The Sweetheart Secret (9 page)

Colt lasted four hours.

He made it through the rest of his morning patients, choked down a lunch he didn't taste, and entered chart notes he hardly remembered. He barely answered Suzie's questions, and had the nurse take vitals since he couldn't concentrate long enough to remember the numbers he saw. The box of beignets sat on the break room table, always in the back of his mind. He'd gone in there at least three times to eat one, then changed his mind. Finally, he tossed them in the trash, and told himself it was a healthy choice.

But it didn't make him feel any better. Didn't ease his thoughts.

At one, he came out of his office and headed for the front desk. “What's the schedule look like for the rest of the day?” he asked Frannie.

She leaned back in her chair and arched a sharp auburn brow in his direction. Frannie had been with him for more than six years now and knew him better than he knew himself. She was a mother of four grown sons and grandmother to three more boys, and the one thing she didn't do was take crap from anyone. She ran his office like a well-oiled machine.

“You're asking me?” she said. “Half the time you know your schedule better than I do, Doc. You are freakishly well organized. Makes me feel like a hoarder.”

Colt glanced at Frannie's desk, neat as a pin save for the stack of patient folders waiting in a wicker basket to be processed for insurance and then filing. “You? You are the most efficient assistant I've ever had.”

Frannie laughed. “I'm the only assistant you've ever had, but I'll take the compliment.” She turned to her computer, clicked on the scheduling program, then ran a finger down the screen. “Mrs. Ward canceled and Mr. Twohig rescheduled. That leaves just one other appointment for the day, a physical with Mrs. Cook.”

“Mrs. Cook. Okay.” He stood there, shifted his weight. His mind wandered back to Daisy. Had she really thought he'd sign off on a two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan, just for a beignet? Okay, a beignet and a killer dress that had been starring in a striptease fantasy in his head for hours. He refocused on his assistant. “Uh . . . what's Mrs. Cook coming in for again?”

Frannie met his gaze with direct, assessing green eyes that could diagnose a lie as well as he could diagnose pneumonia. “Nothing big. Just a physical. You know, I can easily reschedule that appointment for you, Doc. You look a little . . . distracted.”

“I'm fine,” Colt said. He fiddled with the pens on the counter, resorting them into blues on one side, reds on the other. “Just fine.”

Frannie's hand covered his, stopping his ballpoint OCD. “You are far from fine.”

He crossed to the window, then back again to Frannie's desk. Nervous energy coiled tight in his chest, a spring held back by a weakening pin. His mind kept straying to Daisy. He'd been so tempted by the beignets, by her. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about a single other thing the rest of the day. “When did you say my next appointment was? Who canceled again?”

The office door opened and Greta bustled into the room. She wasn't on the schedule, which meant she was either here on a fact-finding mission or to give Colt a piece of her mind about broccoli. “Why, if it isn't Doc Harper. Just the man I wanted to see.”

He did not have the patience for this today. Heck, he barely had the brainpower to function. “Mrs. Winslow, I'm—”

“There's not a car in the parking lot, and I know Harold Twohig rescheduled his one o'clock.”

“How do you know Harold Twohig rescheduled?”

“He told me as much when—” Her face reddened and she waved a hand. “That's neither here nor there. What matters is that I am here on an urgent matter.”

Colt took a step closer, ran a quick scan over Greta's features. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm perfectly fine. I am in outstanding health.” She parked her fists on her hips, as if daring him to disagree. “I'm not here to talk about me, or God forbid, Harold Twohig. I want to talk about Daisy.”

“Daisy?” What was with the universe today? Every time he tried to stop thinking about Daisy, there was a reminder of her. And
wham
, his mind was right back where it started. On the beignets. On Daisy's dress. And most of all, on how damned much he'd wanted to kiss her in the break room. And still did, damn it.

“Daisy is a lovely woman,” Greta said. “Olivia and I spent most of the afternoon with her. Daisy is sweet and warm and just a delightful addition to Rescue Bay. Especially since she's a budding entrepreneur, about to reopen a long-standing business in this town. In my book, that's an extra check in the plus-Daisy column.” Greta raised her chin. “I have no idea what kind of . . . foolishness you are embarking upon with her, but I think it would be smart of you to give her a reason to stay around.”

“Mrs. Winslow—”

“A little birdie told me she needs a job. And since you have connections within this community, I'm sure you can help her out.” Greta patted his arm. “Now I know you might think I'm meddling, but I'm merely trying to help strengthen our local economy by maintaining our workforce.”

Frannie snorted out a laugh. Colt coughed to cover a laugh of his own. Of all the justifications he'd heard from Greta for her various machinations, this one was the boldest of all. “Helping the local economy?”

“Why, of course. It's part of my civic duty.” She gave his arm a pat. “Anyway, you think about it. I'm sure something will come to you.”

After Greta left, Colt stood by the window for a long time while Muzak played on the sound system and the A/C blew cool air into the room. He should have been thinking about his grandfather, about finding a way to bring Grandpa Earl out of that dark cave he'd retreated to, a way to restore what family Colt had left. Colt should have been thinking about his practice, his patients, hell, his taxes. But instead, his mind lingered on one thing.

Daisy.

If Greta was right and Daisy was looking to settle down, stay here, did that mean she had changed? And if she had, what did that mean to him?

Frannie came up behind him and handed him a note. “Doctor Kepler called. Your grandfather canceled his appointment and refused to reschedule. And I forgot to tell you earlier, but the visiting nurse left a rather angry voicemail this morning. Apparently your grandpa ran her off with a shotgun.”

Colt ran a hand through his hair. “Great. Just what I need.”

“It'll be fine.” Frannie gave him a gentle smile. “My mom was like that after she got really sick with cancer. Wouldn't let anyone do a darned thing for her. She hated being weak and hated asking for help. It'll take some time, but I'm sure your grandpa will come around and you'll find a nurse who won't take any guff from Earl. You, though,
you
need a break.”

“I'm fine, I'm fine.” But he lingered by the window, trying to settle the thoughts that rushed through his mind like tumbleweeds.

After a moment, Frannie got to her feet, crossed into his office, and returned with his briefcase. She pressed the leather satchel into his hands. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”

“What? I still have patients.”

“Your mind is as far from work as Earth is from the moon. You know it, and I know it.”

“Frannie, I don't leave early. I don't take days off. I don't cancel.”

“Which is exactly why you should do it today. Saints don't make good doctors, Doc Harper.” She put a hand to his back and gave him a gentle nudge toward the door. “Now go take some time to clear your head. Work will be here tomorrow.”

Colt wanted to argue, to tell Frannie work was the only thing he needed right now, but he would have been lying. She was right. He
was
distracted. The sooner he rid himself of that distraction, the better. Then he could focus on patient care. Instead of what had brought a five-foot-six curvy blast of his past hurtling into his well-ordered, carefully constructed life. The last thing he needed was Daisy bursting into town and shaking the snow globe of his world.

If she really was planning on staying and running the Hideaway Inn, that meant she'd be reopening the past Colt had tried so hard to put behind him. Exposing not just the man he used to be, but the mistakes he had made, too.

People in this town saw him as a respectable, conscientious doctor. But a responsible man didn't run off and elope with a woman he barely knew. A responsible man didn't walk out on his wife of three weeks. A responsible man didn't abandon the brother who was counting on him. A brother who—

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

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

You're a good big brother.

Colt closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. He forced his thoughts back, tucking the past deeper into the recesses of his mind, something he had done a thousand times before. Because if he did that enough times, maybe one of these days it wouldn't hurt so bad. He took another breath, then another, until the dark receded.

Then he thanked Frannie and headed outside, to go home, spend some time updating charts or analyzing spreadsheets or something equally predictable and safe. Something that would refocus his mind on work. Instead, when he reached in his pocket for his car keys, his fingers brushed against the slip of paper Daisy had given him.

Her familiar slanted handwriting stared back at him. Just her name, followed by the ten digits of her cell phone number. The
D
in Daisy as dominant as a sequoia, followed by a long scribble of the other four letters. The last time he'd seen her name written like that had been on a marriage license in Louisiana, with his name paired along hers, two signatures filled with hope and naïveté.

He got in his car, started the engine, and headed to the eastern side of Rescue Bay. He passed the turn for his own street, turned left, then right, before arriving at the destination that had been inevitable since Frannie handed him his briefcase.

The Rescue Bay Inn.

Daisy's dusty crimson Toyota was parked in front of Room 112 of the rundown, sun-paled building. No other cars sat in the lot, and the outdoor pool had only one visitor: a long-legged brunette in a navy blue one-piece swimsuit that molded to her curves like hot fudge on a sundae.

Damn.

He stood there for a long moment, feeling like a stalker, watching her lie in the sun, face upturned to greet the Florida rays, giant dark sunglasses masking her brown eyes. A
People
magazine lay on the concrete beside her, anchored in place by a half-full water bottle and an open package of cookies.

He unlatched the gate, and when the hinges creaked in complaint, Daisy sat up, and pivoted toward him. No expression betrayed her thoughts, but her shoulders stiffened and her hand curled tight around the aluminum frame of the chair.

All he noticed was the way the swimsuit hugged her body, the dark fabric ten times more dramatic against her pale skin. The way the neckline—a sweetheart neckline, some remote reach of his brain supplied—outlined the generous swells of her breasts, then dipped in a tantalizing V in the center. Her hair was undone, loose around her shoulders, and the breeze toyed with the dark tresses, as if taunting him with what he couldn't have.

He'd had an entire speech planned on the way over here. A list of a half dozen reasons why she should sign the divorce papers and go back to New Orleans. But every one of those thoughts flitted away, and all he managed instead was, “Enjoying the sun? It's a nice warm day for it.”

Lame small talk. What was he, sixteen again? What was it about Daisy Barton that muddled Colt's mind? She made him feel like a geeky, stumbling fool.

She leaned back against the chair and studied him, her own eyes unreadable behind the oversized dark sunglasses. “Did you really come here to discuss the weather, Colt?”

“No, I didn't.” He cleared his throat, then took a seat on the edge of the lounge chair beside her. He propped his elbows on his knees, and forced his gaze away from her cleavage and back to her face. “I came here to talk about us. Well, you. And me. And . . .” He cursed. “What the hell are you doing here, Daisy?”

Three times he'd asked her that same question. Maybe because he still couldn't put the words
Daisy
,
here
,
and
back in his life
together.

“I'm enjoying the sun.” She lay back against the chair and turned her face to the sky again.

“Goddammit, Daisy, don't play games with me. We had an understanding years ago—”

“An understanding? I thought it was a marriage.”

“A marriage we ended, by mutual agreement,” he said.

“Until you came to New Orleans and thought you'd screw my brains out, for what, old times' sake?”

The harsh words iced the air between them. “That wasn't what that was.”

“No?” She turned to him again, lowered the sunglasses, and met his gaze head-on. “Then what do you call it when you flirt with me, tell me you still care, take me back to your hotel room, have mind-blowing sex with me, and then FedEx divorce papers to me three months later?”