by Shirley Jump
“Not a trip, exactly.” She took another step closer to him, her skirt swirling around her legs and brushing against his. The bite of dough kissed against his lips. “Just a quick detour.”
“What are you doing, Daisy?”
She wasn’t sure. She’d come here to try to entice him into signing the loan documents, but her mind kept circling back to the early days of their marriage. To that bubble of a fairy tale she’d lived in for a few short weeks. She was tempted, so tempted, to go back there, to let Colt into her heart again.
No. She’d made that mistake before. Fourteen years ago, and again, three months ago. Not again. She stepped back.
“Eating breakfast.” She popped the bite into her mouth, and tried to pretend his mere presence had no effect on her. Colt’s gaze stayed on her mouth, watching her chew, swallow. Her heart raced, her pulse skittered, but she stayed where she was.
No one had told her that breaking the window would put her at risk, too. She’d come here, thinking she would be in charge, and she could entice Colt and convince him to sign the loan papers with a little fattening pastry and some feminine wiles. But as he continued to watch her, his gaze intense and dark, she had to wonder who was really in charge.
He lifted a hand to touch her face and something turned to lava deep inside her. “You have a little powdered sugar right”—he brushed her lower lip with his thumb—“there.”
Daisy opened her mouth against his touch. Fire roared in her belly, wound a tight coil inside her. “Do you remember the beignets, Colt?”
Hope fluttered in the space between the question and the answer. The part of her that missed the old Colt, missed what they had once had. The part of her that had forgotten how he had roared out of her life with nothing more than a note on the table, and never explained why he broke her heart. The part of her that had vowed to forget him, but never had. That foolish, hope-riddled part of her that she couldn’t kill no matter how hard she tried.
“I remember everything, Daisy.”
Lord help her, so did she. She looked at his mouth, his hands, his chest, and wanted to kiss him, touch him, feel him against her again. Oh, this was a dangerous game she was playing. And for what? She wasn’t even sure her cousin wanted the Hideaway.
All she knew for sure was that she didn’t want to fall for Colt again. He’d broken her heart and left her twice. Why couldn’t she learn her lesson, move on from her mistakes? Why did she keep returning to the one man who was so wrong for her?
“We used to take risks, Colt,” she said. Maybe she was searching for the whys, the explanations for why they hadn’t worked out. Maybe then she’d stop caring about what might have been. “Leap off bridges without knowing what was waiting below. I want to feel that again, Colt, and that’s partly why I’m here, why I’m taking a risk on the Hideaway. I want to grab life by the reins and hold on for the ride. I’m tired of working jobs that go nowhere, serving hash to people who don’t care, and dreading Mondays because it means another retread of the same thing day in and day out. Don’t you want that, too?”
“I’m happy here, Daisy. It’s comfortable. Predictable.”
Comfortable. Predictable. Two words she would never have associated with Colton Harper. “Who are you? What happened to the Colt I met?”
“I grew up.” His words were cold and short. All these years later, and still, he wouldn’t open up to her. Tell her why he had changed, why he had cut her from his life like a dead branch.
Instead, his gaze shifted, and she got the feeling he was hiding something. As he had years ago. Shutting her out, pushing her to the side.
“No. Something changed with you. Something you have never told me,” she said. “Something that drove you away and never brought you back. And keeps you there, even now.”
He shook his head and stepped back. “We are done, Daisy. We have been for years. What happened a few months ago was . . . an aberration. A mistake.”
“Yeah, and so was all of this.” She dropped the box on the table, then walked away from the beignets and the memories. She’d tried to break a window and gotten nowhere closer to what she needed. Either it was time to come up with a better plan—or cut her losses and leave this town and this crazy plan in her rearview mirror.
Nine
Okay, so maybe Greta Winslow was a closet romantic like Pauline kept saying. Not that Greta would admit that out loud, of course. She’d never hear the end of it from the old biddies at Golden Years. She’d lose all respectability as a grumpy old lady.
But as she watched Olivia shop for a wedding dress, Greta had to admit there were few things in this world that could make her happier. How she loved this girl, soon to be her granddaughter. She was smart and sassy, strong and sweet, the perfect balance for Greta’s loving but stubborn former military grandson.
“Greta, what do you think of this one?” Olivia held up a simple cap sleeve white dress that skimmed her ankles. No lace, no beading, just a smooth expanse of white satiny fabric. On Olivia, it would be beautiful, but Greta thought an occasion like marrying the love of one’s life needed a bit more ka-pow.
“I think you need one with a little bling.” Greta reached for the next dress on the rack and held it in front of Olivia. “Same style as what you picked, but it has sparkle. My daddy always said a little sparkle makes everything look better. Of course, he was talking about the ice cubes in his bourbon, not dresses, but the principle works the same.”
Olivia laughed. “Okay. I’ll try them both on.” She disappeared into the fitting room of the dress shop, with the two dresses slung over her shoulder.
Greta lowered herself onto one of the bright pink cushioned chairs flanking the fitting rooms. Lord, but she was tired. Some days, it seemed Old Age was doing its best to pick on her and remind her she’d passed her twenties a long, long time ago.
The shop door rang, letting in a burst of sunshine, a whoosh of September heat, and Daisy Barton. She had a bag over one arm, and a pair of sunglasses propped atop her head. A beautiful green dress showed off her figure, making a few women shoot Daisy envious glances. Goodness, what was wrong with Doc Harper? The man had to be blind not to be head over heels in love with her.
Greta got to her feet and crossed to Daisy, detouring the girl before she reached the sales counter. “Well, hello, dear. Fancy seeing you here.”
Greta wanted to add, Shopping for a vow renewal dress? but thought perhaps it might be a tad soon to spring that question on Daisy. Given the sparks between those two the other day, it was clear not all was well in Harper-relationship world. Though Greta was sure, given enough time and gentle nudges, Daisy and Colt would fall back in love again. And a happy, madly in love doctor would mean less vegetable lectures for Greta. Win all around.
“Hello, Greta.” A genuine smile filled Daisy’s face. “So nice to see you again.”
Greta gestured to the bag on Daisy’s shoulder. “Shopping spree or shopping atoning?”
Daisy laughed. “Atoning. I bought two dresses today, but decided to return the second one.”
“If I still had a figure like yours, I’d wear every dress I could get my hands on.” Greta wagged a finger at her. “Flaunt what God gave you, dear, and if God makes a dress that flaunts it even more, buy it.”
“Well, I already did that.” She waved a hand down the figure hugging green dress. “Unfortunately, it didn’t have the intended effect. I figured I might as well return the other one I bought in red, and use the money toward the renovations instead.”
“Now, that’s no fun.” Greta put an arm around Daisy and drew her deeper into the shop, and away from the register. Once again, she questioned her doctor’s intelligence level and visual acuity. If he hadn’t been swayed by this beauty, then there had to be something seriously defective with him. Lord only knew why she’d take medical advice from a man who clearly had a screw loose. “Why don’t you hang out w
ith Olivia and me? We’re shopping for wedding dresses.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Daisy said. “Olivia doesn’t even know me and—”
“What do you think, Grandma?” Olivia stepped from the dressing room and spread her arms. The dress Greta had chosen nicely accented Olivia’s trim figure. It was a pale white, almost ethereal, with delicate beading that traced the scoop neck and sparkled along the empire waist. It fell to her calves in a fabric cloud, but hung light enough to spin when she pivoted.
Tears sprang to Greta’s eyes. She pressed a finger to her nose, and told herself not to get emotional. For once, she didn’t listen to herself. She dug a handkerchief out of her purse and pressed it to the tears. “Oh, Olivia, that is . . . beautiful. You are beautiful. Just breathtaking.”
Olivia gathered Greta into her arms with a warm, gentle hug. “If this one makes you cry, then it’s the right one.”
Greta drew back. “Are you sure? Do you love it, too?”
Olivia nodded. An excited, happy light shone in her eyes. “It’s perfect. You have excellent taste, Grandma.”
“Of course I do. I picked you to be my granddaughter.” Greta gave Olivia a grin, then stepped back to grab Daisy’s hand and pull her closer, before she got it in her head to leave. For a second there, she’d forgotten all about poor Daisy. “My goodness, sometimes I lose my manners. Olivia, I want you to meet Daisy Barton. Daisy, meet Olivia, the best granddaughter I could ever ask for. Daisy is the one renovating the Hideaway Inn.”
Olivia shook with Daisy. “Luke told me about that. He said there might be a possibility we could have our wedding there. It sounds wonderful. My grandma-to-be here has been singing the Hideaway Inn’s praises. When are you reopening?”
“Soon. My cousin and I are working on the logistics of that,” Daisy said. “I have to talk to the contractor before I can be sure that I can make a wedding next month work, but I definitely want to try and make it happen for you and Luke. We want to get the Hideaway Inn back in business as soon as possible.”
Aha. There was the key to getting Daisy to stay—talking about the inn. Maybe Greta wasn’t going to win Daisy over with romantic wedding shopping, but if she was lucky, a little conversation about the Hideaway would get some wedding fever to rub off on her. If Greta was doubly lucky, Doc Harper would wander in and she could get the two of them to be in a marriage mood.
Instead, the door to the shop opened again and Harold Twohig strode in, bold as a peacock. He beelined past the circular racks, didn’t slow to look at the mannequin displays of wedding dresses, and didn’t stop moving until he reached Greta. “If I’d known you wanted a wedding dress, I would have proposed, my little bumblebee.”
She slugged him. Hard as an eighty-three-year-old could slug an eighty-four-year-old lecherous old man. “I am not here for me. I am not interested in getting married again. And I am definitely not your bumblebee, you old fool.”
Harold chuckled. “Hide our love all you want, Greta. I know it’s there.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Especially when you share a plate of lasagna with me.”
“That was an anomaly. I was hungry. And overcome by the scent of cheese.”
Olivia grinned. “Did you have dinner with Harold, Grandma?”
That man might as well be going around with a megaphone. Blaring her personal life in public, like a town crier with a hot bit of gossip.
“I most certainly did not.” Greta paused. “Willingly.”
Harold just laughed again. “Well, perhaps I will see you later tonight when I put some artery-clogging rib eyes on the grill. Say, around six? Right now, I’m heading out of town to help my sister bring in her boat for repairs. I have to reschedule my checkup with Doc Harper, but I’ll be back before dinner.”
“You have a sister?” She knew little about Harold’s personal life. By choice, of course, because if she knew about his family and friends and all his past triumphs and tragedies, she’d build a relationship with him. That was akin to raising the enemy’s flag on her roof.
“A younger sister at that. Which means my mother thought I was so perfect, she’d have another just like me.” He winked.
“Or she was so disappointed in the results with the first baby, she popped out a backup. Optimism in childbirth.”
“Optimism. I always have that.” Harold leaned over, pressed a kiss to Greta’s forehead, quick, like an inoculation shot, then shifted away before she could land another blow. “I’ll see you later today, honey bun.”
Greta made a gagging sound as Harold walked away. He just toodled a wave over his shoulder and ignored her. “That man is ridiculously blind to my signals,” she said.
Olivia laughed. “Grandma, if you eat lasagna with the man, he’s going to think you’re interested.”
“I was simply taking advantage of a free meal. What he reads into that is not my concern.” She turned to Daisy. She was the one Greta wanted to get a man interested in—specifically one man who had altogether too many rules for healthy living. Luke and Olivia were happy now, same with Mike and Diana. All that Greta needed for a trifecta of happy endings was to resurrect Colt and Daisy’s till-death-do-us-part. “Now, let’s all grab some cupcakes. Lord knows I need something to settle my stomach after a visit from Harold Too-Clueless Twohig.”
Olivia laughed and draped an arm around Greta’s shoulders. “Some would call that butterflies, Grandma. Maybe Harold is starting to rub off on you.”
“That’s just his dandruff flaking onto my collar.” Greta held her head high, and led the way out of the dress shop. One cupcake wasn’t going to be enough, she decided. To eradicate all traces of Harold’s touch, she was going to need a full dozen.
Ten
Colt lasted four hours.
He made it through the rest of his morning patients, choked down a lunch he didn’t taste, and entered chart notes he hardly remembered. He barely answered Suzie’s questions, and had the nurse take vitals since he couldn’t concentrate long enough to remember the numbers he saw. The box of beignets sat on the break room table, always in the back of his mind. He’d gone in there at least three times to eat one, then changed his mind. Finally, he tossed them in the trash, and told himself it was a healthy choice.
But it didn’t make him feel any better. Didn’t ease his thoughts.
At one, he came out of his office and headed for the front desk. “What’s the schedule look like for the rest of the day?” he asked Frannie.
She leaned back in her chair and arched a sharp auburn brow in his direction. Frannie had been with him for more than six years now and knew him better than he knew himself. She was a mother of four grown sons and grandmother to three more boys, and the one thing she didn’t do was take crap from anyone. She ran his office like a well-oiled machine.
“You’re asking me?” she said. “Half the time you know your schedule better than I do, Doc. You are freakishly well organized. Makes me feel like a hoarder.”
Colt glanced at Frannie’s desk, neat as a pin save for the stack of patient folders waiting in a wicker basket to be processed for insurance and then filing. “You? You are the most efficient assistant I’ve ever had.”
Frannie laughed. “I’m the only assistant you’ve ever had, but I’ll take the compliment.” She turned to her computer, clicked on the scheduling program, then ran a finger down the screen. “Mrs. Ward canceled and Mr. Twohig rescheduled. That leaves just one other appointment for the day, a physical with Mrs. Cook.”
“Mrs. Cook. Okay.” He stood there, shifted his weight. His mind wandered back to Daisy. Had she really thought he’d sign off on a two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan, just for a beignet? Okay, a beignet and a killer dress that had been starring in a striptease fantasy in his head for hours. He refocused on his assistant. “Uh . . . what’s Mrs. Cook coming in for again?”
Frannie met his gaze with direct, assessing green
eyes that could diagnose a lie as well as he could diagnose pneumonia. “Nothing big. Just a physical. You know, I can easily reschedule that appointment for you, Doc. You look a little . . . distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Colt said. He fiddled with the pens on the counter, resorting them into blues on one side, reds on the other. “Just fine.”
Frannie’s hand covered his, stopping his ballpoint OCD. “You are far from fine.”
He crossed to the window, then back again to Frannie’s desk. Nervous energy coiled tight in his chest, a spring held back by a weakening pin. His mind kept straying to Daisy. He’d been so tempted by the beignets, by her. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about a single other thing the rest of the day. “When did you say my next appointment was? Who canceled again?”
The office door opened and Greta bustled into the room. She wasn’t on the schedule, which meant she was either here on a fact-finding mission or to give Colt a piece of her mind about broccoli. “Why, if it isn’t Doc Harper. Just the man I wanted to see.”
He did not have the patience for this today. Heck, he barely had the brainpower to function. “Mrs. Winslow, I’m—”
“There’s not a car in the parking lot, and I know Harold Twohig rescheduled his one o’clock.”
“How do you know Harold Twohig rescheduled?”
“He told me as much when—” Her face reddened and she waved a hand. “That’s neither here nor there. What matters is that I am here on an urgent matter.”
Colt took a step closer, ran a quick scan over Greta’s features. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m perfectly fine. I am in outstanding health.” She parked her fists on her hips, as if daring him to disagree. “I’m not here to talk about me, or God forbid, Harold Twohig. I want to talk about Daisy.”