max. “Traffic was a bear because of the game tonight. Anyway, you probably thought I was a no-show.”
“Actually, the thought never entered my mind.” Max discreetly gave Daisy the once-over as she ordered from the bartender, telling him exactly how to make her Midori and rum concoction.
Daisy did have a sweet Irish face, Max realized before checking out her auburn spirals, gleaming like the cherries in the pie slice his mother had set in front of him that afternoon. Her curls grazed slender shoulders draped in a green sweater, and it just got better from there. Who would’ve guessed that wrapped inside that garage-sale cocoon was a butterfly?
Drink in hand, Daisy turned back to Max, a glint in her kryptonite eyes matching the edge in her voice. “That sure of yourself, are you?”
Yes, Max thought, but said, “You don’t seem like the type to leave a guy hanging.”
“Actually, the thought entered my mind. About a dozen times.”
“Still worried about that serial killer thing?”
“A girl can’t be too careful. I once had a creepy experience when I tried to sell my car on Craigslist. Now I carry pepper spray.”
“Thanks for the warning. So, why are you here?”
“I guess because . . . I’m not the type to leave a guy hanging.”
“Your psychologist friend made you come.”
Daisy smiled. “That, too. But... I would’ve come without the nudge.”
She leaned close as if to divulge a secret and Max caught the provocative scent of her perfume. Spicy. Lusty. Sensual. Just what Max would’ve expected . . . had he previously thought about it.
“The truth is, I’m afraid of your mother. And since she knows where I live . . .” Daisy retreated to her space and drank from her tall glass.
“But not for long.”
“Meaning?”
“The SOLD sign,” he explained, resisting an inexplicable urge to kiss Daisy. Daisy. Daisy . . . what?
Max shrugged it off. It wasn’t the lack of a last name that had him baffled, it was his ambivalence about a woman he didn’t know, didn’t want to know, but definitely wanted to . . .
“Right, the SOLD sign,” she said, bringing Max back to the moment.
“So what do you do, Daisy, when you’re not working garage sales?”
She took another drink. “I’m a chef.”
“Really.”
“Truth is, I used to be the chef de cuisine at Fireflies, which is why it wouldn’t be such a hot idea to go there. It’s all kind of connected to my breakup.”
He had no idea what a chef de cuisine was, but it sounded like he should be impressed. “That’s quite an accomplishment . . . for someone so young.”
Daisy glowed. “I have four stars and a Golden Spoon.”
He stared.
“It’s a big deal for a chef.”
Max picked up a hint of sadness. A woman in transition. Eager for something new. Something out of character. Something wild and crazy. Something to make her forget—for one night—whatever it was she was leaving behind. His kind of woman. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Are you staying in town? Moving to Timbuktu?”
Daisy let out a half grunt, half chuckle. “Some people think Timbuktu. Actually, for the first time in my life, I’m doing something really wild and crazy—”
Max kissed her. Just enough to tempt her, but not scare her. Then, of course, he apologized. “Sorry. I should’ve asked.”
“That’s okay. I mean, it was a surprise, but not a bad surprise, and I was kind of thinking about it, well, not thinking about it, I mean, it crossed my mind when I first sat down and saw how you look, y’ know, without that stubble and T-shirt. Not that you looked bad, you just look better now. Really . . . better, but then who am I to talk . . .”
Her words barely registered as Max considered the rambling redhead he’d been paired with for the evening. Watching Daisy stumble her way through this explanation was like watching a puppy learn where his paws were. It was almost endearing—not that he was scouting for warm and fuzzy feelings. But if anyone needed a night with Max Kendall, it was Daisy . . . what’s-her-name. He signaled the bartender for another drink and then the same two fingers pressed her lips to shut her up. “Compliments aren’t your strong suit, are they?”
“I haven’t slept for forty-eight hours.”
“Then maybe we should get you to bed.”
Their eyes locked; then, as if the inference was more tempting than she wanted to admit, Daisy swiveled her stool away from him.
Surveying her surroundings, she started babbling again. “I used to come here for
lunch, but it’s been a while. A few years ago they redecorated and added the fountain.” A tastefully compact, three-tier fountain gurgled in the middle of the dining room. “And they got rid of the horrible orange carpet and put down tile. It gives it kind of an outdoor terrace—” Daisy froze midsentence. Then she spun back toward the bar and Max. “The food here really isn’t all that good. Let’s go someplace else. For dinner,” she hastily added.
“I thought you liked this place.”
She reached for her clutch. “Can we just go?”
“You’ve barely touched your drink. And I just ordered you another. What is that, five or six bucks each?”
Daisy could not believe Max was quibbling about $7.50, and her expression reflected it. “I never asked for another and if it’s such a big deal, I’ll pay for it.”
“That’s not the point. It just seems silly to waste—”
“Fine.” Daisy reached for her icy Midori and rum. While she drained her glass, the bartender arrived with another. Dumbstruck, Max watched as she finished her second glass like the first, then grimaced, fingers pressing temples. “Ow, ow, ow. Brain freeze.”
Max rolled his eyes.
“Can we go now?”
“Am I missing something?”
“I would just rather go someplace else.”
“Burger King it is.” Max asked for the tab. Before he could pay, a menacing voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck and switched on his defenses.
“I wanna talk t’ you.”
Max swiveled toward the source and faced the scowl of Tina’s three-carat man. Tina could make any man possessive, but Max saw possessed. Taking the offensive, he introduced himself.
“I’m not here t’ make friends,” three-carat man slurred. “I jus’ wanna know—”
“Look,” Max said, experienced with dodging. “There is absolutely nothing between us.”
Daisy drew back. “Why’re you telling him that?”
“Please, Daisy, this doesn’t concern you.”
Copper brows jumped. “It doesn’t?”
“I don’t give a damn ’bout you and her,” three-carat man said.
Max nodded in Daisy’s direction. “I’m not talking about her.”
Daisy frowned at what didn’t sound like a compliment. “Thanks a lot.”
Spooning Daisy Page 3