The Sweetheart Secret (11 page)

He had come here for a reason, a reason he seemed to have forgotten somewhere between the car and the motel room and her breasts. “You, uh, offered me a deal. Quid pro quo. Remember?”

“I'm not sleeping with you just to get a loan.”

“I don't want to sleep with you. Well, I do—” Damn, his mouth kept running away from his brain. “But it wouldn't be a smart thing to do. For either of us.”

She scoffed. “You can say that again.”

He didn't know whether to be hurt or relieved that she felt the same way. Either way, sleeping with Daisy would make things messier, and if there was one thing he hated, it was messy. “Mrs. Winslow said you need a job. I need an . . . assistant.”

“You already have one. And I have no medical training.”

“Not for my office. For my grandfather. He fired the last two aides I hired. One of them before she even crossed the threshold. The two before that quit within the first two days. He refuses to listen to me, blows off his doctor appointments, refuses to take his medications, and eats like crap. If he doesn't start taking care of himself . . .” Colt had delivered bad news a thousand times, but never did it burn on its way up his throat like acid. “He could . . . die.”

Concern filled her brown eyes. “Your grandfather is that sick?”

“He's on his way there. Early onset Parkinson's and heart disease. Both are conditions that require a change in lifestyle and habits, and he just doesn't want to change. It's like he's determined to . . .” Colt shook his head. He refused to speak that three-letter word again. “I can't let him do that to himself.”

“But I wouldn't know what to do if there was a medical emergency.”

“He just needs someone who makes sure he eats well and he takes his medication. Maybe get him out for a walk once in a while. He's . . . difficult. And you are the only person who has made him even come close to smiling in at least two years.” Colt could still remember the Grandpa Earl who had joked and fished with his grandsons, the man Earl used to be—before.

That was how Colt divided his life. Before. And After. But no matter how hard Colt had worked to try to restore the Before, he had failed. Maybe with Daisy around, Earl would regain the jovial spirit he'd had years ago. Would once again be the grandfather who had taken Colt and Henry fishing and camping. Who had taught them how to change a flat and shoot an arrow. It wouldn't be the same as Before—there was no way to ever get those days back, no matter how much Colt tried—but it would be something. A chance at what he had lost fourteen years ago. That alone would be worth whatever deal Colt had to make. A deal that would keep Daisy here, disrupting his life, his sleep, his world. Maybe with enough time he'd become immune to her and his heart would stop stuttering every time she was near.

“In exchange for helping my grandpa,” Colt said, “I'll sign the loan papers.”

“You . . . you will?”

“And I'll pay you. What I would have paid an aide anyway.”

Confusion knitted Daisy's brow. “Why not just have your family pitch in and help? Your parents, your brother?”

Colt's jaw hardened. He wasn't about to explain that his parents had moved to Arizona immediately After, after their lives had changed, after the family Colt once had was irrevocably broken. That his father would rather die than return to Rescue Bay. “They're not . . . here to help.”

He didn't elaborate, and she didn't press the subject. “You're the one who got through to him the other day,” he said, before she asked any more of the questions he didn't want to answer. “I need you, Daisy.”

She eyed him, her chocolate eyes assessing and probing. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Because my grandfather matters more to me than anything in the world. He's . . .” Colt exhaled, trying to push the memories away, but they lingered, persistent, strong. The hole in Colt's heart had never really healed, and never really would, he suspected. He ached to return to the past, to have a do-over, a second chance to right the terrible wrongs of fourteen years ago. “He's all I have left. And I can't . . . I can't lose him, too.”

“Too? What are you talking about?”

He didn't want to answer that question. He'd closed that chapter of his life a long time ago, and all he could do now was hold on to what he had left. “Will you help me or not?”

She hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay. I'll do it. Do you want me to start tomorrow morning or—”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“You can't live in this . . .” He waved at the threadbare, depressing room. “Hellhole. And I can't leave my grandfather alone. Sometimes I get called out in the middle of the night because a patient falls ill. Sometimes my day runs longer than I expect. The only solution is someone who is always there. For this to work, I need you to . . .” He paused, questioning the wisdom of his plan. Especially in light of that kiss. But what choice did he have? He needed help, and so did she. “You need to move in.”

“Move in?” She considered that for a moment, her gaze skipping over the room, then lingering on his face.

His heart stilled. He held his breath, sure she was going to say no. Half of him wanted her to say no, because he wasn't so sure he had the strength to live in the same house as Daisy and not want to carry her off to his bed.

“Okay. I'll move in tonight. But this”—she waved a hand over her body—“is off limits. You leave me, and my Oreos, alone, Colt Harper, and we'll get along just fine.”

Emma was ripping weeds out of the front flowerbeds when Roger's car pulled into the driveway. She was on her hands and knees, covered in clumps of dirt and sweat. Of course. He couldn't show up when she was wearing a killer dress and a slinky pair of heels or had her hair at least brushed, not tangled in a messy ponytail using the rubber band that had come wrapped around the Sunday paper.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

His voice was smooth and dark, like coffee on a cold morning, and even after everything that had happened and everything she had long ago given up on, his voice still slid through her with the same warmth as the day she'd met him, nine years ago. She felt that same flutter of attraction, the lilt of hope, that he was here for her, that he wanted her. Just as he had all those years ago. They'd met when he'd come up to her in a bookstore in downtown Jacksonville, holding up two cookbooks, one by Bobby Flay and one by Julia Child, and asked Emma which one was a better gift.

For a girlfriend?
she'd asked.

He'd laughed, a rich, deep sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.
My mother. I don't have a girlfriend.

For the first time in Emma's life, she'd been flirtatious, spontaneous. It had been because of his eyes, wide and kind and almost ebony, and that delicious voice of his.
I'll tell you over a cup of coffee,
she'd said, and that had been it. One latte later, she was in love.

“Pulling weeds,” she said to him now and turned back to the gangly green plants trying to take over her flowers. “Getting rid of what doesn't belong here.”

Roger didn't say anything for a moment. “I came by to get my golf shoes. I went to play golf with Larry this morning and realized they were still . . .”

“In the garage. Second shelf. I . . . moved them out of your closet.” She'd moved everything out of his closet and put it in the box on the shelf because it was easier to do that than to see his things still there, mocking her.

“Thanks.” Roger headed into the open garage, disappearing for a moment in the darkened interior, then emerged a few minutes later with a shoebox and a statue. “Why is my samurai in the garage?”

She yanked out a plant, and too late realized it wasn't a weed. “It didn't match.”

“I thought you loved this statue. Remember when we bought it? That day in—”

“Chinatown.” She yanked another plant but her vision was starting to blur and again, she grabbed the wrong stalk. She sighed, sat back, and put her hands on her knees. She sucked back the tears, because she refused to let him see how much this bothered her, how much she still cared, damn it. “I remember us buying that samurai in a little shop from that owner who barely spoke English, and shipping it home in enough bubble wrap to hold a collection of Fabergé eggs. We said it was to remind us of the sushi and the music and the hills and everything we loved about San Francisco. I remember all of it, Roger. I remember us dating, I remember us getting married, I remember us promising forever and ever.” She turned to him. He looked good, damn him, in a pressed blue shirt and faded jeans. But looking good and sounding good didn't make up for the fact that he had checked out of their marriage a long time ago, and then moved out when she'd tried to save them. Two months ago they'd had one night, one wonderful night when she'd thought everything was finally coming together for them, and then like turning off a switch, Roger was gone. “It's too bad you forgot.”

“I didn't forget, Emma. We drifted apart.”

“I hate when people say that. It makes it sound so soft and easy, like two boats in the water. We didn't drift apart, Roger. You changed.” She propped a hand on her knee and looked up at him. “When is it enough? When have you made enough, worked enough, done enough? All along, you kept saying, once I sell the book, I'll take a sabbatical, we'll work on having a family . . .” She shook her head. “Instead, you work more. You're gone more. Now, you're gone entirely.”

“Do you think I want to work all these hours? It's about security, Emma. Knowing we have something to fall back on, if things go south.”

“You had me to fall back on,” she said softly. “And you chose your job.”

She went back to the plants, yanking and adding to the pile of refuse beside her, not caring what she was pulling out. “Don't forget to get the rest of your things.”

He hesitated for a long time, so long she thought she might run out of weeds before he left. “What happened to us, Emma?”

She reached into the garden and wrapped her fist around a thick clump of goosegrass. “A weed grew in the flowerbeds, Roger. And nobody bothered to take it out before it killed everything that was good.”

*   *   *

Insane.

That was the only word for what Daisy was about to do. Insane, or desperate. Or both. She parked her Toyota in Colt's driveway on Thursday night, grabbed the two bags of her belongings from the back—trying not to think about what it meant to be over thirty and have her entire life enclosed in two beat-up suitcases—then headed up the walkway. Colt's Honda wasn't here, which meant he had most likely gone back to work after he'd come to the motel.

Part of her was relieved not to see him. Part was disappointed.

She was doing this entirely to secure funding to renovate the Hideaway Inn. This wasn't about rekindling her relationship with Colt or giving their marriage the old college try. It was business, plain and simple. So she shouldn't care one way or another if he was here, at work, or harvesting rocks on the moon.

Uh-huh. Tell that to the stone of disappointment in her gut.

She needed to stop indulging in some decade-old romantic fantasy of riding off into the sunset with Colt. It was as if a part of her had never gotten past that day on the steps when he'd dropped down beside her, shared her package of cookies, and made her feel, for the first time in her life, like a smart, pretty, interesting person. Like someone who mattered.

Until he left her, alone and crying. Twice.

Only a fool had to get three strikes before calling an out.

She stood on the crushed shell walkway, holding one bag in each hand and debated—should she ring the bell? Or just go in?

She was saved from that choice when Earl emerged, holding the door for her. He was tall, a couple inches taller than Colt, and filled the doorframe with the authority of a man who had earned his place in the world. In the bright sunlight, she could see the wear in his features, the toll taken by getting old and battling illness. She could also see kindness in his eyes, and laugh lines around his mouth that spoke of a good man who'd lived a good life.

“Welcome to the bachelor pad, such as it is,” he said.

“Home of late-night pizza and bad manners?”

“Of course. It's just like being in college, only with doctor's visits and medication alarms. Old men really know how to have fun.” Earl let go of the door to reach for one of her bags, but Daisy shooed him away.

“You know very well that I'm here to help you, not vice versa.”

“Doesn't mean I can't be a gentleman.” He gave her an imaginary tip of his hat. “I'm not so old and decrepit that I can't be chivalrous, you know.”

“Okay, then. But you get the light one.” She handed him the smaller of the two bags, and followed him into the house. They were heading down the hall toward the bedrooms when the back door opened and Colt stepped inside.

“What are you doing? Why is my grandfather carrying your bags?” Colt rushed up, took the bag out of Earl's hands, and pivoted toward Daisy. Anger flared in his eyes, set in the tension of his jaw. “Didn't I tell you that you were here to care for
him
, not for him to wait on you hand and foot?”

Earl stepped between them and wagged a finger at Colt's chest. “Colton, don't you lecture her.”

“Stay out of this, Grandpa.”

“Who lit your beans on fire? You're even grumpier than usual, and that's saying something.” Earl turned around and waved a hand in dismissal. “I give up. Have it your way, Captain Colt. I'm going to go watch the UFC fight on TV. Something civilized.”

After Earl had gone down the hall and into the living room, Daisy whirled on Colt. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “I am not treating your grandfather like a bellhop, Colt. He offered, and so I let him carry one little bag. He wants to feel useful, not put out to pasture.”

“He shouldn't be doing anything, regardless of what he wants.” Colt shook his head and cursed under his breath. “I knew this was going to be a mistake.”

“Gee, way to trust me. I've been here ten seconds so far.” She reached out, yanked the bag out of his hands, and strode past him. “Give me an hour and maybe I can really give you a reason to fire me.”

She marched into the bedroom on the right—the one she assumed was meant to be hers, because there was a freshly made bed and a vase of brightly colored flowers on the nightstand. The flowers caused a stutter in her step. What had Colt been thinking when he'd put the vase at her bedside? Why was she touched? She was mad at Colt, and a few buds in a vase weren't going to change that.

She dumped the bags on the chair in the corner, then spun around to shut the door. She would have given it a nice good slam—oh, just like the old days with Colt—but he was there, his hand on the oak door, his tall frame blocking the doorway.

“I'm not trying to fight with you, Daisy. I just want you to make sure my grandpa takes it easy.”

From the room down the hall, she could hear the soft undertow of Earl's television. Still, she kept her voice low. “I know that. And if you're going to question me every five seconds, this isn't going to work.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You need to trust me, Colt. I'm not going to hurt your grandpa. I like him.”

“I'm not saying you'll hurt him on purpose.” He shook his head again. “Okay, maybe I inferred that. But I didn't mean it.”

Colt crossed into the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He braced his hands on his knees and let out a long breath. “I worry about him. He won't listen to me, won't take my advice. He needs to take care of himself, and as much as I wish I could, I can't force him to be smart about his health. God . . . if I lost him . . .”

She didn't want to care. Didn't want the raw notes in Colt's voice to weaken her. But they did. She crossed to the bed, sat down beside him, and placed her hand over one of his. “I'll take care of him. I'll boss him around and make him eat his vegetables and get him out on a walk once in a while. I promise.”

Colt lifted his gaze to hers. He seemed so weary, so ready for someone else to step in and ease the burdens he carried. He searched her face for a long time, then nodded. The weariness ebbed a little. “I'm counting on you, Daisy.”

No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever depended on Daisy Barton for anything. The enormity of the responsibility hit her like a weight. In an instant, this had gone from being a deal for a mortgage to something much bigger than she'd expected.

Something with hopes tied on the end, like strings trailing from a balloon. She wanted to say no, wanted to tell him he was putting his stock in the wrong girl. She'd never settled down, never been responsible for anything more complicated than a houseplant—and even those had withered and died within a week.

She needed this job, needed the loan. Needed to help Emma find whatever Emma had lost. And right now, Colt needed her.

In an instant, she'd gone from living a life where she answered to no one, to one with a whole lot of people tying expectations onto her. People, including herself, depending on her to make a difference.

“You can count on me,” she said. Though the promise sounded shaky to her ears.

Colt's phone started buzzing. He flipped it out and glanced at the screen. “I gotta go. Patient emergency. Can you just . . . just stay and we'll talk later?”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

Colt got to his feet, the phone in one hand, but paused in the doorway. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, his hair a little mussed. And so was he. Those notes of vulnerability touched her, drew her closer.

“Listen, my grandfather can be difficult,” Colt said, “and that's putting it mildly. Just make sure he takes his medicine and at least gets outside once in a while. Bribe him if you need to—the exercise will do him good, so will getting dressed and seeing the sun for a little bit.”

“Will do. And if he refuses, I'll dangle a piece of pizza as an incentive. It'll be fine, Colt. I promise,” she said again.

Relief flooded Colt's face and curved into a smile. “Thank you, Daisy.”

“No need to thank me. I'm just doing my job.” Though it was the only job she'd ever had where resisting the boss was going to be tougher than the work itself.