Spooning Daisy (30 page)

Then their second meeting, at Mama Mia’s . . .

Crashed and burned. Max lowered the flaps on further thoughts or he might get cold feet about keeping Daisy around, but he made a mental note to call his attorney. Also to check with his mom on the
Superman
comics. If he was particularly brave, he might mention Daisy. Then again, not. She would undoubtedly get the wrong idea and fast-forward Daisy into the mother of her grandchildren. From here to there was a long flight Max wasn’t sure he wanted to make. First, he and Daisy would spend time together. With both of them working days, that meant nights. Yeah, he could spend nights with Daisy, no problem. But Daisy would expect an exclusive relationship. And she wouldn’t be shy about demanding it. He’d make a great show of his sacrifice, however, so she wouldn’t think him a pushover. After a while, he might even ask Daisy to move in with him . . .

How would that feel, sharing his life again? Good?
If
he could actually do it. It had been so long since he’d even considered such a move, and look who he was considering. The woman who’d blasted him with pepper spray. Then seduced him in his shower.

Yep
, Max thought, rising from his chair. Tough combo to ignore.

Daisy splashed water on her face, rinsed the night from her mouth, and finger-fluffed her hair, trying not to be too critical of her reflection. After all, she’d had a tough night. Too little sleep, too much thought, and just the right amount of Max Kendall to make her doubt all the conclusions she’d come to last night. But you can’t change the recipe once the cake is in the oven.

You can’t switch horses midstream.

Can’t make a U-turn on a one-way street.

Can’t stop a shot arrow.

“Can’t mend a broken heart,” Daisy finished, shutting off the annoying flow of idioms, but not before recognizing that
idiom
was awfully close to the word
idiot
, which made her wonder if she was exactly that for thinking she could beat Max Kendall at a game he’d practically invented.

But she didn’t have a lot of options. No matter what feelings she
might
have for Max, she was not about to end her career in Otter Bite. No, she was not going to rethink this. She’d figured this out last night and she had a plan. As long as Max Kendall acted like, well,
Max Kendall
, everything would come up roses. Which always struck her as an odd saying given the thorns . . .

“Good Morning.”

Daisy jumped at the unexpected intrusion into her war room. Loosely robed, Max stood only a few feet away, stubbled and rumpled, but with a softness to his gaze and a lift to his lips that flip-flopped Daisy’s stomach.

“Sorry,” Max said at her surprise, offering a mug of coffee. “The door was open. I hoped you’d still be in bed.”

The intent of his hope was obvious in his voice. Daisy smiled, not completely without that same hope. She tried to ignore her rampaging heart as she made her first move.

“I have a real terror of a boss who pays me to be in the kitchen, not in bed.”

“He’s just misunderstood.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.” She took the offered mug and sipped. Not cinnamon, but not campfire sludge, either. Just good old-fashioned coffee with a splash of cream.

“This is good. And as usual”—Daisy pecked his lips—“so were you.”

A tiny flinch struck Max’s brows, but just that quickly it was gone and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

Max closed the gap between them, then added depth to her original kiss that almost had Daisy forsaking her mug for his shoulders. His kiss ended in the nick of time to save a collision between ceramic and tile.

“I’m making waffles.”

Something about
waffles
niggled at her.

He nuzzled the soft underside of her jaw. “With strawberries and whipped cream. I whipped it fresh this morning.” Then he nibbled her earlobe, flicking the small gold hoop with his tongue. “Take off your clothes and join me in the kitchen.” But Max smiled and his blue eyes twinkled, dashing any hope that he was serious . . . or was that a serious gleam in those baby blues?

“Your eyes . . . ,” Daisy said as she regained her focus. “They look good.”

“I woke up this morning and everything was crystal clear.”

She escaped his embrace—before she ended up naked. “That’s a relief.”

“It’s a mixed bag.”

“A mixed bag?”

“Let’s have breakfast.” He turned for the door, leaving Daisy wondering about his reply.

After a final mirror check, she followed him to the kitchen with her mug in hand, and slid onto a stool, the island between them.

“Shouldn’t I be making breakfast?” Within her reach was a bowl of whipped cream; she swept a finger through the white peaks and into her mouth.

“You can supervise and tell me all the things I’m doing wrong.”

“That’s not nice.”

Max tossed an eggshell into the garbage. “Old habits.”

“Old habits?” At this rate, she’d be storming from his house faster than even she had planned.

With mixing spoon in hand, Max looked at Daisy. She was going to make this tough. He took a breath, shifted his approach. “The thing is . . . I’m in some weird territory here—”

Her brows peaked like the whipped cream. “Weird territory?”

“—And it would be really helpful if you’d just sit there, hear me out, and not repeat every damn thing I say.”

Daisy clamped her jaw.

Leaving his spoon in the batter, he came around the counter and sat on the stool beside her. “I’ve been thinking—”

“
¡Buenos dias!
”

They jerked.

“That damn bird!” Max drew a bead on the perched parrot in the living room.

“
¿Dónde está el dinero? ¿Dónde está la cocaína?
”

Daisy looked at the bobbing parrot. “Why does Napoleon speak Spanish?”

“Because he’s Mexican.”

“And the cocaine request?”

“He’s an addict.”

“Uh-huh. I have to get to work.”

Max grabbed her arm as she left her stool.

“
¡Policia! ¡Policia!
”

“I got him from a drug dealer.”

“Friend of yours?”

Max released his grip. “No, but
you
would think that.”

“Okay.” Daisy raised a palm in truce. “How did you get Napoleon?”

“This really isn’t what I want to talk about.”

“You kinda started it with the drug dealer comment.”

Max parted his lips, then shook his head. “You’d never believe me.”

“Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Okay, fine.” Retrieving a bag of sunflower seeds from a cabinet, he headed toward Napoleon as Daisy patiently waited. He filled Napoleon’s bowl and the parrot immediately snatched a seed.

Max turned toward Daisy. “I
took
Napoleon from a drug dealer.”

Daisy narrowed her eyes on him. “Really?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“Hit the highlights.”

“When I got out of the navy—”

“You were in the navy?”

“Yes. And when I got out, I ran a fishing charter in Acapulco. Had some clients from Alaska. They raved about it. I came up for a visit. Sold the charter. Got a job as a bush pilot. Made some connections, made some money, et cetera, et cetera—”

“Et cetera, et cetera?”

“One day a navy buddy called. His daughter had gone down to Acapulco on spring break and got mixed up with a guy who turned out to be something of a drug dealer, and since I knew my way around, maybe I could help. I did, and Napoleon came back, too. End of story.”

Daisy stared at Max for what seemed like forever.
End of story?
Hardly. Her head cocked slightly. Then a tiny knot formed between her brows. “This
daughter
person. Tell me her name isn’t Ellen.”

“As a matter of fact—”

“Oh, please, Max. You just
parroted
back the story
I
made up for you!”

“Coincidentally, it does bear some resemblance.”

“
Some
resemblance? The only thing missing are the Rottweilers!”

“No Rottweilers. Only a couple of very unfriendly bodyguards.”

“Of course.”

Max put the bag of seeds on the counter and took the stool beside her. “You don’t believe me.”

Her chin dipped, a single brow arced. “Would you?”

“Yes.”

“So if I told you I came by Elizabeth as I was foiling a poaching ring down in the Florida Everglades, you’d believe me.”

“Of course not. Elizabeth is a western box turtle. What would she be doing in Florida?”

Daisy sighed. “Fine. It was a poaching ring in . . . Arizona.”

“What were they poaching?”

She threw up her hands as if beseeching the heavens. “Cactus!”

“Were they giant saguaros? Because saguaros are a protected species and they are poached—”

Daisy stared Max into silence, then shook her head. “I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.”

“Doing what?”

“This,
this
,” Her hand flip-flopped between them.

“Daisy—”

She squirmed from his grasp. “I’ve got a kitchen to organize.”

Two steps, three steps, four steps, five steps . . . heading for the front door, nabbing her jacket from the chair where she’d left it last night. Not the storm she’d planned, but . . .

“Daisy, wait . . . I think we’ve got something here—”

Slowing, slowing . . .

“—I think we ought to give this a go.”

Stopped in her tracks. Then she spun around. “What?”

“I . . . think we ought to give this a go.”

“No. Give
what
a go?”

“
This
,” he said, mimicking her prior hand action. “
Us
,” he added, when Daisy only stared.

“There is no
us
,” she told him, standing her ground and keeping her distance. “There’s a
that—
” She shot a pointed finger in the direction of the bedroom. “But
that’s
not an
us
.”

“
That
could be an
us
.”

Daisy took a single step toward him. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, actually.” Max mirrored her forward step. “Although . . . well, it kind of took me by surprise, too. But then, last night—”

“Last night was just—”

“Last night was not
just.
That was
my
shower you were in. I was there, remember?”

Vividly
, Daisy thought, trying not to remember . . . all her feelings before, during, and after. Trying not to make it more than she could afford. Trying, trying . . .

“The thing is, it got me thinking—
you
got me thinking—and well—” Max shrugged. “ ‘
Ducunt volentem fata, nolentum trahunt
.’”

“What the hell is that?”

He cocked his head at her. “You know French, you know Japanese. You don’t know Latin?”

“When someone orders from the menu in
Latin,
then I’ll learn Latin.”

“
Fate leads the willing; drags the unwilling.
So why fight—”

“
Seriously?
” She interrupted him with a hard look. “And which one are you? Willing or unwilling? As if I don’t know.”

“I’m neither. I mean, I’m willing, but that’s not the point.”

“You sound
resigned
, Max, not willing. Not exactly the kind of romantic gesture that sweeps a girl off her feet.”

“Daisy—”

“Max loves Tina!”

Eyes wide. Breathing stopped. Faces shot to Napoleon. Then Daisy did a one-eighty for the door. Only this time, she meant it.

“For God’s sake, Daisy, Napoleon doesn’t know what he’s saying. He just puts words together. It doesn’t mean
anything
!”

“Max loves Daisy!”

“Oh, jeez.” Then, to his surprise, Daisy turned from the door.

“I just realized . . .
waffles
. These are your morning-after waffles. The same waffles you make for every woman who shares your sheets. I’m just another batch of waffles to you!”

“You’re way more than waffles and you know it.”

“How do I know that, Max? How exactly do I know that?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t have this conversation with every waffle.”

“
What
conversation?”

“The conversation I’ve been trying to have for the last twenty minutes. I’ve been trying to tell you—”

“Look, Max, in spite of Napoleon” Glancing at the offending parrot—“maybe you’ve got good intentions here—”

“Here it comes. Another excuse to run away.”

“Hey! I’ve got good reason to run.”

“Which is the kind of thinking that makes
you
a risk for
me
.”

Daisy frowned. How had Max managed to turn the tables?

“If you walk out that door, I’m not chasing after you.”

An
ultimatum
? Was Max actually giving her an ultimatum? She puffed up. “Who asked you to?”

“Damn it, Daisy! Why are you so—”

“Cautious? Unyielding? Demanding?”

“Blind!” Clenching his fists, Max exploded with the first words that came to mind. “I want more than waffles and I thought you did, too! I want to wake up beside you. I want to have morning coffee together. I want to share my newspaper. I want—”

Daisy’s mind spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl. Nothing was happening like she planned. Max wasn’t Max. He was supposed to be unavailable and unattainable; he was supposed to be weaseling out of their affair, but this man in front of her, this man who
looked
like Max Kendall—all rumpled and rugged and still very hunky—this man was actually suggesting . . .

“—you and me to be
us
. And not just in there,” he added, shooting his thumb toward the bedroom. “But everywhere.”

Her future flashed before her. But it wasn’t
her
future; there wasn’t
her
gold spoon or
her
fabulous restaurant in downtown Seattle. It was the future of Daisy somebody else, Max Kendall’s lover, hired
cook
for Wild Man Lodge in Otter Bite, Alaska. And yet . . . would that really be so bad?