The Sweetheart Secret (12 page)

*   *   *

The evening settled around Colt's shoulders like a warm, dark blanket. The moon hung high in the sky, full bellied and bright. A few night birds called to each other, and from somewhere far off came the hoot of an owl. The ocean whooshed in and out, kissing the sand before retreating again.

He thought of Daisy, asleep inside the house. Already, she tempted him and lured him, simply by being inside the same four walls. He'd told himself when he hired her to be his grandfather's live-in caretaker that he'd treat her like any other nurse.

Yeah, not so much. Five minutes in and he had already broken his own rules. He hadn't bought flowers for any other nurse. Hadn't made sure the room was stocked with fresh linens and that the pillows were fluffed. He hadn't wondered if any other nurse wanted Folgers or Starbucks in the morning. He hadn't fantasized about any other nurse, and stayed up half the night, hoping she'd wander out for a snack in something tiny and see-through.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. Why did he want the one woman who reminded him of his biggest mistakes? His deepest pain? Every time she was around, she reminded him of what he had lost—

And why.

He had put his family on the backburner. Turned his back on them so he could run away and marry a woman he barely knew. And when the call had come, the call asking him to come back, he had ignored it.

Will you be here, Colt, when I get back?

Of course. I'm always here for you, buddy.

Colt drew in a breath, but it sliced through his chest like a machete. Damn it. Damn it.
Damn it.

The caws of the night birds turned accusatory, the moon's light dropped a spotlight over Colt, as if the heavens themselves were asking him why he hadn't been there. Why he had promised Henry, then not shown up.

And Henry had gone alone to the lake. Fallen off the boat. And drowned.

Colt's heart fractured, and the breath in his chest shuddered in and out. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, to the night birds, to the moon, but they didn't care. They didn't respond.

They never had. Colt tipped his head and took a long drag off the beer. It didn't help.

The back door opened and Grandpa Earl stepped onto the porch. “Sorry. I didn't know you were out here.” He started to duck back inside but Colt put out a hand.

“It's okay. Have a seat.” Colt gestured to the spot beside him on the porch. He had been alone with his own thoughts long enough and welcomed the company, if only because it would make his mind stop playing the endless loop of Henry's voice. Hell, he'd even welcome an argument with Grandpa if it would divert his thoughts from Henry's last words to him.

“Have a seat,” Colt said again.

“Nah, it's all right. It's late. I should go inside.” Grandpa turned to open the door again. When had they gotten to this point? To being strangers, barely even roommates? Colt missed the days when his grandfather had been his best friend, the one Colt could turn to for advice about cars and girls. Before his grandfather had started looking at Colt with disappointment and grief.

“Grandpa, wait.”

His grandfather paused, his back to Colt, his hand on the knob.

“Come outside and sit with me.” Colt swallowed. “Please.”

Grandpa Earl hesitated some more. Then he let go of the door and lowered himself to the opposite side of the step. There was a good two feet of space between them, but it felt like a mile. He didn't say anything for a long while, then he nodded toward the sky. “Nice night.”

Okay, so it wasn't a conversational milestone, but Grandpa was at least tethering a line between them again.

“Yeah. I love this time of year. Still pretty warm but not so hot you feel like you're living in an oven.”

“The breeze off the water is always nice, too.”

Here they sat, two men who used to be close, exchanging small talk about the weather. It frustrated Colt, made him want to get up and go in the house, giving up like he had done a hundred times before. Instead, he reached to the right and grabbed a beer from the box he'd grabbed earlier from the fridge, then held it out to his grandfather. “Want one?”

Grandpa Earl raised a brow in surprise. “You're offering me a beer?”

“Once in a while, a beer is okay. And besides, these are non-alcoholic.” Colt picked up a second bottle. Regardless of all his lectures about healthy eating and living, right now what he wanted more than anything was a connection with the man who was more like a father than a grandfather.

Grandpa chuckled. “Non-alcoholic? What's the point?”

“Pretending they're real beers is almost the same thing as drinking one.”

“Almost. Thanks.” Grandpa took the bottle, popped the top, then clinked the bottle against Colt's. “Cheers.”

The action brought back the memory of toasting with soda cans when he was a boy. Grandpa, Colt, and Henry, sitting on the wooden skiff that Grandpa used for fishing on the lake, drinking sodas in the sun and eating peanut butter sandwiches that Colt's mom had made for the boys. “What was it you used to say? To big fish and bigger tales?”

Grandpa Earl chuckled. “Something like that.”

Colt spun the bottle between his hands. It cooled his palms, eased the tension in his shoulders. How he missed those days, missed the sun on his back, the suspense of a line in the water. It wasn't just the fishing that he missed, though, it was the time with his grandfather, when Grandpa Earl would ramble on about his childhood in a post-war world, or the best ways to deal with girls who still held an ick factor for young Henry and Colt. He missed the camaraderie, the closeness. The bond.

For years, Colt had tiptoed around the subject of Henry, avoiding that painful minefield with every breath he took. Still, the unspoken words had sat in the background of every conversation, like a festering wound. Maybe if they finally talked about Henry, about what they had lost, it would be that first step back to . . . somewhere other than here. Maybe if he started with fishing, the one thing that used to bind them all, it would help. “You know, Grandpa, if you ever want to grab a pole, head for the lake, it might be a way to remember him—”

The mood between them shifted in an instant. Grandpa Earl let out a curse and put his bottle on the step. “Goddamn it. Quit asking me, Colton.”

“Why don't you ever want to talk about it?”

“Talking doesn't do anyone any good. It just fills the world with more hot air.” Earl drank from the beer, and stared out at the ocean.

Colt sighed. “I miss him, too, you know. I'd do anything to bring him back.”

“Yeah, well, there isn't anything you can do to make that right. There never will be.” Grandpa Earl got to his feet and went to the door. He opened it, then stood there, his head hung low. “You keep talking to me about me having heart disease, and about taking care of myself. Well, if you ask me, my heart's been broken for fourteen years. There isn't a drug in the world that's gonna heal that, so quit trying to mend what's never getting better.”

Then he went inside, leaving Colt alone in the dark.

The next morning, Daisy realized what Colt had been talking about when he called Earl “difficult.” Within ten minutes of Colt leaving for work, she'd had three arguments with Earl about taking his medication, the last one ending with him stomping off, slamming the door to his room, and raising the TV volume to deafening.

Daisy waited ten minutes, then strode down the hall and knocked twice on Earl's door. “Get your walking shoes on.”

“I'm not going for a walk,” he said through the closed door.

“We both are. And if you walk far enough, there's ice cream at the end of our route.” The earlier pizza incentive hadn't moved Earl one inch, so Daisy decided to up the ante. A bowl of ice cream—well, frozen yogurt masquerading as ice cream, she decided—would motivate her to do about anything, so she figured it'd work on Earl's sweet tooth, too.

It reminded her of the beignets and Colt. Of how tempting and alluring a simple bite of fried pastry could be. And how much trouble it could get a woman in if she wasn't careful.

A second passed, then the door unlatched and Earl stuck his head out. The TV had been muted, and that told Daisy she'd already halfway won the battle.

“That ice cream offer wouldn't be a bribe, would it?” Earl asked.

“I prefer to call it a reward. I don't know about you, but I am a reward motivated kind of girl. Put a bonus at the end of a paycheck, or a great pair of shoes at the end of a tedious shopping trip, and I'm in, a hundred percent.”

“I don't need bonuses, and I prefer a decent pair of Timberlands over any other kind of shoes. But ice cream . . .” A smile curved across Earl's face. “You know my grandson will read you the riot act for that one.”

“Then I say we destroy all the evidence before we get back.” She bent and picked up a pair of sneakers, sitting just inside his door, far easier to walk in than his beloved boots. She dangled them in front of Earl. “Chocolate chip or vanilla?”

*   *   *

On Friday night, Colt stood in his living room, looking down at the giant brown-and-white ball of fur sprawled at his feet, then up again at the two guilty parties, one sitting in the La-Z-Boy and the other on the edge of the sofa. Neither had the slightest bit of contrition in their features.

“What the hell is this?” Colt said.

“You went to college. I'm sure you can figure it out.” Earl harrumphed, then flipped out his footrest and leaned back in the chair.

“I'm not asking literally, Grandpa. I mean, what is it doing in my living room and whose idea was it?” Not even twenty-four hours after Daisy moved in, Colt's perfectly ordered life was in disarray. He shouldn't have been surprised. Daisy never had been one for asking permission or thinking a decision through. But this choice . . . this one impacted Colt, not just today, but for years to come. “Well?”

No one answered him. Grandpa Earl fiddled with the remote, while Daisy just sat on the edge of the sofa, with a smile on her face. The kind that said she knew she was breaking the rules, and didn't care. There'd been a time when he had loved that about her, and been as much of a party to rebellion as she was. Skipping school, blowing off work, partying in public places—Colt and Daisy had done what they wanted, when they wanted, and when his father had disapproved, Colt had hopped on his Harley, with Daisy on the back, and blown off everything and everyone.

And look where it had gotten him.

“Well, either way, it goes back.” Colt waved a hand at the door, but still no one moved or said a word. “Immediately. I don't have time or space or—”

The floppy-eared beast on the floor got to its feet, then nosed Colt's pant leg. A long brown tail wagged a happy beat, then the dog lifted his head, pressed it beneath Colt's hand. Seeking attention, approval?

The stone resolve in Colt's chest eased a little. How could it not? The dog looked up at him as if he was saying
Just give me a chance to worm my way into your heart
. The dog's tail kept on wagging, and his head bopped beneath Colt's palm.
Love me, love me.

Colt gave the dog's head a half a pat. Seemed kinda mean not to at least respond. It was a silly-looking dog, half-brown, half-white, two giant ears flopping to the side. As hairy and big as he was, the dog had to be a mix of some kind of sheepdog or mountain dog, and something else that Colt couldn't figure out. He didn't know much about dogs, and especially not this dog.

“We were thinking of calling him Major. You know, because he kind of looks . . . authoritative,” Daisy said.

“He looks like a Major Pain, is what he looks like.” Colt gave the dog another pat, which apparently provided an open-ended invitation to be his new best friend. The dog started panting, then sat squarely beside Colt's foot, his tail swishing a half circle in the carpet. “We're not keeping him.” Colt tried to keep his voice firm and resolute, even as the dog pressed his furry head against Colt's hand again.
Love me, love me, I'm nice.
“I don't have time or room for a dog.”

“You said that already,” Daisy said, with that knowing smile.

“Because apparently neither of you thought of that before you brought Major Pain here home.” Didn't they realize how much he already had on his shoulders? His grandfather, his practice, his . . . whatever this was between himself and Daisy? The last thing Colt Harper needed was something else with a heartbeat depending on him.

“A dog takes up no room at all,” Grandpa said. “Besides, he's my dog now, and I'm keeping him. You want him out, you'll have to kick me out first. Major and I are a package deal.” He thumbed the remote, and the TV sprang to life with some show about digging for gold in Alaska.

Daisy got to her feet. She was wearing short white shorts that showed off her incredible legs, already beginning to tan. Her feet were bare and there was something that seemed both carefree and intimate about that. She had on a dark blue T-shirt that dipped in an enticing V in the front, with a floral pattern running down the sides that encouraged his gaze to dip lower, to linger on her curves. For a second, he forgot about the dog, forgot he was irritated by the newly adopted furbeast in his living room, forgot everything but how awesome her legs looked.

When Daisy put a soft hand on his shoulder, it seemed to sizzle and spark, down his arm, through his veins, like the wick on a stick of dynamite. “Colt, will you come help me set the table for dinner?”

Colt started to say no—his to-do list was as long as his arm and getting longer by the minute—but then he glanced at her amazing legs again and thought he could follow those legs to Mars, if need be. “Sure. No problem.”

They headed into the kitchen, Major Pain—already, Colt was thinking of the dog with a name, which was a dangerous thing—bringing up the rear, with a hopeful wag of his tail. He settled in the corner by the back door, head on his paws, his brown eyes watching the humans.

“Tell me again . . . Why is there a dog in my house?” Colt asked. He kept his voice low, to keep it from carrying into the living room. Grandpa Earl had changed the channel to
Wheel of Fortune
, and Colt could hear Pat Sajak congratulating someone on winning a trip to Greece.

Daisy shrugged. “It's an incentive.”

“Incentive? For what?”

“For walking. Your grandpa and I went for a walk today—”

“Wait.” Colt put up a hand. “You got him out of the house? Like
out
of the house, out of the house? Not just onto the porch or into the yard for five seconds?”

She nodded. “All the way out of the house and into town. We walked down to the boardwalk, then downtown, and back again. We stopped for breaks often and—”

Colt shook his head. He glanced at Grandpa's sneakers, sitting by the back door instead of in his room or in a closet. A few blades of grass clung to the soles. “He hasn't left the house in six months. He hasn't done
anything
for six months.”

Actually, it had been longer than that since the Grandpa Earl that Colt knew and loved had made an appearance. More than a decade since his grandfather had done anything more than work and lock himself in his garage to putter with his tools. Or so he claimed. Colt suspected Earl used the garage door as a wall, a way to disengage from the rest of the world.

Hell, Colt couldn't blame him. He'd done the same thing, only with medical texts and college classes. Immersed himself in staying busy so he wouldn't have time to think, to breathe, to answer the questions in his own mind.

Now here was Grandpa Earl, finally, after all these years, making the first steps back to building connections, getting out in the world. All because of a dumb dog, and a very smart woman.

“That is . . . amazing, Daisy,” he said.

She shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “We walked about a mile all together, I'd say. We had lunch on the boardwalk and then when we headed downtown, there was a little event in the park for the local shelter, and Olivia had some dogs out for adoption, and . . .” Daisy threw up her hands and gave Colt another smile, the kind that said
Forgive me, but I couldn't help it
. “Your grandpa was going on and on about how much he missed his old dog Beau, and how his life hadn't been the same, and when he saw Major there”—the dog flopped his tail in agreement—“I saw his face light up. He looked ten years younger.” She leaned in closer, her eyes bright. “He was smiling, Colt. An honest to God smile.”

In less than a single day, Daisy had been able to do what Colt couldn't do in fourteen years. With a walk in the park and a stowaway dog. An odd mixture of gratitude and jealousy rolled through Colt. “I can't remember the last time I saw my grandfather smile.”

Daisy put a hand on his arm, and met his gaze with her own. Her brown eyes softened with sympathy, understanding, as if she knew what it was like to lose something precious, and then have a glimpse of that magic again.

Once again, it had him wondering if maybe he'd made a mistake years ago, keeping his pain to himself, shutting her out. Letting her go.

“Then let him keep the dog,” she said softly.

“I've never owned a dog. I don't know the first thing about taking care of one.” As far as excuses went, that one was pretty lame.
Yeah, I don't know how to feed something every day and let it outside, so take it away before I get attached.

“I'll make sure your grandpa gets out and walks Major/Major Pain here every day, plus do anything else the dog needs.”

“And after you're gone? Who'll do it then?”

Was he just asking about the dog? Or was he already starting to worry about how he would accomplish the miracles this woman had brought to his life in a mere twenty-four hours? The Daisy he had met—the Daisy he had married—hadn't been the kind of woman who would patiently walk around town with an elderly man. Who would find the one thing that would make that man smile—and fight for him to become a part of the family.

Had he been wrong about her? Or had she changed in the years they'd spent apart?

“You looking to get rid of me already?” She said, bringing him back to the question he'd asked. She grinned. “I've only been here for one day.”

He inhaled, and caught the scent of baking bread, roast turkey. It was as if he'd walked into a restaurant. A really good restaurant, not the slap it together short-order cooking place that Colt had created here in the last few months. Not only that, but the dishes were done, the windows open to let in the breeze, and there were fresh-cut flowers from the yard in a vase on the kitchen table.

He shook his head, inhaled again. “Are you . . . are you making dinner?”

She glanced at the stove. “Yup. Honey-orange basted turkey, whole wheat bread, and oven-roasted broccoli. Healthy, but still delicious.”

He opened the oven and peeked inside. The turkey glistened, brown and juicy, beside a tray of broccoli just beginning to soften. The bread plumped in a golden brown arch, ready for a thick pat of butter. His stomach rumbled, and the salad he'd had for lunch seemed a very distant memory. “That looks amazing. I didn't even know you could cook.”

“I can do a lot of things that you don't know about, Colt.” She slipped on a pair of pot holders, then took the meal out of the oven and put it on top of the stove. For a minute, she seemed as domestic as Betty Crocker—only a decidedly sexier version of the cooking icon, with those amazing legs and endless curves. “You're not the only one who's changed in the last few years. And if you keep me around, I might just surprise you.”

He thought of the dog and the dinner and the smile on his grandfather's face. “You already have, Daisy. You already have.”