Spooning Daisy

by Maggie McConnell

  “How’s the dressing?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “On a scale of one to five.”

  Max scooted the plate toward her. “You tell me.”

  Daisy scooped dressing onto the tines of her fork. Max watched as she judged the flavor, her expression a quick series of quirks, flinches, and scrunches.

  “Actually, pretty good, with just the right twang from the blue cheese. You’d be surprised how often blue cheese dressing is just ranch with cheese thrown on top. I give it a four out of five.”

  And what would Daisy rate him? Max drained his gin and tonic. Screw his low score. He’d been putting this off long enough. And quite honestly, he didn’t think he could stay awake through another of Daisy’s critiques, especially since there was no blonde for a diversion. He held up his glass and caught Andrew’s attention. Then he turned to Daisy, who was finishing her salad.

  “Daisy,” Max began.

  She dabbed her lips with her napkin, then returned it to her lap. “Yes, Max?”

  “Daisy . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He chickened out. “What’d you ever see in Jason?”

  She stopped cold; it had been a long time since she’d thought about Jason’s good qualities. “He wasn’t always the jerk he was that night. He used to be fun and spontaneous and romantic . . .” Daisy sighed. “But then, so did I. And he was a good chef. It just seemed that the more money he made, the less he cared about cooking—which is what we had most in common. He likes the prestige of owning the most successful restaurant in Seattle.”

  Max looked at her . . . and realized he was actually listening.

  “Yeah, okay, I like the prestige, too,” she said. “The four stars, the great reviews. But I love being a chef. Jason became all about the money. But . . . he’s really not a bad guy.”

  Daisy remembered how Jason had lifted her off the floor in Fireflies, broken china all around, and held her while she sobbed. He could have called the cops; she was grateful he didn’t. But she was less than grateful when he sent her the $30,000 bill. Considering all the money she had made for him, he could’ve picked up the tab. She was angry all over again and their brief truce had ended. Hell, he’d probably spent that and more on Tina’s diamond—

  “If you say so,” Max said when her defense of Jason had apparently ended.

  She shrugged. “Tina isn’t complaining.”

  Max knew better, but he wasn’t opening that can of worms. And he’d stalled long enough. “Daisy?”

  “Yes, Max?”

  “About your cabin . . .” He tensed, watching for any movement toward the glasses . . . or any other dish. After all, Daisy did have a history of destroying china.

  “What about it?”

  “This is kind of awkward, but I was wondering if you’ve thought about—”

  “Under the circumstances, you should get the bed. I’ll be fine on the sofa.”

  The waiter returned with Max’s drink. He immediately took two swallows. “I’ve got the bed . . . and you have the sofa?”

  Daisy smiled at him. “You didn’t think we’d be sharing the bed, did you?”

  “No.” Then realizing, “No!”

  Daisy frowned at what didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “I mean . . . I expected to sleep on the sofa.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “So sharing the bed never crossed your mind at all, huh?”

  Max teetered between the devil and the deep blue sea.

  “I’m kidding. It’s fun to watch you squirm.”

  Max tried to grin, but he was paralyzed by what he didn’t understand. When had he finagled himself into Daisy’s cabin?

  “Are you okay? You look a little pained.”

  “I’m sure it’s my leg.”

  “Not to bring up a sore subject—no pun intended—but how did that happen?”

  “Don’t know.” He sighed, stretching and repositioning his leg. “My calf went one way, my thigh the other, and my knee was caught in the middle. I banged it up pretty good a few years back and it’s been an accident waiting to happen. I should’ve had the operation then,” he admitted, then he remembered his lawsuit. “But my knee was fine until I slipped on the spilled beer.”

  Daisy looked a little pained herself. “Kind of a freak accident, huh? No one’s really to blame.”

  “If this is about the lawsuit . . .”

  Daisy very nearly radiated anticipation.

  “. . . I don’t think we should talk about it. It’s not personal. I just don’t have a lot of options,” he added, saying more than he should. “For the sake of getting along, let’s not discuss it . . . ever.”

  “We’ll have to discuss it eventually.”

  “That’s what attorneys are for.”

  “If we could just talk about it, you and me—”

  A brick wall, that’s what Max became.

  “Fine,” Daisy huffed, turning her attention to the dining room. “Is the service slow or what? I certainly hope Andrew doesn’t expect a big tip.”

  “Why is it the waiter’s fault? Maybe the cook is slow.”

  “That’s typical, blame everything on the chef!”

  Daisy looked everywhere but at Max; Max stared at nothing while imagining the easy blonde he’d be laying tomorrow—after Daisy had finally left the ship—while the hum of the dining room filled in the silence between them.

  In what felt like forever, but was only minutes, Andrew arrived with their dinners. They ate their food with cordial but stilted conversation, declining dessert and coffee, although Max ordered a Grand Marnier in a snifter; he drank it while Daisy took her time in the ladies’ room. As they left their table, Daisy glanced at the bill, shooting Max a disapproving look at the hefty tip.

  Chapter Twelve

  The dawn tickled Daisy’s face; her eyelids fluttered. The sofa back greeted her. She shifted her sights to the window above; a pale gray sky blushed with pink. Last night she had spread the curtains to prevent the room from becoming pitch-black, and now she debated whether she should close them for another hour’s sleep. Not that she was particularly tired, but one more hour asleep would be one less hour awake trying to pass time. As she discovered yesterday, apart from the mind-blowing scenery, there wasn’t much entertainment on a ferry, unlike a cruise ship with endless diversions. But today the Columbia would dock in Ketchikan and she would be back on terra firma for a few hours. The next instant she realized that the waves hadn’t disrupted her sleep last night, unlike Max’s periodic snoring that had intermittently forced her head under the pillow.

  She listened for her cabinmate. Hearing nothing to suggest Max was awake, she closed her eyes, hoping to drift back to sleep.

  The sofa wasn’t the softest, but considering it was Daisy’s ticket to Otter Bite, she wasn’t complaining. With the back cushions removed, it wasn’t too much narrower than a single bed and long enough if she kept her knees bent. But wrapped in her own jersey knit sheets with her head cradled by her pillow, she could sleep almost anywhere . . .

  “You brought your own sheets?” Max had asked last night, watching Daisy pull off her lilac sheets from the bed, revealing the white sheets that came with the cabin.

  “I don’t like to sleep in sheets where hundreds have been before.”

  “You use the towels.”

  “That’s different.” Although Daisy hadn’t explained how. And Max, with a couple of head shakes, had let it go as if it was useless trying to make sense of Daisy Moon.

  Which suited Daisy fine. She didn’t need Max to understand her. She only needed him to take her—and Elizabeth—to Otter Bite.

  Her eyes popped open and sought the soothing dawn sky. She’d have to tell him about Elizabeth, and soon. It would, no doubt, be one more thing Max didn’t understand. Last night at dinner, she thought for sure he would ask about the tomatoes—which would’ve been the perfect opportunity to mention Elizabeth—but, no, he just kind of scrunched his brow, offered his plate, and said
nothing.

  Max Kendall was not an easy man to decipher. Daisy humphed at herself. Kind of like the pot calling the kettle black, eh? But she would’ve been curious enough to ask about the tomatoes. Max didn’t seem to care. Or maybe, Daisy speculated, remembering what he’d said about liking his privacy, maybe he was simply respecting hers. When it got down to it, prying was more of a female inclination. Still, asking about tomatoes could hardly be construed as prying. So why was Max taking her to Otter Bite and feeding her to boot?

  Yes, it was a leap from tomatoes, but that was the real mystery. Except for the comment about her cornucopia of opinions, he’d accepted her proposition without a flinch. Of course, he was getting a cabin, a bed, and a shower, but if that Mexican T-shirt was any gauge, a few nights roughing it in a lounge chair probably wasn’t all that big a deal. It was easy to imagine Max in a south-of-the-border cantina downing shots of tequila with a sultry, dark-eyed señorita, her arms draping his neck, before he squired her off to some cheap bungalow where they had sweaty, raunchy sex in a dozen different positions until they finally, mercifully, succumbed to seismic orgasms with the break of day—

  Daisy thrashed off her sheets. Not that she really needed them. Her sleep shirt and a pair of long underwear bottoms had kept her cozy. Not as cozy as a warm body . . .

  Admittedly, Daisy had thought that, maybe, in exchange for sharing his shiny new truck, Max expected to share a bed—and all that implied—but when she broached the subject, albeit facetiously, he’d practically jumped out of his skin.

  She wasn’t Tina or a seductive Spanish vixen, but surely she was good enough for sex. She had breasts and a vagina, and a pretty face when it wasn’t splotchy from tears. What else did a man require for mindless, uncommitted sex? She had given him the perfect opportunity to demand her as part of the bargain. And although their ill-fated date a few weeks back was a little foggy in her mind, she was sure Max had flirted with taking her to bed. So why, last night, was he appalled at the idea?

  You’d think the guy was gay . . .

  She brightened, then dismissed the possibility. Unfortunately, Max Kendall was not gay. That would’ve been the easy, face-saving explanation. In reality, Daisy just didn’t have what Max wanted.

  Not that Max had what she wanted.

  Who was she kidding? Max had what every woman wanted—between the sheets, at least. She could pretend otherwise, but the man was hot. Charity thought so. Tina undoubtedly knew so. Even the purser-slash-grandmother seemed to believe it. Not to mention the blonde with the breadstick. And judging by his chest, Max was testosterone dynamite.

  Of course, Daisy would never experience that dynamite. She wasn’t blond, she wasn’t sultry. She wasn’t pretty—enough. Moreover, she didn’t have zeppelin-sized boobs nor was she, herself, a boob. Besides, Max could annoy the hell out of her without saying a word. A single arrogant brow raised here; the beginnings of a cocky smile there. And his baby-blue eyes—flashing, deepening, changing with his mood.

  It was all very irritating, including her attraction to Max, and she wondered what Charity would say. Unfortunately, there wasn’t cell service, so any conversation with her best friend would have to wait. But what she would give for a second opinion on why he continued this charade about the lawsuit. It was almost as if he wanted to keep an obstacle between them. And worse, she couldn’t confront him without showing herself to be a snoop—

  Damn! She meant to put his passport back in his duffel bag during the night.

  Slowly, as if any movement might wake the sleeping giant, Daisy rolled to her other side, away from the window and toward the bed—

  “Good morning.”

  Daisy shrieked.

  “Did I scare you?”

  “Of course not. I always scream when I wake up.” Daisy protectively gathered her sheets and sat up. Finger-brushing her unruly morning hair away from her face, she looked at Max, who rolled to his side and propped himself up on his left elbow, his chest disappointingly hidden beneath that damn Mexican T-shirt. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Long enough? How hard would it be to give me a straight answer?”

  “Not a morning person, are you?”

  Daisy drew her knees to her chest. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m used to late nights and late mornings.”

  “One more thing we don’t have in common—”

  Daisy heard what sounded like regret.

  “—Not that it matters.”

  Or maybe not. “You snore.”

  “Like a jackhammer. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Max smiled.

  Daisy could clearly see the curve of his lips and his morning stubble shading his cheeks. Not to mention the boyish waves that adorably tickled his forehead.

  “You should have thrown something at me,” Max said.

  Like myself?

  “I saw that,” he said in mocking accusation.

  “Saw what?”

  “Your expression. When I said you should’ve thrown something.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He sat up. “Lucky for me, you don’t have a ton of bricks.”

  Daisy gasped. “You must think I’m the worst person in the world if you believe I’d throw a brick at you, let alone a ton!”

  About to ease his bum leg over the side of the bed, Max stopped and looked intently at Daisy. “Easy does it, I was only kidding.”

  “As a matter of fact, it never entered my mind to throw anything at you!”

  Max raised his hands in surrender. “It was a joke, Daisy. Honest. Boy oh boy, you really aren’t a morning person.”

  Realizing she’d overreacted to her own embarrassing thoughts, Daisy relaxed. “I guess I’m a little muddled this morning. It’s hard for me to sleep in a strange . . . sofa . . . with someone else . . . in the room,” she added. “I’m sure you can sleep with just about anyone, anywhere.”

  The speculation wasn’t an intentional barb, it just came out that way. But whatever Max thought about it, he didn’t comment.

  “Do you want the bathroom first?” Max asked.

  “What I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant. If it makes you feel any better, you’re probably right.”

  About what? The anywhere or the anyone?

  “So . . . you first? Or me first?”

  “You go ahead,” Daisy said. “I might try to sleep another hour or so.”

  Concern bridged his brows. “You are getting off in Ketchikan, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, sure. But we don’t dock until noon. It’s not like I have much to do until then.”

  “I thought we’d have breakfast.” Max stood beside the bed in his T-shirt and boxers.

  Is that what he’d slept in? Daisy had been under the covers last night, her face to the sofa back, feigning sleep, when Max had returned to the cabin after a walk. Suggesting she might want privacy, he’d excused himself when she removed her sheets. But Daisy had suspected he wanted respite from the stress of their dinner. Not that she blamed him. She was the one with the short fuse who took every comment the wrong way. But she hated being indebted to this man; hated having to rely on him. Yet if she was getting to Otter Bite, she’d have to suck in her pride and stop being such a bitch. She would stop dwelling on her bad luck and thank her lucky stars for Max Kendall, 5-star stud.

  Surely not.

  “Daisy? Breakfast?”

  “That’s really kind of you, Max,” she said sweetly. “And generous.”

  Max inched back. “It’s only breakfast.”

  “It may seem like only breakfast to you, but to me it’s just one more magnanimous gesture—”

  “Will you please stop saying magnanimous? Breakfast is not a magnanimous gesture!”

  Now it was Daisy’s turn to ease back. “Maybe magnanimous isn’t the best word. But you have been very kind and understanding and gen
erous—”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “You have to admit, Max,” she added, annoyed at his refusal to accept her new leaf, “few would be doing what you’re doing. And I just want you to know that . . . you’re practically saving my life.”

  “I slept in a bed last night, Daisy. And now I’m taking a shower. And I have a cabin I can return to this afternoon. And the same for the next day, and the next. Believe me, Daisy, I don’t do anything for free. So you can stop being thankful or feeling indebted or all of those other misplaced emotions. This.”—he flashed two fingers between them—“is a simple trade. You have something I need; I have something you need. I am not saving your life. You’re a resourceful, tenacious, determined woman. You would’ve figured something out.”

  Daisy stared at him, fearing she might cry but not knowing why. All Max had done was point out the obvious. After all, she’d been the one to suggest this deal in the first place. So why did it seem so cold and calculated when Max parroted it back to her?

  “The truth is,” Max continued, “I’m selfish and self-centered, and completely without conscience and incapable of remorse. Thank your lucky stars you’ll be rid of me soon.”

  A few minutes ago, she was thanking her lucky stars—and counting his. “Fine,” Daisy said, in a semi-sulk. “But just for the record, no one without a conscience confesses they don’t have a conscience.”

  “Of course they do. It absolves them of any guilt.”

  “But if you have no conscience, you have no guilt.”

  “It absolves them of guilt the other person tries to lay on them.”

  “Nice try, but you’re not quite the sociopath you claim to be.”

  “Can we just agree that I’m not magnanimous and that you’re really annoying?”

  “If you like.”

  Max huffed. “I’m taking a shower and I’m using all the hot water.”

  “All right by me.” Daisy punched her pillow then lay back down on the sofa, pulling the sheets around her. “I take my showers at night.”