Spooning Daisy

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Spooning Daisy Page 19

by Maggie McConnell


  The memory fogged her brain. “Yeah, maybe, but . . . I never said you could have your side deals in my bed.”

  “My mistake. I should’ve asked to read the fine print.”

  Daisy glared. “This conversation is over.” She started for her bedroom, the only haven in her small cabin.

  “Once you start losing an argument, the conversation stops. And it wasn’t your bed. It belongs to the ship.”

  She spun around. “It belonged to the cabin that I paid for. That makes it mine. And it was the same damn bed you and I had shared just that morning. Which really makes it mine.”

  “Tell me this, Ms. I’m-so-principled. If you hadn’t gotten the money, what would you have done? Kept your mouth shut? Ignored the perfume so you could hitch a ride?”

  Daisy stopped at the bedroom door; she hadn’t considered an alternative scenario. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have gotten into that bed again with you.”

  “I see. No sex, but no problem using my truck and my money.”

  “It was a loan!”

  “Loan or not, it was still my money and you needed it. Fess up, Daisy, you used me until you didn’t need me. You’re not principled, you’re pragmatic. So what if I took someone else to bed?”

  “We had a deal!” Daisy shot back.

  “I don’t remember fidelity being part of the deal.”

  “You can’t even remember the deal. How the hell do you know if fidelity was part of it?”

  “Well, was it?”

  “It was implied.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “Oh. The implied fidelity. More fine print.”

  “Along with decency and good taste!”

  He rankled at the insinuation that he had neither. “You were supposed to be on a southbound ferry!”

  “Maybe next time you should concentrate on the woman you’re having dinner with instead of some blonde three tables over. Then you would know.”

  “Say what you will, we had no commitment and no promises.”

  “Ah, yes, the male mantra.”

  “Did you or did you not say I could make—in your words—side deals?”

  “Interesting. You don’t remember agreeing to drive me to Valdez, but you remember that. And just for your edification, side deals no longer apply once two people . . . you know.”

  Unfortunately, Max did know. He softened. From exhaustion or compassion, he couldn’t tell. “We’d known each other, what? Five days? We’d had one horrific date three weeks earlier. I’m suing you, for Chrissakes! How could you have possibly expected—”

  “It was my bed . . . our bed. You had no right to bring another woman into it! And just out of curiosity,” Daisy said, ignoring all of his variables, “didn’t you think about the evidence left behind?”

  Max remembered the speed at which he’d stripped Inga of her clothes, and the speed at which he’d tried to put them back on her. With Daisy’s return breathing down his neck, he barely had the wherewithal to think about the Trojan wrappers, let alone Inga’s perfume on the sheets.

  “Once again, Daisy, I didn’t think you were coming back. And I’m not Martha Stewart.”

  “Or Sherlock Holmes, apparently.”

  “Actually, the turtle registered.”

  “Oh my God. Inga was still in the cabin when I showed up that afternoon.” Her words slowed. “That’s why you wouldn’t let me in. That’s why you pretended you’d hurt your back.” Daisy groaned. “How stupid am I?”

  “If I’d known you were coming back—”

  “Sure, I understand, no reason to let the bed cool down.”

  “That’s not the way it was!” Although he doubted a jury would agree. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Boy, I’ll say. I really misunderstood the kind of man you are.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a disappointment, too. You can’t see anyone’s virtue but your own. I’m surprised you can see your own reflection for the glow off your nimbus.”

  “If you think all this sweet talk is gonna make me stay . . .”

  Max leaned forward, his expression hard. “I don’t give a flying fig if you stay. But I’m not about to take the blame for you welching on this job. And just for the record, it wasn’t me who suggested I share your cabin.”

  “You got a bed and a shower—”

  “Oh, please. I can go weeks without a bed and a shower. Offered, I take them. But I won’t trade my freedom.”

  “—and you got me.”

  “That was mutual, so I’m not buying a ticket for that guilt trip.” He took a fortifying breath. “The bottom line is, I didn’t need you, but without me, you and Elizabeth would’ve starved.”

  “I had meal vouchers!” she blurted.

  “I know,” he said quietly. “And yet you let me spend my money.”

  “If you weren’t paying, there was no reason to eat together!” The instant she confessed, she wished she hadn’t. “You can wipe that smug look off your face. I only wanted to spend time with you because. . .” But her brain was in knots. “Because . . .”

  “Think fast,” Max said.

  Her face pinched. “Because . . .” Then, as if a light switch flipped . . . “Because I was trying to get information that would help me fight your lawsuit.”

  “Sure you were.” He took his smug look to the front door where he stopped halfway through and looked back at Daisy. “On second thought, I will take the blame. You’re fired!” Then Max Kendall slammed the door on Daisy Moon.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Daisy?”

  Daisy looked up from a bottom cabinet where she was taking inventory. “Good morning, Rita.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting acquainted with my kitchen.”

  “But Max said you quit.” Rita took a stool on the other side of the island and put her elbows on the counter.

  Daisy rose from her squat. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Daisy poured from a freshly brewed pot. The robust aroma wafted through the gleaming kitchen. “Do you take anything in it?”

  “Milk.” Still half asleep, she wondered if Daisy was a dream.

  Daisy scribbled on a generous notepad. “Half-n-half,” she said, before reaching into the refrigerator for a small carton of milk. She set it in front of Rita along with a spoon. “From now on we only serve half-n-half with coffee.”

  Rita stirred her coffee and sipped. “Mmmm-mmm. Great coffee. What’s your secret?”

  “Today it’s cinnamon, nutmeg, and rum extract. But just a touch. And always, always start with ice water. And of course, freshly ground coffee. I wasn’t sure what you’d have, so I bought some in Anchorage. I couldn’t find a coffee grinder. Do we have one?”

  Rita looked like she was thinking hard on the question. “I thought so, but the last cook—”

  “Chef.”

  “No, Frank was a cook. I don’t think he bothered using fresh ground coffee. The grinder might be in the storage room. I’ll look for it later.” She sipped her coffee again. And a little more. Ecstasy washed over her face. “Really good. So . . . you didn’t quit?”

  Daisy shrugged. “Yes and no.”

  “You can’t do both.”

  “Not simultaneously, but consecutively you can.”

  “What?”

  Daisy warmed her own mug with more hot coffee. “It’s like having your cake and eating it too.”

  “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

  “Actually, you can. First you have it and then you eat it. But you can’t eat it and then have it.”

  “It’s only seven thirty and my brain doesn’t wake up until my fourth cup of coffee.”

  “All that caffeine isn’t good for you, Rita. You should switch to decaf. Or better yet, rooibos tea.”

  “Tomorrow. Today, I need to know if I’m looking for a new chef.”

  “No,” Daisy said.

  “Yes!” Max countered, entering the kitchen.

  Rita
rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Oh, for pity’s sake.”

  “Y’ know, Max, you really ought to stop spying and sneaking up on people,” Daisy said.

  “I own this lodge. I can damn well do whatever I want. And I fired you.”

  “You can’t fire me. I have a contract.”

  “Sue me.”

  “I will. For sexual harassment.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I heard you. I just don’t believe you.”

  “Well, let me refresh your memory.”

  Rita, suddenly wide-awake, darted her eyes from one opponent to the other as if she were following a ball.

  Until Max looked at her. “I want to talk to Daisy alone.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Rita groaned. “This is just getting good.”

  “Out!”

  “Don’t you think—”

  “NOW.”

  Rita dragged herself from the kitchen, taking her coffee with her.

  Staring at Daisy, Max made his way around the island toward her. “What’s this crap about sexual harassment?”

  “Yesterday you attacked me.”

  “I attacked you? You attacked me.”

  “You have a very selective memory, Mr. Kendall.” But her bravado shrank as Max neared her.

  “Remind me,” he said, backing her into a corner.

  His energy pressed into her. “You were doing exactly what you’re doing now—”

  “Walking?”

  “Stalking, actually.”

  “With a bum leg?” He made her sound ridiculous.

  “That bum leg doesn’t seem to restrict you under any circumstance.” She made him sound . . .

  “You went for my throat. I was only defending myself.”

  “With your lips?”

  Max gripped the counter on either side of Daisy, trapping her. “Whatever works.”

  He was inches from her and close enough that she smelled the fresh soap scent lingering on his skin from that morning’s shower, close enough to spot a tiny razor nick on his chin, close enough to remember why Max Kendall was absolutely the worst thing that could happen to her.

  “I won’t be intimidated.”

  “Jamais de la vie, bébé.”

  “Or seduced,” she added with unexpected resolve, her heart breaking into a gallop at the memory of their last French lesson.

  His smile seemed to contradict her. But Max didn’t test his presumption. Grabbing a mug from the cupboard, he poured coffee. “I’m not easy to work for.”

  “I doubt your standards are higher than mine.”

  His jaw tensed. “We have rules around here.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Rule number one: Don’t ever disagree with me in front of guests or staff. Rule number two: Don’t ever disagree with me period.”

  “Oh, puh-lease—”

  Max stopped right before his first sip of coffee. “You think I’m kidding?”

  “I think you’re being a prick for my benefit.”

  “I do nothing for your benefit.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “That’s right. Whatever I say.”

  “But while we’re throwing down the gauntlet, let’s get one thing straight. This is strictly business. You need me as much as I need this job—for the moment anyway. So keep your French in your pants, bébé.”

  Max’s blue eyes actually twinkled, or so Daisy imagined.

  “That won’t be a problem for me. I just hope it won’t be a problem for you.”

  “I can manage. But if I start to weaken, I’ll remind myself what an opportunistic cheat you are.”

  His jaw tensed as if he were trying to hold back words. Then he sipped his coffee . . . and frowned. “What the hell did you do to my coffee?”

  Daisy jerked back. “The coffee is fabulous.”

  Max took another swallow. “It’s not coffee, it’s . . . something else.”

  “It’s good coffee.”

  “It’s not my coffee.”

  “You mean, campfire sludge?”

  “I mean regular, old-fashioned coffee.”

  “It’s just a little cinnamon, rum flavoring, and nutmeg. Rita loves this coffee, and so will everyone else who isn’t stuck in a culinary time warp.”

  “Wild men drink coffee that tastes like coffee—”

  Daisy started to roll her eyes.

  “—and they don’t eat mango chutney!”

  Halfway through their orbit, Daisy’s eyes were back on Max. “That explains the case of A-1 in the pantry.”

  “Yes, it does. So don’t try to turn my restaurant into some wimpy West Coast bistro. Comprenez?” Max banged his mug on the counter, splashing the coffee over its rim and onto his hand. “I want real coffee!” He marched from the kitchen, trailing smoke.

  “That went well.” How would she ever reclaim her Golden Spoon if she had to serve sludge and bottled sauce? She began to rethink her decision to stay. Not that she had many options.

  She could go to Anchorage, but the upscale hotels and restaurants she’d want to work at would probably show her to the door once Jason gave them an earful about her violent streak. And he would. Because Jason was still pissed about the golf clubs and the widescreen TV and Max Kendall. It wasn’t Daisy’s fault that Max and the future Mrs. Jason Whittaker had known each other in the biblical sense. But Jason had it in his mind that the evening at Mama’s had been a setup so Daisy could rub his nose in his fiancée’s infidelity. In a way, it was both flattering and insulting. Flattering that he gave her that much credit; insulting that he thought she cared enough to go to the trouble.

  When it got right down to it, the thought of Max and Tina probably bugged Daisy as much as it did Jason. If anyone had had a nose rubbed in their shortcomings, it had been Daisy. And Max had managed to do it again with the blonde.

  “Just get over it!” Daisy demanded as she turned her attention to a second coffeemaker. Because having few options wasn’t the only reason Daisy was staying—

  . . . without me, you and Elizabeth would’ve starved.

  Max had remembered her turtle’s name. In a flash, Daisy had seen Max in a less jaded light. She could barely admit it to herself, that’s how bizarre it was, but there was more to Max than met the eye.

  It had taken Jason months to even acknowledge Elizabeth, let alone call her by name. Mostly he referred to her as the turtle, if he referred to her at all. Even Roberto, her very sensuous Italian chef, had disregarded Elizabeth, except as a possible soup du jour. Only Bobby had afforded Elizabeth the respect she deserved.

  I should’ve stuck with Bobby. Where had the decades between then and now taken her first boyfriend?

  Now there was Max, the man who . . .

  Well, the list was long and varied, but in this particular case, the man who knew her turtle’s name. A small but immense gesture and one impossible to ignore. An oxymoron. Max Kendall.

  Then again, maybe Max was one of those men who finagled his way into a woman’s heart by way of her vulnerabilities.

  Her brows scrunched. Except Max didn’t seem to be all that interested in her heart. In fact, he seemed genuinely disinterested in her heart—and every other body part. “Stop it!” She shouldn’t be thinking about Max Kendall; she should be thinking about the Royal Academy of Chefs. Max Kendall and his antiquated taste buds were standing between her and her Golden Spoon.

  “So . . .” Rita hedged. “Am I looking for a new chef?”

  Max looked up from the papers on his desk at Rita in his doorway. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’d you think? We’d all live happily ever after?”

  Coffee mug in hand, Rita ventured a few steps into Max’s office. “But Daisy said—”

  “Daisy can say whatever she wants. She’s only here until something better comes along. And then”—Max snapped his fingers—“that’s how fast she’ll be outta here.”

  “I can’t believe Daisy would leave us in the
lurch.”

  “Get some ads out. Use my attorney’s address in Anchorage for replies. Just in case.”

  “Just in case?”

  “Just in case Daisy should stumble onto one of the ads. And Rita?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember where your loyalties lie.”

  Rita sipped from her mug as if she needed a moment to see Daisy as Max did. She shrugged. “Well, she makes really great coffee.”

  “Why don’t you get on those ads?”

  Rita started to leave, then turned back. “Almost forgot. Ferris Fitzsimonds called. Heard you were looking for a pilot.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re not hiring Fitz . . . are you?”

  “It’s hard to find good pilots this late in the season. All the charters had their pilots booked months ago.”

  “But he’s a drunk.”

  “Not when he flies.”

  “That’s a fine line.”

  “No,” Max said. “That’s a bush pilot.”

  “Sounds like an excuse.”

  “It’s a characteristic.”

  “You’re not a drunk.”

  “I’m not a bush pilot.”

  “You were.”

  “And I was a drunk.”

  A deep furrow lodged between her brows as Rita tried to reconcile Max’s confession with the man she’d known for seven years.

  “Did Fitz leave a number?” Max asked, to save Rita from thinking so hard.

  “He’s staying in Seldovia at the Boardwalk Inn.”

  “Anything else?”

  She shook her head and turned for the open door, leaving Max alone in his office sanctuary.

  He returned to the pile of e-mails confirming reservations. Flipping through papers, he smiled at the personal comments from returning guests, but stopped at the reservation for his former navy flight commander, Peter “Knife” Newton.

  Pete came every year; in between visits, Max received a Christmas card from him and the missus, updating their lives. No longer in the navy, Pete owned a very successful construction company with his son-in-law, building roads and highways all over the South.

  And of course, there was always a Christmas card from their daughter Ellen. She was married again—although no one considered her first marriage legitimate—and now had a three-year-old son named Max and a baby daughter named Avery. A third child, if there was one, would be named Kendall.

 

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