Speaking of dull . . . Daisy’s dedication to precision and perfection reminded Max of his navy flight commander, “Knife” Newton. He’d never met anyone as obsessively compulsive as Commander Newton until Daisy Moon. If she didn’t end her monologue soon, his brain would be as glazed as his dinner plate.
“Actually, that’s kind of why I’m on this ferry . . .”
Max nodded, his thoughts on a lone thirty-something blonde spilling out of a low-cut sweater two tables behind Daisy. The blonde smiled at him. He could sit here, look in Daisy’s direction and flirt with the blonde, and Daisy would be none the wiser. That would keep things interesting until she finished her discourse on napkins.
Picking up a breadstick, the mystery woman discreetly licked the sides, then slowly worked the shaft through her red lips. Lucky breadstick. His thoughts came to a screeching halt when a well-dressed, white-haired man—maybe twenty years older than Max—returned to the table that held only dessert dishes and coffee cups. When the man looked his way, Max diverted his eyes to Daisy. Then, sensing it was safe, Max looked at the blonde, who held him in a side-glance.
“. . . Otter Bite.”
Max nodded, wondering if he’d heard right, then went back to his fantasy. This woman held promise, assuming there wasn’t a gold band hiding beneath that large sapphire on her marriage finger. Max Kendall didn’t do wives. Fiancées, possibly; girlfriends, definitely. But he wouldn’t be an accomplice to breaking vows. It might be a fine line, but it was his fine line and he’d never knowingly crossed it.
“So, Max, what do you think?”
Max blinked at Daisy, who was leaning into the table, intent on him, her eyes . . . hopeful? He had no idea what he thought, but it was probably best to be amenable or risk an even more boring verbal treatise on God only knew what. Of course, he could tell her that he’d been flirting with the well-endowed blonde and hadn’t been listening . . .
“What do you think?” he asked instead.
Daisy frowned. “I just told you what I think. Weren’t you listening?”
The bane of every man’s relationship with women—the weren’t you listening? complaint! He could confess that no, he wasn’t, but judging by Daisy’s expression, he figured frankness might end his chances for her cabin.
“I just want to be sure you’ve thought it through,” Max said, having had practice with the song and dance.
“Oh.” Sounding apologetic. “Well, I have. I know it’s a little unorthodox—”
What? Max silently joked. Folding a napkin on the diagonal?
“—But this isn’t the nineteen fifties and we are adults. With a little tolerance and patience, I think it would work. As I see it, commitment is the key to success.”
“Commitment?” Max asked suspiciously.
“Well, sure. Every plan requires commitment. Otherwise you’ll never get through the rough spots. Right?”
Max wasn’t sure yet again what he was agreeing to—rough spots?—but if it could move Daisy to a conversation he had some participation in, he was all for it. “Sure.”
Daisy scrutinized him as she’d done the silver. “Not very convincing.”
“If it works for you, it’ll work for me.”
“Really?” Sounding grateful. “I’m . . . surprised. Honestly, I thought you’d have reservations or at least an opinion.”
“Unlike you, Daisy, I don’t have an opinion on everything.”
If he had intended to shut her up, he succeeded. Daisy eased back in her chair with a look that reflected insult. She opened her menu and put her icy attention there.
His shoulders drooped. Individuality aside, when it came to being pissed, women were all the same. He debated an apology, but the silence was a welcome relief. At least he was no longer groping for a response to unknown questions. After a final glance at the blonde, he vowed that he’d now pay attention to Daisy. He opened his menu. After all, he was working up the nerve to ask for her cabin. There would be plenty of time later for blondes.
“Can I get you something from the bar?”
Max and Daisy looked up from their menus at a twenty-something waiter they hadn’t seen coming.
“Bombay and tonic,” Max answered first. “Sapphire if you’ve got it.”
“And for you, miss?”
She flashed him a dazzling Irish smile that lit up her eyes like sparklers. Or so Max thought.
“A Coke would be lovely. Thank you, Andrew.”
Max frowned at the pair, until he realized that a name tag was pinned to the waiter’s crisp white shirt.
“Our dinner specials are listed on the insert. Everything is fresh. The halibut has been going over very well and we’ve had a lot of compliments on the scallops. The seafood salad is always popular. I’ll give you a few minutes and be back with your drinks.”
“Thank you, Andrew,” Daisy said.
Why can’t you be that sweet to me? Max wanted to ask, but reached for the wine list instead. “Would you like a bottle of wine?”
A half smile in his direction and her voice dripped honey, but the sparklers had become daggers. And no amount of honey could dull those blades.
“No. Thank you.”
Yep, still pissed. “They have some nice wines here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“That’s right—” Max stopped himself.
Daisy kept smiling. As if her lips were frozen into that curl.
“Not even a glass? We can toast to . . . our truce.”
Daisy leaned into him, her voice as soft and seductive as the dark auburn spirals drizzling past her cheeks. “I would, Max, but I’m such a klutz that my wine might end up in your face.” That smile, those daggers.
“I’ll ask the waiter for a lid and a straw.”
“It’s going to be tough flying with just one eye.”
Max couldn’t help but smile. “Call me crazy, but I think I’m safe.”
The daggers slowly disappeared until only a teasing glint remained.
However much Daisy annoyed him—and oh, how she annoyed him—she was equally entertaining. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced this kind of mental calisthenics where he was simultaneously exhausted and invigorated. And tonight, with her green sweater sparking her eyes and her hair tamed into finger-tempting waves and her mouth glossed so the light shimmered on the lush swell of her lower lip—
“I suppose I do have an opinion on pretty much everything,” Daisy said.
—and the alluring tendrils of her perfume . . .
“A virtual cornucopia. But—” Max said, accepting her apology, “there are worse things in life than having opinions. At least you think about things.”
It sounded like a compliment. “Charity says I overthink.”
Max was gratefully spared a response by the waiter, who unloaded their drinks from his small tray.
“Sir, you may want to try your Sapphire and tonic,” he said with a pointed look at Max’s napkin. While Max reached for his drink—peeking at the blue ink on the underside of his napkin—Andrew asked Daisy for her dinner selection.
Daisy looked up from her menu. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything is good. The seafood salad is light, but with a nice variety of salmon, crab—”
Over the top of Daisy’s head, Max saw the blonde rise from her chair, her skirt—no panty lines—as short as her sweater was tight. Their eyes met, they exchanged smiles while her companion studied the dinner bill. Max discreetly tipped his glass her way, took a sip and carefully placed his drink to the side of the napkin.
“—However, my favorite is the scallops. They’re baked in a rich cream sauce with Gruyère browned on top. Very nice.”
“Scallops it is.” Daisy then accepted the waiter’s recommendation a second time for her salad dressing, which she asked for on the side.
“Halibut,” Max said, his cocktail napkin now tucked inside the front pocket of his jeans. “And blue cheese.”
“How is your drink, si
r?”
“On the money,” he replied, calculating Andrew’s tip for this particular service.
Then Max and Daisy were alone again with a crowd of strangers.
“That showed remarkable flexibility,” Max said.
“What?”
“The scallops. It must have been really tough to go with the waiter’s suggestion.” He paused. “Or were you intending to get the scallops all along?”
“Let’s just say, I lucked out.”
It was an awkward moment of congeniality. Each reached for their drink as if not knowing how to interact without sarcasm or criticism.
“Daisy,” Max began when he’d captured her eyes with his and she seemed uncharacteristically receptive.
“Yes, Max?”
“Daisy,” he began again, trying to find the words to ask for her cabin that wouldn’t make him seem like an opportunist.
“Yes, Max?” she answered, this time with more curiosity.
“Daisy . . . ,” he tried yet again, looking into shimmering green eyes that were distractingly trusting. “Let’s get a bottle of wine.”
“That’s not what you really want to say.”
“It’s not?”
Her head tilted ever so gently and one delicate copper crescent lifted slightly. “I think I know what you’re trying to say.”
“You do?”
“Yes. And since you’re being so incredibly magnanimous—”
“Magnanimous?”
“Well, yes.”
Max narrowed his eyes on Daisy. “Do you know what the word means?”
Daisy flinched. “Of course I do.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me magnanimous.”
“I must bring out the best in you.” She smiled.
Max didn’t. Instead, if what was going on inside his head was any indication, he pretty much looked clueless.
“Okay, maybe not,” Daisy amended when her quip seemed unappreciated. “But, given the circumstances, I’m the one who should probably say something. And please”—she flashed her palm—“it won’t be easy, so let me get through this without interrupting.” She reached for her soda.
The way Daisy sucked down her Coke, it looked like she needed Crown Royal in it.
She put down her drink, took a deep breath, and rushed her words. “First and most important, I’m really sorry about what happened at Mama Mia’s. I’m sorry about your knee. I’m sorry about your head. The whole evening was a complete disaster and if there was any way I could take it back, I would.”
It’s about time. Yet Max somehow managed to keep his expression neutral.
“I wanted to tell you weeks ago—and God knows I tried—”
His dark brows crept together.
“—but you had that restraining order—”
“What restraining order?”
“Okay, maybe there wasn’t an actual restraining order, but your attorney threatened one if I didn’t stay away from you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not making it up if that’s what you’re implying—”
“No, not exactly.”
“Not exactly? That’s a vote of confidence. Ask your lawyer—or better yet, ask Tina.”
“Tina?”
“She was at the hospital when I came to see you. I even brought you carnations, the peppermint ones . . . ?”
Max stared.
“They’re striped red and white, like peppermints. I thought about white, but those seemed too plain and red seemed too”—she waggled her head—“intense. But then I saw the peppermint ones and they seemed so cheerful, which is what people need when they’re in the hospital.”
Max stared harder. “Tina . . . ?” he prompted.
“So I had your carnations—in a vase, by the way, with a beautiful red bow—and a nurse stopped me. She checked my name on some paper and said I wasn’t allowed to see you. And that’s when Tina waltzed by like the Queen of Sheba, so I left my carnations and marched the hell out of there, and swore I’d never think about you again. But now Fate has kind of screwed that up.”
Something is screwed up. “You sure?”
“Puh-lease.” Daisy dipped her chin. “Call Tina. I’m sure you have her number.”
Max shifted in his chair, feeling inexplicably defensive . . . and tongue-tied. He had gotten a vase of carnations, just as Daisy described, but Tina had brought them into his room and Daisy had never been mentioned.
Daisy rolled her head as her way of acknowledging that Tina had given him more than her phone number. “That’s just perfect.” She took a bull’s-eye on Max and leaned forward. “What is so damn special about Tina that has men breaking engagements and crawling from hospital beds just to get next to her?”
“I don’t think this will help anything.”
“It will help me,” Daisy countered. “Please . . . I really want to know.”
Max felt a bit unbalanced by the sudden depth in Daisy’s gaze, by the sadness and confusion reflected there, by an expression that seemed to be questioning her own worth.
“Well . . . she’s pretty—”
“Duh. And she’s blond.” Anticipating his next descriptive, she said, “And yes, she has breasts—”
Killer breasts, Max silently amended.
“—But please, it has to be more than that. Men want more than pretty and blond and breasts . . . don’t they?”
Not really. But Max knew better than to say so. Besides, some men wanted more. Some men wanted auburn spirals and kind eyes and a rapier wit and a brain who knew Caligula—
Not Max. He wanted pretty and blond and—“She’s easy,” he said, ending his long pause.
“You mean sex?”
“Sex is important. But I’m talking easy in the sense of not requiring a lot of effort. Not a lot of rules and expectations. A guy can be who he is. A few beard shavings around the sink won’t be his Waterloo. . .”
She gave him the look.
“. . . and a little cigar smoke isn’t treated like an eruption of Kilauea.”
“I’ve always wanted to see the Big Island,” Daisy digressed. “Is Volcanoes National Park as awesome as they say?”
“It’s pretty amazing.” Max remembered the acres of black hardened lava and the stream of liquid fire trickling from the dome. However, the woman he’d seen it with wasn’t quite as memorable—he couldn’t recall her name and her face was fuzzy—but no doubt she was pretty and blond with killer breasts.
This trip, however, he’d remember for the rest of his life, along with the fiery redhead who’d made it so memorable.
Daisy sighed. “Is there more?”
“I think you get the gist.”
“So, in a nutshell, you want a woman who will let you be a thoughtless, inconsiderate slob.”
Imagining himself at his worst, Max frowned. “I think you’re making this too simple.”
“Isn’t that what you want? Simple, easy, spineless . . . a doormat?”
“I knew this was a bad idea.”
“You’re right. I asked for it. Sorry, I shouldn’t shoot the messenger. At least I understand why no man wants me. Looks aside, I’m definitely not easy.”
Max cocked his head at her. No siree, Bob. Daisy Moon was not easy. She was like a 1500-piece puzzle, where all the pieces are really tiny and similar in shape and color, but are nonetheless different, and it would take weeks, maybe even months, just to get the edges put together.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “I know I’m not exactly laid-back. Okay, maybe that’s being kind,” she responded to Max’s smile. “But I’m an incredible cook. And a really good speller. Not to mention having a humongous vocabulary. I came in fourth in the national spelling bee championship when I was fourteen.”
Without meaning to, Max pictured Daisy at fourteen, in a prim white blouse and a demure plaid skirt with her hair tied back in a ribbon, triumphantly spelling words like . . . concupiscence.
“Do I know what men want, or wha
t?” Now Daisy smiled . . . at herself.
Taking the cue, Max leaned in to her and spoke sincerely, but resisted the urge to cup her hand. “Somewhere there is a man who wants a pretty redhead who’s difficult and a great cook with a really humongous vocabulary who can spell . . . and next time it won’t be a cross-dressing felon.”
Daisy moaned.
“I’m kidding . . . about the cross-dressing felon.”
Daisy shook her head. “It’s not that. Although I wouldn’t mind if you never brought it up again. I’m remembering how I accused you of stealing my money. And how the security chief gave you the third degree. And in spite of everything I’ve put you through, you’re still willing—”
“Champagne vinaigrette for the lady, on the side,” the waiter announced, setting Daisy’s salad in front of her. “Blue cheese for the gentleman.” A couple of twists of his peppermill and Andrew was on to the next table.
“You were saying?” Max asked, wondering what he was willing . . .
But Daisy had moved on. She retrieved a plastic baggy from inside her purse. Very delicately she selected several pieces of lettuce and a cherry tomato and dropped them into the bag. Then she eyed Max’s salad. “Are you planning to eat your tomato?”
Max lifted his plate toward her; she plucked the tomato from his mound of romaine. Thanking him, she returned the baggy to her purse. Then, as if the interlude had never occurred, she drizzled vinaigrette over her remaining greens.
Right when Max was beginning to think that Daisy was more normal than not, she had to remind him of her lettuce fetish. Now she’d added a cherry tomato to her puzzle. And he still hadn’t figured out the Mighty Dog or the Gerber. Imagining it mixed together, he grimaced. Of course, he could just ask her—
“Excellent dressing,” she said, swallowing her first bite.
—but how much information about Daisy did he really want? He picked up his fork. He was already accustomed to her face, her eyes, the blush of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the swell of her lips, the curve of her chin . . .
Max stabbed his lettuce. Even her fountain of hair was intriguing as he imagined what those dark curls might look like spread across a white pillow—
He stuffed a forkful of crisp lettuce into his mouth. Getting to know Daisy Moon would not serve his purpose. It was better if he never discovered the reason behind the dog food and the lettuce. It was the blonde and her killer breasts he wanted.
Spooning Daisy Page 9