The Sweetheart Secret (6 page)

Concern filled Colt's features and erased all traces of irritation. He stood there, looking lost and frustrated, one hand on the back of the chair, one extended out, as if he could reach his grandfather, now several feet away. Daisy ached to soothe the waters somehow, to make it easier for Colt.

Only because she wanted him in a good mood before she talked to him about the loan. Not because that worried look in his face softened something deep inside of Daisy. Something that transported her back, back, back in time, to the days when she and Colt had found common ground in escaping the disappointments behind their own front doors.

In the old days, she would have grabbed Colt by the hand, and dashed away from their responsibilities. They would have bought a six-pack of PBR with a fake ID, climbed the fence for the private beach, built a little fire in the cove beside the dunes, and whiled away the hours until the moon marched across the sky and the sun began to crest again.

But this wasn't the old days, and she suspected
Doctor
Colt wasn't one for fake IDs or trespassing anymore.

“Grandpa, why don't you sit down?” Colt said. “I'll clean up.”

“I'm not a baby. I can clean up my own damned messes.” Earl gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, and shooed Colt away with the other.

Daisy bit back a smile. She recognized that stubborn spirit. Apparently a few things were passed down in the Harper DNA.

Frustration and concern filled Colt's eyes. Daisy decided to step in, even if it meant Colt ended up hating her later, not thanking her.

“Hey, Earl, why don't you and I knock out these dishes?” Daisy said. “Save Colt the trouble and the dishpan hands. Afterward, maybe we could sit on the porch and talk some smack about that crazy neighbor next door.” Before Earl could protest, Daisy slipped into place beside him, turned on the water, and squirted some soap over the dishes. She handed Earl a dish towel. “Here, you dry. And don't complain one bit, because I'm doing the hard part.”

“Okay, okay. How can I turn down an offer like that from a pretty woman like you?” Earl grinned, then leaned one hip against the counter. He made it look like a nonchalant move, as if he didn't need the extra support. After a while, the tension in his face eased and the color returned to his cheeks.

Daisy kept up a constant chatter with Earl while she washed and he dried. Colt finished his salad, then joined them in the kitchen, taking the dishes his grandfather dried and putting them away. The tension between the men eased. They joked and chatted with her as they worked, and the three of them whipped through the cleanup in record time. The whole thing was so domestic, so ordinary, that for a little while Daisy fell into the fantasy of being in a family. A home.

When the last dish was washed, she pulled the plug and watched the water drain, taking along a swirl of soap bubbles. With it, the light feeling she'd had before disappeared, and she remembered.

She wasn't here for some warm and cozy memories. She wasn't here to act out some missing component of her childhood or pretend she was in some traditional two-point-five kids and white-picket-fence world. She was here for business reasons—and nothing more.

“Well, kids, it's about time for
Dancing with the Stars
. I'm going to call it an early night.” Earl put the towel on the counter, then laid a hand on Daisy's shoulder. His kind blue eyes filled with warmth. “We'll make fun of the neighbors another time, young lady.”

Daisy nodded. “No problem.”

Though Daisy had no intentions of coming back here. Too bad, really, because she liked Earl. And had enjoyed the pizza more than she wanted to admit.

Earl left the room, his steps slow and shuffling. Leaving Daisy alone with Colt, with the perfect opportunity to bring up why she was here. But for some reason the same woman who could tell off a rude customer in five seconds flat, level a grope-hungry boss with one look, and take on every challenge handed to her, had gone tongue-tied.

It wasn't the pizza or the homey environment. Every breath she took brought with it a whiff of Colt's cologne, dark, woodsy, tempting. She wanted to curve into his height, lean her head on his broad shoulders, and hell, yes, jump his bones and take him upstairs to what she hoped was a king-sized bed.

She wanted to grab Colt's tie, unbutton his shirt, and get to the man beneath the starch. She wanted to hear his voice, growling deep against her throat, telling her everything that he was planning on doing to her in bed. Just like he had oh, so many years ago.

Those thoughts were not helping anything. She shook her head and refocused on the topic at hand. “I enjoyed talking to your grandpa. He's a really interesting man.”

“Thank you,” Colt said. “You really have a nice way with him. He's never that nice to me, not lately anyway.”

“Well, maybe it was just the change in conversational partners. You can be a little . . .”

“What?” He came a little closer. That dark cologne wafted between them. Enticing. “I can be a little what? Go ahead, you can say it.”

A smile curved up her face. “A little . . . stuffy.”

“Me?”

She danced her fingers along that tie, the buttons, the still-fresh panels of button-down. “Yes, Mr. Khakis, you.”

He caught her hand, and her breath lodged in her throat. “I do own other clothes, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, pretending she didn't notice how warm her hand felt against his. “Then prove it.”

“Come by on a weekend and you'll see me in jeans and a ratty T-shirt.”

“
You
own a ratty T-shirt?”

“Well, technically”—a sheepish grin filled his face—“I'd need to poke a hole in the fabric, maybe tear a seam or two, but yes, I
can
own a ratty T-shirt.”

She laughed. “Oooh, you are living on the edge, Colt.”

He released her hand and stepped away. Something shifted in his eyes, a shadow dropping over his features. “Yeah, that's me all right.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?”

She reached for the dish towel, put her back to the sink, and busied her hands with folding it into thirds. The light mood between them had dissipated, reminding her to get back to why she was here, but she couldn't find the words. Asking someone else for help—especially financial help—wasn't something Daisy did. Ever. She'd been on her own since she was eighteen, and the thought of having to go outside for assistance rankled.

But what choice did she have? Emma needed this new start, needed it even more than Daisy did. And maybe, just maybe, if she brought her cousin here, back to where their lives had once been light and happy, she'd get Emma back, too.

“I, uh, didn't come by for pizza.” Daisy draped the towel over the edge of the counter, then pushed off from the sink. “I came here to ask you to be a cosigner on a loan. That's why I'm here in Rescue Bay.”

“A loan?” Colt blinked. “For what? Why?”

“Because . . .” She gritted her teeth, then pushed the words through. “You have better credit than I do and it turns out the bank won't loan me the money without your signature. I thought I could get it just by staying married, but now they want you to sign for the loan, too.”

“Wait a minute.” He stepped back. “Is that why you really came roaring into my office yesterday, pissed off about the divorce papers? Were you using my credit without letting me know?”

“No, I wasn't doing that at all. You happened to come up, though, when I applied for the loan. Seems we're still attached financially, since we're still attached legally. For the record, I didn't want to use you at all. But . . . I have to.” She bit back a curse. Damn. She hated admitting that.

“How much of a loan are we talking about?”

Okay, so he hadn't said no. Yet. She took a breath, then exhaled it with the next words. “A hundred and ninety thousand dollars. More or less.”

Colt let out a low whistle. “That's a hell of a lot of money. What are you buying? A small castle?”

A happy ending.
But Daisy didn't say that out loud. The less Colt knew about Daisy's personal life, the better. Opening up to him all those years ago had left her alone and heartbroken. She was older now, wiser, and not the same starry-eyed girl who had run off and eloped with Colt, nor was she the hormone-addled Daisy who had slept with him three months ago. She was a woman with a mission now, a very important mission. “I've decided to reopen the Hideaway Inn.”

“What? When did you decide that?”

She didn't want to get into all the reasons why she had decided to run the inn. Doing so would open a vein, and that was something Daisy didn't do, not with Colt, not with anybody. If she did, she'd be forced to admit that a part of her, a crazy part, craved Colt's ordered, grounded world with a grandpa who ordered pizza, and a cozy bungalow on the ocean.

The idea of a life like that was what had made her jump in her car, move back to this town, and take a major leap of faith with the inn. She'd changed every aspect of her world in an instant and yet the thought of staying here after the renovations were done, both terrified and tempted her. So instead she defaulted to her usual live-by-the-seat-of-her-pants attitude, far easier than puzzling out why the very thing she wanted nearly drove her to panic attacks.

“I decided two weeks ago.” She shrugged. “I woke up one day, quit my job, and—”

“You quit your job, applied for a two hundred grand loan, and moved down here, on a . . . whim?”

“Yeah, basically.” She parked her fists on her hips. Okay, so that sounded irresponsible and rash and a thousand other mistakes waiting to happen, but Daisy wasn't about to justify or explain her choices to Colt, of all people. “So, will you cosign for me?”

He snorted. “And that would make sound financial sense . . . how? You don't exactly have staying power, Daisy.”

“Look who's talking. You left after three weeks.”

“And you went through three jobs in three weeks.”

“Hence, the poor credit.” She wasn't going to rehash her financial missteps. She'd had enough lectures on fiscal responsibility from the bankers she'd talked to. “Now will you please sign the papers for me?”

He shook his head and walked away. “You're incredible. I don't see you for years. Then we have a chance, one night together, and next thing I know, you're in town, wanting money out of me.”

“I don't need any actual money from you. Just your signature. And I wouldn't ask if I had
any
other option, believe me.”

He scoffed. “Gee, way to make me feel wanted.”

“You want me to make you feel wanted?” She closed the distance between them again and raised her chin until her lips were inches from his. Her heart fluttered. Heat pooled in her gut. She watched the pulse in his throat start to speed up,
boom-boom-boom
. The air between them charged with heated memories, unanswered desire. It had always been that way when she got close to Colt, as if he was a magnet that she couldn't resist.

“Is that what you want, Colt?” she said, her voice low and dark. “A little more sex, a little less commitment? Because you are very, very good at that.”

“I'm not the man I used to be.”

Her gaze raked over him. He still had the same blue eyes, the same dark hair with one pesky lock that dusted his forehead, the one that made her think of Clark Kent when she'd first met him. But then her gaze dropped lower, to the parts of Colt that had changed. The leather jackets and ripped jeans of years ago were gone. Instead now, a tie, loosened a little, but still with a stranglehold on his neck. The buttoned-down shirt, the pressed pants, the glasses tucked in his shirt pocket. The cell phone tethering him to a job 24/7.

“No. You're not. And that's too bad.” She shook her head. She didn't need this. Didn't need his intrusiveness. His questions. His input. She could do this on her own. Somehow. “Forget I even asked you.”

Then she walked out the door, leaving behind a few forgotten slices of stone-cold pizza. And her best chance at changing her future.

It was official. Daisy Barton was a naïve dreamer who didn't know when to walk away. A whole day of phone calls and e-mails, and all she had to show for it was a bigger pile of refusals from every bank in a fifty-mile radius.

Maybe quitting her job hadn't been the smartest decision. Turned out bankers liked people who were employed.

Damn Colt for being right. Planning ahead had never been her strong suit. She didn't put money aside for rainy days, didn't make five-year plans or think about when she was going to retire. She lived one day at a time, never dwelling on the shadows behind her, or the unseen curves in the road ahead. Which meant every once in a while she got caught in the rain without an umbrella.

“Okay then,” she said to herself, to the dreary, rundown, taupe world of Room 112 at the Rescue Bay Inn—a glorified title for a motel that looked like something straight out of a Hitchcock movie. “It's time to grow up.”

The trouble? Daisy Barton hadn't the first clue how a settled, dependable, grown-up thirty-two-year-old woman should behave. It was as if she'd gotten stuck at twenty-one and hadn't shifted into the next gear. The very things she had always wanted—a life, a home, a
purpose
—kept eluding her.

She'd start with getting the hell out of this depressing room for a while. Then figure the rest out from there.

Two blocks into her walk, she hit Main Street. A collection of pastel-colored shops, like cupcakes in a display, lined the quaint downtown area of Rescue Bay. The familiar boardwalk fronting the Gulf was still filled with the same tourist attractions, as if nothing had changed in almost two decades. Sure, the awnings were newer, the wares inside changed to fit the times, but overall, the beachfront looked as it had years ago.

Downtown Rescue Bay, however, had become a little more congested and a little busier than she remembered. Here, the landscape yielded to more traditional stores and homes, as if the Walnut Grove from the
Little House on the Prairie
books Daisy had read years ago had been brought into the twenty-first century—only with palm trees and cocoa butter. She'd always loved that about Rescue Bay, how it felt like it had walked out of the pages of a novel. She'd lived in cities most of her life, but there was just something . . . warm about Rescue Bay, like a handmade quilt draped over her shoulders.

Being near the water calmed Daisy's soul, made her feel rooted. Daisy had spent far too many years hopping from job to job, moving from place to place. The day Aunt Clara asked her to go to the inn, Daisy had realized a horrifying truth—

She had turned into Willow, her flighty, irresponsible, spontaneous mother.

No more. Things were changing for Daisy, one way or another. Even if the very thought of staying put made her panic.

She bought a newspaper at the Quick 'N Go, then sat down at a bright red circular table outside the quaint Shoebox Café and began to scan the classifieds. Around her, the town bustled and moved, people walking by, bicyclists whipping past, cars slowing to say hello to a friend on the corner. It was . . .

Perfect.

Exactly the kind of place Daisy needed. In more ways than one.

She'd only had one summer here, one too-fast, too-short summer, living in Rescue Bay, staying at the Hideaway Inn and spending every day with Emma, the two of them “two peas in a pod,” according to Aunt Clara. Then Emma had met a boy, and Daisy had met Colt, and perfection stepped up a notch or ten.

Saving the Hideaway Inn wasn't about restoring a business, or fulfilling Aunt Clara's request. No, deep down inside, Daisy knew that restoring the inn was about restoring something that had died. Something that she hoped still existed, in her, in Emma.

She dug in her purse for a pen, but came up empty. Yet another sign she needed to change her life. She wasn't even prepared enough to look for a job.

Instead, she improvised, swirling a red lipstick upward, and using the waxy color to circle anything she remotely qualified for. Dog walker. Beauty shop assistant. Diner waitress.

The door behind her opened, and the spry elderly lady Daisy had seen the other day in Colt's office came outside, followed by two men—one older, one younger—who looked so much alike they had to be father and son. The scent of fresh-baked bread and apple pie wafted from the café's interior.

“Why hello again,” the woman said. She had an easy smile, and a friendly manner packed into her five-foot-three frame.

Daisy returned the greeting, then offered up an apologetic smile. “I'm so sorry I burst in on your appointment. I was in a rush and didn't think.”

The woman waved it off. “Don't think another thing about it, dear. You saved me yet another lecture about brussel sprouts and Metamucil.”

Daisy laughed. “That doesn't sound like fun.”

“Tell Doc Harper. He thinks brussel sprouts cure everything. If I were a doctor, I'd prescribe cookies all around.”

Daisy could just imagine Colt's reaction to that. The man she'd met and married all those years ago would have endorsed cookies for dinner, pancakes for lunch, or ditching work to hit the beach. He'd been fun and adventurous, sexy and dangerous, the kind of man who made breaking the rules into a tempting game.

Then he'd changed, swinging a hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction. In the years since, he'd taken that change to the nth degree. The Colt she had met three months ago had been as buttoned up as a butler, all scheduled and organized. The second she saw him sitting alone at a table in Nero's, she'd decided to make it a personal mission to loosen him up and give him a taste of what he'd been missing.

The trouble was where that taste had led. Right here, right now, in a muddy web that would only get muddier if she got close to Colt again. She'd focus on getting the loan, getting Emma down here, and only then, when Emma was here and Daisy had set their worlds to rights again, only then would she be able to move forward.

“Oh my, I completely forgot my manners.” The woman beside Daisy turned toward the two men on her right side. “I'm Greta Winslow, and these two handsome men are my son, Edward, and my grandson, Luke.”

Daisy rose and shook with each of the men. Luke was tall and trim, with the build and haircut of a military man, while his father had the buttoned-up suit and tie of a businessman. If not for the dark hair and deep blue eyes, she would have sworn they weren't related. “Nice to meet you both. I'm Daisy Barton.”

“New to Rescue Bay?” Luke asked. Beside him, his father stepped away, scrolling through messages on his phone with Type-A intensity. Daisy had met dozens of men like Edward over the years, men who had little interest in anything beyond their career. But his son and mother were likeable, friendly, and open, as if the two of them could make up for Edward's indifference.

“Sort of. I stayed here one summer, years ago,” Daisy said to Luke. “But the town is pretty much the way I remember it.”

“You did?” Greta said. “Where?”

“At the Hideaway Inn. Some of my relatives owned it. They still do, in fact.”

“Really? I remember the Hideaway Inn,” Greta said. “Such a lovely place for a vacation. My Edward and I would go there sometimes for dinner. A lovely woman used to own it with her husband. Harriet and . . . George, I think.”

“They were my cousin's grandparents, on her mother's side. My aunt and uncle took over after they retired. But then my uncle died and my aunt . . . she just didn't want to be there without him. Now, my cousin and I are looking at reopening it.”

“That would be a wonderful thing for Rescue Bay. Why, I remember the days when there were weddings out at the Hideaway every weekend.” She turned to her grandson. “Luke, you should talk to Olivia about having your wedding there. It's right on the beach and has this lovely outdoor patio that faces the water.”

“Sounds perfect. Is it available?” Luke asked Daisy.

“Well, it's currently being renovated.” A white lie, but if Daisy got the loan, it would be the truth. “When were you planning on getting married?”

“Next month.” Luke grinned. “Grandma here keeps trying to get us to pin down a place, but really, all Olivia and I want is something simple and done, especially since we keep procrastinating on the planning. To us, the marriage is the important part, not the wedding.”

“Such wisdom.” Greta beamed and gave Luke's hand a pat. “Every so often, you reflect the good genes I gave you.”

Luke laughed. “Easy to do with you spouting wisdom at me every other minute.”

“Some people call that meddling,” Greta said to Daisy, sotto voce.

“Meddling is your middle name, Grandma.” Luke gave his grandmother a gentle one-armed hug. A wave of affection showed in that gesture, the kind of affection Daisy had craved nearly all her life. What was with this town? Was everybody here part of the same inviting little family?

“Be sure to stay away from this one,” Luke continued. “My grandmother will have you married off before you can look both ways to cross the street.”

“Oh, I don't have to marry off this one,” Greta said. “She's already married. To Doc Harper.”

The world stilled. The streets quieted and it seemed as if everyone on the sidewalk stopped what they were doing and held their breath.

“Oh, darn. I didn't mean to spill those particular beans,” Greta said.

Luke arched a brow. “Doc Harper has a
wife
?”

Damn. Daisy hadn't wanted that to be public knowledge. But it was her own fault for bursting into Colt's office and not thinking before she spoke—or yelled, rather. Impulsive—that was going to be inscribed on her tombstone:
IF ONLY SHE HAD THOUGHT BEFORE SHE ACTED.

No one had ever accused Daisy Barton of being too cautious. Which was how she ended up in this whole mess in the first place.

“Yes, but we've been . . . separated,” Daisy said.

“And now you both are together again. I'm sure Doc Harper is just over the moon to have you nearby.” Greta smiled, as if just saying those words made it a fact.

Daisy wouldn't call Colt's reaction “over the moon.” More like over the top. Okay, maybe not that bad. But he definitely wasn't happy to see her.

There'd been a time . . .

Those days were over, Daisy reminded herself. Far in the past. Colt and she had changed—that night three months ago had told her that—and dwelling on what used to be only kept her stuck. She was moving forward, not back. Never, ever back.

Greta turned to the men beside her. “You two scoot. I can walk back to Golden Years from here.”

Edward scowled, and thumbed a remote toward a Mercedes parked alongside them. It chirped a happy, polished greeting in return. “Mother, you're probably tired. I can drive you—”

“Edward Winslow, I am old enough to know when I need a ride and when I can hoof it back home by myself.” Greta gave him a glare, then nodded toward Daisy. “Besides, I want to get to know Rescue Bay's newest resident. It's my duty to welcome all new people to town.”

“I thought Patty Simon was the Welcome Wagon president,” Luke said.

Greta's face pursed like a lemon. “That woman couldn't be president of a Girl Scout troop. She almost gave everyone at Golden Years food poisoning with her undercooked muffins.”

Luke chuckled. “I detect a little jealousy in your voice, Grandma.” He leaned toward Daisy and lowered his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “My grandma doesn't like the fact that Patty has the hots for Harold Twohig. Don't let her fool you about retirement being boring. It's quite the little soap opera over there at Golden Years.”

Greta gave Luke a not-so-gentle swat. “I have no interest in that pox on society. Stop filling Daisy's head with lies.”

Daisy watched the exchange, and tried to quell the envy bubbling inside her. They all seemed so normal, so warm and friendly, like the kind of families on TV. Good God, she was over thirty. She shouldn't be envious of something as simple as a little family teasing.

But she was. More than she wanted to admit. That envy bumped up against all the things Daisy kept tucked deep inside her, the past she never visited, the home she had run away from because it had never been home, not for a moment. For a few weeks, she'd thought she'd found what she'd been seeking, no, what she'd
craved—

But then it was gone, and she wised up to the fact that putting stock in fantasies only led to heartbreak.

“I'm just teasing. We all know you love to hate Harold.” Luke bent down and kissed his grandmother's cheek. “I'll see you later, Grandma.” Then he turned to Daisy. “It was nice to meet you. Best of luck with the Hideaway. And if you do start doing weddings, just let me or Olivia know. Or my grandmother. She'll be sure to spread the word.”

“Thank you,” Daisy said. Already, a potential customer? It had to be a sign that the inn was meant to be resurrected. “I will.”