Spooning Daisy (12 page)

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, sir?”

“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 what?” 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.

“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—”