Intercepting Daisy

by Julie Brannagh

  “Will you be in town over the next few days?” he asked.

  “I’m working for the next several days,” she said. “Thursday looks good.”

  “How about late Thursday afternoon?”

  “That would be great,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Rock climbing?” he said.

  She let out a laugh. “I’ll consider it.”

  The elevator doors opened, and he put one hand over the door so they could exit safely. She indicated a late-model blue Nissan Rogue in a nearby stall. “That’s my ride,” she said.

  He could have hit the Stop button and kissed her in the elevator, but there was probably a security camera. He didn’t really care, but she might not like being the center of attention when the snip of video got leaked to the local press or put up on YouTube. He wasn’t letting her drive away without kissing her, though.

  She paused in front of her car as she turned to face him.

  “I had such a nice time. Thank you so much for dinner,” she said. She shuffled her feet a little. He’d observed her so many times while she did her job. She always seemed at ease, even during the turbulence they’d experienced on the last Sharks flight. Maybe she had the same butterflies in her stomach that he had in his.

  He moved a little closer to her and slid his arm around her waist. She tipped her head back to look into his eyes. He had to smile at the flush making its way over her cheeks as she licked her lips. Yes, Daisy wanted to kiss him too.

  He touched his forehead to hers for a few seconds. Her skin was so soft. He could smell her perfume. He couldn’t identify the flowers in it if someone offered him a million dollars, but it was nice. The parking garage was not exactly the backdrop for romance. Next time, he’d say good-bye to her at her front door instead.

  “I had a great time too. I’m already looking forward to next Thursday,” he said.

  “Maybe we could go bungee jumping.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said. He heard her laugh again. “Right after that, we’ll go zip-lining at Sharks Stadium.”

  He felt her shiver. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact she was wearing an almost sleeveless dress, the idea she’d be that far off of the ground and speeding along a relatively slender cable, or that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. He needed to make his move, and he’d better do it before someone came screeching around the corner in search of a parking spot. He reached up to take her face in his hands.

  “Maybe we should have a glass of wine in front of a roaring fire instead,” he whispered, and he watched her eyelids flutter as they closed. He touched his mouth to hers, adjusted a bit, and kissed her.

  She tasted like the wine they’d been drinking with a fresh, honeyed overlay that must have been all her. Her lips were soft and cool beneath his. He felt her arms slide around his waist as he deepened the kiss. He slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her again. As he felt her tremble, he knew it had nothing to do with the cold. He pulled back a little and laid his cheek against her smoother one.

  He wanted to kiss her until they both were breathless. He wanted to spend the rest of the evening with her, and maybe tomorrow too. Mostly, he wanted to figure out how to entice a woman into falling in love with him, and he wondered if he’d been going about it all wrong. The woman who currently regarded him with a soft expression as she reached up to stroke his face deserved more than he’d offered to women before.

  “Thursday,” he said. “I’ll text you.”

  “Should I get more life insurance?”

  “No. We’ll have a great time.” He pulled back a little and looked into her eyes. “I promise I’ll figure something out that doesn’t land us both in a body cast.”

  She dug through her purse, extracted her car keys, and hit the button to unlock her car. He made sure she was safely inside. She started her car, opened the driver’s side window, and looked up at him again.

  “Thursday,” she said.

  He watched the taillights of her car vanish around the corner seconds later.

  Chapter Eight

  DAISY WALKED INTO the dimness of her townhouse twenty minutes later. She’d spent the entire trip home attempting to convince herself that this had just been a dinner date. The typical post-date deconstruction with Catherine would have to wait. Judging by the silence, she was already in bed.

  Daisy could text one of her friends. Most women in their early thirties weren’t in bed at ten or so on a Thursday night and were always up for a convo about a date. She felt a little weird about discussing it with anyone else besides Catherine. She’d known most of her friends since she was in elementary school, but she knew the temptation to tell their friends she’d been out with Grant Parker would be insurmountable.

  She and Grant had been in a public place earlier. If anyone recognized him at the restaurant, the chances were good that his being out on a date was already on social media. There was no reason she needed to keep her evening’s activities quiet, other than the usual: she’d been out with a guy she had a thing for, who was going to lose it when he discovered she was the reason he was most likely being tormented on a daily basis by the press and his teammates. Then again, maybe he’d never find out. She didn’t have to tell him. The woman who claimed she’d written Overtime Parking would be happy to take the blame. She wasn’t getting any of the cash.

  She knew she had to tell him. The happiness over their date was tinged with the guilt she felt. She really liked him. He’d kissed her like he liked her too. But she was afraid of what he was going to say when he found out.

  If Daisy was better at lying, she would have asked Grant how he felt about the whole thing at dinner earlier. One of the nationally televised morning shows had contacted Grant’s representatives earlier in the week to ask if he would appear on-air with the “author.” His agent announced a couple of days ago that while Grant was flattered by the author’s attention, he wasn’t interested in a meeting.

  She’d seen something on the news about how a few of Grant’s teammates showed up at the daily Sharks press conference yesterday with a Kindle and proceeded to stage a dramatic reading of a few pages of the (inexpertly censored) book. Thirty seconds of hilarious footage showed up on sports channels from coast to coast and the YouTube video was closing in on half a million hits. Grant seemed to laugh the whole thing off when she saw coverage of his week on the Sharks website, but her conscience was on fire.

  She wanted another date with him, but maybe she should be an adult and tell him. She’d tried to tell herself she wasn’t sure why she’d published the book in the first place. That wasn’t true. She knew why. She loved the reality of seeing something she wrote actually in print. It felt great for about a day, until she glanced at the online sales rankings and almost barfed.

  She knew that Grant was well-known in the Seattle area, but she had never imagined what that kind of fame was like. Everything that happened to him was newsworthy, including a ridiculous erotic fantasy. She could do something embarrassing or silly in her spare time; her family and friends would laugh about it and most likely tease her for it, but it didn’t end up on the news. Even if Grant was not the most famous member of the Sharks, his every move was discussed and criticized by sports fans.

  Speaking of money, her earnings from Overtime Parking weren’t going away either. She never thought she was going to have to account for or pay taxes on the $50,000 in royalties that had landed in her checking account over the past month. Maybe she should give the money to charity. Or, maybe she should sock it away as something to live on when the airline found out that she’d done something this dumb.

  Maybe the airline wouldn’t care. And maybe pigs might take up flying.

  She threw herself down on her bed, aimed toward the walk-in closet, and booted her shoes off, which landed with a satisfying thump. Right now, a little TV sounded a lot more fun than doing a load of laundry or emptying the dishwasher. She grabbed the remote off of her bedside table, pointed it toward the TV, and
hit the power button.

  The local news came on. She recognized one of the women sitting behind the anchor desk. Daisy had met Harley on a flight before, but they’d never actually had a conversation.

  “The Sharks are preparing for Sunday night’s nationally televised game, but that’s not the only thing on their minds. Sources have told KIXI that the author who came forward to claim responsibility for publishing a racy book about the Sharks backup quarterback, Grant Parker, is not the actual author. We tried to obtain more information from the publisher in question, but they cite confidentiality issues. We’ll have more news as it becomes available.”

  A dark-haired female news anchor’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Why should Sharks fans want to know who’s responsible for the book?”

  “The Sharks’ PR group has spent years assuring fans that Grant Parker is a great role model for their kids. What if he’s not? And how will this affect the Sharks’ locker room? You have to admit it’s juicy.”

  Chapter Nine

  GRANT STROLLED INTO the Sharks’ locker room the morning after his date with Daisy to a knot of teammates waiting for him at his locker.

  “Guys,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “You had dinner with Daisy the flight attendant last night,” Clay Morrison said.

  He didn’t bother asking them how they found out. Social media never slept.

  “Yes, I did. Is there a problem?” Grant said.

  “I’d like to take her out,” Clay said.

  “Maybe you should start shaving first,” Seth Taylor called out from across the room.

  The normally easygoing Clay clenched his hands into fists. Grant watched fresh color spreading up his neck, his ears, and his cheekbones.

  “I was shaving before your balls dropped,” Clay snapped. “Fuck off, Taylor.”

  The two men met in the middle of the locker room seconds later. Seth poked a finger into Clay’s chest.

  “You might want to settle down, son.”

  “I don’t think so,” Clay said.

  Caleb hurried over to grab Clay’s arm. “Take it easy,” the big man said. “You too, Seth.”

  “She doesn’t wear a ring,” Clay said.

  “Maybe she’s not into guys,” one of the wide receivers called out.

  “She went out with Parker, didn’t she?”

  “I’m still here,” Grant said. He kicked his street shoes off and dumped them into the bottom of his locker.

  “How’d it go?” Kade Harrison said.

  “None of your business,” Grant said.

  He grabbed some men’s leggings off one of the hangers in his locker and struggled into them. If he kept his muscles warm while he ran, it really cut down on cramping and injuries later. Right now, though, he’d like to get his ass out of here so he didn’t have to recap his date for these knuckleheads. He pulled on shorts over the leggings, stripped off the shirt he wore, and grabbed for a Heat Gear T-shirt and a hoodie. Late fall in Seattle wasn’t typically the nuts-freezing cold other cities in the league suffered with, but the wind off the lake penetrated his bones. He’d like to get a couple of miles in before he had to lift and not expire from hypothermia.

  “It didn’t go well, then,” Seth said. “He’s telling you there’s a chance, Morrison.”

  “I don’t think so,” Grant said.

  “Well, then, maybe you should enlighten us. Did you get to second base?” Kade said.

  “Don’t talk shit about Daisy. She takes good care of us,” Kyle called out. “Maybe we should ask Parker if he asked her out again instead.”

  Fifty-two sets of eyes swiveled to focus on Grant Parker.

  “And?” Zach Anderson said.

  “We have another date next week,” Grant said. He pulled the hoodie on and grabbed for his headphones. His teammates nodded at each other. He’d asserted himself, and now every guy on the team knew she was off-limits.

  “It’s back to trolling the bars for you, Morrison,” Taylor said.

  DAISY’S WEEK PASSED in a whirlwind of trips to various West Coast airports and counting the days until she would see Grant again. She hadn’t had a chance to talk with him during last Friday’s team flight, but he sent her a text the next morning.

  Looking forward to Thursday

  She was, too.

  She awoke from a fitful sleep in the wee hours of Thursday morning. The quarter moon made a pattern on her bedroom wall through the blinds covering the window. She’d felt a little weird earlier in the evening but had hoped it would pass if she got a good night’s sleep. It appeared she was wrong.

  She’d kicked all of her blankets off, her stomach hurting. Daisy reached up to feel her forehead; it felt unusually warm as she shivered with cold. She tried to sit up to grab the blankets, but it wasn’t a good move.

  Daisy threw herself off the bed and ran to the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, she was lying on the bathroom tile and scrabbling around for anything to wipe her mouth with when she heard Catherine’s voice.

  “Are you okay, love? Do you need help?”

  “I’m sick. Don’t come in here,” Daisy said.

  “Don’t be silly. I got a flu shot. Everyone who didn’t was sick on my flight the other day.”

  Everyone was sick on Daisy’s flight the other day too, but she was hoping it was a fluke.

  Catherine stepped over Daisy and rinsed the washcloth that was always on the bathroom sink. “How about a washcloth?”

  “Thank you,” Daisy muttered as Catherine put the now-damp washcloth into her hand. “Please tell me I’m not dying.”

  “You’re not dying.” Catherine crouched down next to Daisy and felt her forehead. “You have a fever, though. Good job on making it to the loo in time.”

  “Yay, me,” Daisy said. The bathroom floor was freezing, but she was close to the toilet. Right now, it was the little things. Maybe Catherine would bring her a blanket if she asked nicely. “Do I have to get up?”

  “Let’s get you off that floor. Come on.”

  “But it’s close to the toilet.” Daisy wondered if there was some kind of connection between barfing and the tear ducts. She wiped her mouth and flipped the washcloth over so she could wipe her face with it. She was a tear-dripping mess.

  “I can get you a basin,” Catherine said. She reached under Daisy’s arms and pulled her to her feet. After some frantic gesturing by Daisy, Catherine left the bathroom when the inevitable happened again.

  “Are you sure I’m not dying?” Daisy moaned.

  Catherine pressed the freshly re-rinsed washcloth into Daisy’s hand. “You’re not going to die. I’ll get you a basin, you’re going back to bed, and we’re calling Operations to tell them you’re ill.”

  “I can’t go out with Grant later if I’m barfing.”

  “Are you always this whiny when you’re sick?” Catherine teased. “Come on, you big baby. Let me get your blankets sorted. You’ll feel much better when you’re tucked up in bed.”

  Half an hour later, Daisy had changed her clothes, was back in bed with a large and empty plastic bowl, and had made her call to the airline’s Operations group. She wasn’t the only one who was sick. She wasn’t thrilled to be feeling like crap, but even worse—she wouldn’t be seeing Grant later.

  After a lot of thought, she’d decided she was going to tell him she’d written Overtime Parking. No matter how many times she tried to tell herself he wasn’t going to find out that she’d written the book, it was inevitable. One of those trashy tabloid TV shows managed to get the woman who claimed she was the author to submit to a polygraph test. She didn’t pass, so the search was back on. Daisy couldn’t figure out why there was so much curiosity about her real identity. The book just kept selling.

  Grant had to be getting a ton of crap over this. It wasn’t his fault. She should have the guts to tell him what she did.

  Catherine bustled into Daisy’s room again. “Okay. Declan says his mom used to give him this when he was sick.” Sh
e put a can of 7-Up on Daisy’s nightstand and shuddered a little. “It’s not diet. And I made you some toast with butter.”

  “No Marmite?”

  “I was afraid you’d throw it at me.” Catherine sat down next to her on the bed. “You can try it when you think you might keep it down.”

  “Maybe next week.”

  “Try the drink first. Sip slowly.” Catherine reached out to pat Daisy’s hand. “Are you going to text Grant?”

  “Later.” She let out a sigh. “I was going to tell him when I saw him tonight.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I feel so guilty. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s just a goofy thing I wrote. I had no idea people would freak out so badly over it.” At first, she’d thought he might think it was funny, but after getting to know him a little better, she realized he’d more likely be bothered by the fact that it had sparked a media frenzy.

  “Maybe you can see him later this week, when you’re feeling better,” Catherine said. “Maybe he’ll think it’s cute.”

  “Maybe he’ll think I’m a crazy stalker.”

  “He might surprise you,” Catherine said.

  GRANT OPENED HIS eyes to the overcast, grayish light of a late fall Thursday in Seattle. He’d spent the past several hours lying on his bathroom floor between bouts of illness. It wasn’t sexy or comfortable, but it was a hell of a lot easier than running for the toilet. When he wasn’t ill, he was burning up with fever.

  He’d also awoken during the night in a panic after a horrible realization. He’d figured out why Harley McHugh looked so familiar to him: he’d slept with her once about two years ago. She’d been in a bar, he’d been a bit lonely, and she’d made it clear she wanted him.

  He’d all but run out of her apartment when he discovered she liked to bite during sex. Not a love nip. An actual bite. He’d reached up to feel the bite on his shoulder and saw blood on his fingertips. He shuddered just thinking about it. He usually had no problem with women who were somewhat aggressive in bed, but he drew the line when a tetanus shot was required afterward.