The Sweetheart Secret (15 page)

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had cooked for him—unless he counted the endless parade of pies and muffins that his patients brought him. A full meal, start to finish . . .

Well, it was nice. Very nice. Something he was becoming accustomed to.

A dozen times, he got up to help, but Daisy waved him back into his seat. “You just ran, what, a gazillion miles? I've got this.”

“Not quite a gazillion. Just six.”

She laughed. “That's six more than I'll ever run. I prefer my workouts to be on a mat. As in Pilates or yoga, not sex, just in case your hormones were thinking I meant something else,” she added, wagging a spatula at him.

“Why would I think that?” But she was right. The minute she put the words
workout
and
mat
together, he'd been thinking sex, on the floor, on a bed, hell, anywhere that she was.

How on earth was he going to live with this woman? Why had he thought this was a good idea? A sound idea? Clearly, he'd been thinking with the part of his body lacking in brain cells.

“Here you go.” She slid a plate in front of him. Fluffy scrambled eggs sat beside buttered wheat toast and two lean strips of turkey bacon. A small bunch of plump red grapes sat to one side. “Coffee now?”

“Yes, thank you.” Before she even returned with a mug, he dug in and had half the eggs and all of the bacon consumed. “Sorry. Guess running builds up an appetite.”

“So do workouts on a mat.” She grinned, a sparkle in her eye that could have been read as flirting or maybe just teasing. The pink robe had opened slightly above the belt, exposing a snippet of a red satin short nightgown, which sent his mind down a whole other path that didn't involve Pilates, but did involve some interesting body contortions.

“Well, this is sure a sight better than corn flakes.” Grandpa Earl came into the kitchen, already dressed in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt.

Colt swallowed his surprise. For months, he'd been trying to get Grandpa to start the day dressed in something other than the day before's sweatpants. And here he was, up for breakfast, showered, shaved, his hair combed. Once again, Colt marveled at the changes Daisy had made. All for the better. “Good morning, Grandpa.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Grandpa sat down across from Colt, and thanked Daisy for the plate of food she laid before him.

It was all a complete one-eighty from the past few months that Grandpa had been living with Colt. Daisy filled in the seat between the two men, with a smaller version of the same breakfast for herself. The dog sat beside Grandpa, waiting and hoping for scraps.

Grandpa tossed a crust to Major Pain, who thumped his appreciation on the floor with his tail. The moment reminded Colt of when he'd been a kid, and Grandpa had done the same thing with his dog Beau.

Colt felt a hitch in his chest as the memories flooded back. Him and Henry, sitting at Grandma and Grandpa's kitchen table on Sunday mornings. Grandma would fill “her boys” with a healthy breakfast, then send them off for a day of fishing in the bright afternoon sun. Colt half expected to see Grandpa's tackle box by the door, his fishing cap perched on the arm of the chair. His heart waited to hear Henry's voice.
Colt, hurry up! The fish are bitin'!
Followed by Grandpa's indulgent chuckles as he wrapped up the remains of his breakfast in a napkin and headed out the door with the boys. Grandma, standing on the porch, watching them go, her arms wrapped around her body, her smile wide and proud, and her heart full.

Grandpa tossed the dog another piece of crust. “I saw that one and the one before, Grandpa.” Colt grinned. “Dogs shouldn't eat people food, you know.”

“Ah, he'll be fine. He's not getting any of my eggs or bacon. So don't be getting any ideas there, Major.” Earl shot Major Pain a serious nod. “Damned good breakfast, Daisy. Thank you.”

“Oh, you're welcome, Mr. Harper.”

“Earl, please. Mr. Harper makes me sound old. And Lord knows I'm not ready for that yet. Got plenty of years left in this old tank.” He tapped a fist against his chest.

“Speaking of keeping the tank filled,” Colt said. “Did you take your meds this morning? You know—”

“Damn it, Colton.” Grandpa Earl scowled. The light mood from earlier evaporated and the familiar arguments dropped into the empty seat at the table. “Can't a man enjoy his breakfast before you start reminding him of his mortality? I'll take those stupid pills when I'm good and ready.”

Colt started to argue back, when Daisy put a hand over his. “I'll take care of it,” she said. “Don't worry.”

He wanted to tell her that all he did was worry about Grandpa Earl. Then his phone buzzed and drew his attention away. He thought about muting it, but when he looked up and saw Grandpa smiling at something Daisy said to him, Colt felt like an intruder in his own house. He was the practical one, raining on the party.

“Thanks for breakfast.” He got to his feet, scraped the crumbs off his plate, then loaded the dish in the dishwasher. He drained his coffee mug, then poured a refill. “I have to go.”

“We were going on that picnic lunch today, Colt. Remember? A little time in the sand and surf? I thought you might find time to join us, even for a few minutes.”

He glanced at his grandfather, but Grandpa Earl was concentrating on his eggs. Clearly, Grandpa didn't want Colt to tag along. The thought pained Colt. “I . . . I have to go.”

“Colt, it'd be nice if you—”

“I have to go. Sorry.” He headed down the hall to the bathroom. A few minutes later, Daisy heard the sound of the shower running. Colt had shut her out again. Shut them both out.

“He's always off and running somewhere.” Earl scowled. “Gets to feeling like he doesn't want to be here.”

“I'm sure he does want to be here. He's just . . . busy.” She put the dishes in the dishwasher, added detergent, and started the cycle. Still, it hurt that Colt had left. She shouldn't be surprised. He'd done it to her before, after all. She needed to remember she was his employee, not his wife, and she was here as a caretaker, not to build some fairy tale family. Like a fool, she still had hope that Colt could change. Probably the same naïveté that had her believing in the Easter Bunny until she was in middle school. “I'll leave him a note, in case he changes his mind.”

Earl got up to pour another cup of coffee. “You sure do have a lot of hope that things can change, Daisy.”

“And what's wrong with hope?”

“It hurts like hell when you lose it.” Earl put down the mug and glanced toward the hallway that Colt had gone down. “And hurts even more when you try to get it back. And you can't.”

Greta Winslow was concocting a plan. Which meant she'd had to break out the windmill cookies, the Maker's Mark, and a few favors. When her doorbell rang shortly after ten that morning, she popped to her feet. “Goodness, I do appreciate punctuality. At my age, every minute counts.”

“Who's on time?” Pauline asked. Esther sat beside her, still knitting, but not really paying attention to the conversation. The fur body underneath Esther's needle was starting to take shape. Sort of like a melted King Kong.

“My archenemy. And spy in training.” Greta hurried down the hall and opened the door. Harold Twohig stood on her doorstep, all spit and polish in a button-down beige shirt and black trousers, as if she'd invited him to the opera. For Pete's sake, the man had no concept of the words
informal meeting
. “Let me guess. You also wore a tux on casual Fridays?”

“My dear Greta, if all it takes to get your heart racing is a penguin suit, I'll break out my Brooks Brothers this very afternoon.” He grinned.

She shook her head and waved off the idea. “I have hardly digested my breakfast, Harold. It is far too early for that kind of an image in my head.”

He just laughed. “Then what, pray tell, did you invite me over for? A little early morning canoodling?”

“Lord Almighty, I'm going to have to take some Pepto just to get through a conversation with you.” She grabbed him by the button-down and tugged him into her house. This had been a mistake. Every time she involved Harold in anything, he took it as a sign that she was interested in him. “Now get in here quick before the neighbors start talking.”

“Ooh, I do like an aggressive woman.” He reached for her but she smacked his hand away.

“You unbutton or unfasten or unzip anything on that scrawny, hairy, albino body of yours and I will take a butcher knife to your appendages.”

“Aggressive
and
rough.” He leaned down to her ear and whispered. “You really know how to flirt, my dear Greta.”

She shuddered, and just hauled him the rest of the way down the hall and into the kitchen. Pauline and Esther gasped. Esther almost dropped a stitch. For a second, no one said anything, just stared and gawked, like seeing Harold in Greta's kitchen was some kind of roadside industrial accident.

“Harold?” Esther blinked. “What are you doing here? And in Greta's house?”

“Greta, are you two dating?” Pauline said, with a sly smile on her face.

“Lord, no. He's our secret weapon.”

“I like the sound of that,” Harold said. “It sounds sexy.”

“Don't make me do something I'm going to regret. Or get arrested for.” She pointed at a chair and ignored Harold's incessant smiling. Lord Almighty, she was already regretting this five seconds into it. “Have a seat, and if you quit with the double entendres, I might even pour you a cup of coffee.”

Harold patted his stomach. “Sounds like just the thing to go along with those cookies you baked—”

She thwacked him in the back of the head. Goodness, that man was a sputtering fool. “Quit talking, Harold, or the coffee will be in your lap instead of in a mug.”

He just grinned, the idiot. Greta poured a mug for him, then refilled Pauline and Esther's cups before sitting down herself. She shielded her eyes against the glare from the southeast corner of the room. “Lord Almighty, Esther, that dress is bright. What kind of spying do you expect to do when you're dressed like a highway marker?”

“Greta, florals are in this year. Especially bright florals.” Esther pressed a palm to her orange and yellow patterned dress. The thing glared like a bus in fog.

“So is wearing your pants down to the ground, but you don't see me doing that,” Greta said. “Everything I wear is securely buttoned and belted.”

“And challenging.” Harold grinned again.

She wanted to hit him, but instead just balled up her hands into fists and gave him a glare. Which Harold ignored. Lord, give her patience, or Greta was going to severely maim someone before the day was through.

Pauline and Esther leaned in as if Harold was a specimen under a microscope. “So, Harold, how are things with you and Greta?” Pauline said. “She won't say a word about you. I have absolutely no idea why.”

“Goodness, Pauline, are you part of the Spanish Inquisition? Let the man breathe.” Greta reached behind her to the counter, and retrieved a platter overflowing with windmill cookies to put in the center of the table. “We have work to do.”

“Work? But I haven't finished my dog yet.” Esther held up Rooney in Harold's direction. “Isn't it clever, Harold? Knit your own dog. If you want, I could make you one, too.”

“Esther, Harold has his own real-life dog. He doesn't want your yarn knockoffs.”

“I think it's adorable, Esther,” Harold said, shooting Greta a grin. “And if you want to make one for me, I would display it with pride.”

Esther beamed. Greta fought the urge to gag. What was wrong with Esther? Since when did she think it was okay to suck up to Harold Twohig?

“Ladies, can we focus?” She crossed her hands in front of her and looked at Harold. “I need the scoop on Daisy and Doc Harper, and I know you have it because you're friends with Walt Patterson, whose grandson is best friends with Doc Harper.”

“Good gracious, Greta, you have more people in that sentence than a Smith family reunion. And just because I see Walt a few times a week doesn't mean that Walt and I talk about what's going on with his grandson's friend and Daisy.” Harold sipped at his coffee and reached for a cookie. “These are my favorite kind of cookies, Greta. How'd you know?”

She wasn't going to answer the favorite cookies question. Because if she did, Pauline and Esther would think something was up between Greta and Harold and nothing was up. At all.

“You're old men. What else do you have to talk about besides what your families are up to? Your golf game?” She mocked a yawn.

“We might just be talking about
you
, my dear Greta.” He arched a caterpillar brow.

Greta rolled her eyes. “Get a grip on your knickers, you lecher. Focus, Harold. There are happy endings at stake here and I'm not getting any younger waiting for you to mature.”

Esther reached for a cookie, but Pauline put a hand on hers. Pauline arched a brow and nodded toward Harold. “Hey, Esther, don't we have a bingo game to go to?”

Esther made a face. “Bingo? Since when?”

“What Bingo?” Greta asked. What was Pauline doing? She had called the women here specifically to work on her Colt-Daisy plan, and Pauline was dashing out as quickly as she could.

“Since now,” Pauline said, with another hint-hint nod in Greta and Harold's direction.

“But I didn't get to eat a cookie yet,” Esther said.

Greta wheeled on Pauline. What was wrong with these two? Leaving at the worst possible time, too. “Where are you two going? We have work to do.”

“You and Harold can handle it. I'm sure he'll love being your minion, Greta. Or love slave, whatever term you want to slap on the job.” Pauline laughed.

What was this? A mutiny in her three-woman army? And since when did Pauline turn the tables on Greta Winslow? Greta's face flushed and she waved off the sudden heat in the room. “Harold is not my . . . anything.”

“I don't know. I kinda like the term love slave.” Harold put out his wrists. “Shackle me, Greta.”

“You're lucky it's still illegal to murder someone in your own kitchen,” Greta said. “And even more illegal to murder more than one someone at a time.”

“That's my cue.” Pauline grinned, then got to her feet and pressed two cookies into Esther's palm. “Here are your cookies. One for the road, and one for on the way out the door.”

“But, but—”

“Come on, Esther, it is time to go,” Pauline said, taking Esther's elbow. “I promise, we'll even stop at the craft store.”

“Really? Because last time you said we were going to the craft store, we ended up at the DMV and I had to wait in line with you for an hour.”

“I have my Michael's coupons all ready to go, I swear,” Pauline said, patting her purse. She leaned down and gave Greta a one-armed hug. She swore she could hear Pauline laughing as she did it. “Bye, Greta. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Which actually leaves the field quite open.”

“What are you doing?” Greta whispered to Pauline. “You know I don't want to be alone with that ogre.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, just admit you find him hot. Everyone knows you like Harold.”

“Pauline, I do not like him. Not one bit.”

“Whatever you say, Greta.” Then she straightened, toodled a wave at Harold, and hurried out the door with Esther. Had Greta spiked the wrong coffee this morning? What was up with Pauline and Esther? Some friends they turned out to be, leaving her with the troll who lived under the Golden Years bridge.

“Well, well, my dear. Seems we are alone at last.” Harold leaned across the table. “What do you have planned for me?”

Since she'd been deserted by her best soldiers, it looked like the only option Greta had left was to align herself with the devil's spawn. Or Harold Twohig. Whoever came with the least amount of headaches. And prosecutable offenses.