Wild in the Moment (12 page)

“That's because you're an evil, evil woman.”

“Don't try complimenting me. You can't get out of making me dinner.”

“Somehow I ended up with a really raw deal there. It's your payday but I'm the one doing dinner. How does that work?”

“It works fine in a woman's head,
cher.
”

“Yeah. I get that. What I can't get is how I got bamboozled into the deal to begin with.”

It was such nonsense talk. Silliness. She had no idea how three hours passed so fast. He explained the process of finishing the wood. The redwood was all naked and sanded. All she had to do was dip her cloth in the bowl of gunk and “love it in” as he called it.

They'd ambled through conversations. His political views were misguided, but she educated him. She told him stories about growing up in Vermont, the winters, tobogganing and skating with the MacDougal boys next door, her dad leading a Percheron-driven sleigh in the fields with the three sisters trundled up in fifty layers of clothing.

He told her about his mom and dad—how his mom was the blockhead of the family, the one whose genes he'd inherited. “Dad had the patience of a saint, put up with her, put up with me. My sister—Riley—she was the perfect kid. I was the snot.”

“You?”
Daisy asked in teasing disbelief.

“I know, I know. It's hard to believe. But it seemed like I was always getting suspended for opening my mouth to a teacher. The thing is, when they were wrong, I liked to correct them.”

“And you always knew what was right?”

“Yup. I did. And my mom did. Sometimes we butted heads.” He thought. “Sometimes we still do, I guess. When she and I go at it, we can generally clear the room faster than a skunk.”

“You yell? At your mother?”

“She yells at me. The louder the argument, the more she likes it. My dad used to say, let's hope and pray they broke the mold with you two.”

“Did he try giving you two time-outs?”

“Nah. Both my parents were hard-core softies. No discipline. Encouraged Riley and me to explore any damn thing we wanted. Dad even encouraged the arguments, because he said they taught me to think. And Mom—she really screwed me up.”

“Yeah?”

“She was the one who pushed the major independence. If I got kicked out of class for speaking my mind, she just laughed. When I fought with Dad to travel around the country my senior summer alone, he thought I was too young. She pushed me to do it. Every damn thing I did wrong, Mom was there to egg me on.”

“You're blaming her for the times you got in trouble?”

“Well, I wouldn't put it that way. She just likes to take credit, when sometimes I think I should get some credit myself. But what can you do? She's my mom. I have to let her have her way.”

She loved listening. It was so nice, hearing someone talk up their parents. How good they were. That he enjoyed being with them. He told her about Christmases. About hiking the Appalachian Trail. About his history skiing—which involved a lot of drinking at a ski lodge and very little skiing.

He had endless stories to tell—in most of which, he was the villain, or so he claimed. He kept her laughing and talking so much that it only occurred to her later that he'd failed to mention any of the girlfriends in his life. She was about to call him on that when he suddenly walked over, hooked his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“Holy cow, are you
filthy.
”

He said it in such an admiring tone that she blinked,
then glanced down. The shirt he'd loaned her was an old blue chambray with a few spots on it. Now it was thoroughly polka dotted with the finishing product and smelled like something that needed fumigating.

She couldn't help it. There was something about working with the wood. Rubbing in the finish. Bringing out the beauty and grain of each board. Loving it in. She'd had no choice about putting her whole self—and his shirt—into it.

Teague shook his head. “Did you play in mud puddles when you were a kid?”

“Are you kidding? I aced the class in sissiness. I got in lots of trouble, but I was always dressed for it.”

“You'd never know it now. Come on.”

“Come on where? We can't leave. I'm not done.” Although, when she glanced out the window, the sun was gone. In fact, the entire day was gone. It was wicked-dark and snowing like a banshee.

“We've been at it nonstop. It's after six. This is nuts. I know you said you didn't have to close up the café tonight. But we both need showers. I need to start dinner, and first off—before the stores close—we have to go buy you some decent clothes.”

“Um, Teague.” She waved a hand in front of his face to get his attention. “In case you haven't noticed, the one thing in this life I very definitely have is decent clothes. The last thing I need is more.”

“You don't have the kind of fancy label stuff I'd buy for you,” he insisted.

Oh, God. He dragged her into the General Store on Main Street. It was one of those truly old-fashioned places where you could buy a wedding ring, a hoe, dry powders for headaches and stamps at the same time. The back of the store housed clothes—all on shelves,
nothing hung up. The denim was so stiff it could walk by itself. The shirts were so sturdy they were heavier than she was.

“You think these overalls work like a chastity belt?” she asked him. “I don't see how anyone could get in or out of them.”

“I hadn't thought about that advantage,” he said thoughtfully.

She slugged him. But she couldn't stop him from buying her a new wardrobe of jeans, flannel shirts, gloves, wool socks. “You're sure you can bend your knees in these pants?” she worried.

“You don't wear them
yet,
you silly. First we have to roll up the jeans in dirt and stones, then wash them in bleach. Even then, the fabric will be tougher than the denim you're used to—but the point is, you can spill some paint and varnish and what-all without anything going through the cloth to your skin. And you can wear them over and over, not ruin your pretty stuff.”

She gasped when she saw the total. “For Pete's sake, Teague, I can get real clothes for that amount of money.”

“Yeah, but would you look this cute? Now. For dinner.”

She wasn't aware of being tired, but she'd been up before dawn, cooking and baking, and then really poured on the coals through the hours with Teague. At his house, he started a roaring fire, then parked her on pillows in front of it. “We're going to picnic in here,” he told her. “No peeking in the kitchen.”

By the time she sank on those pillows, her muscles were creaking, her whole body begging to be let down. It was so different from stress tired, though. She'd loved
every minute of the day, loved every minute of being with him.

“Aha,” he said finally from the doorway, and came bearing a tray with a lit candle on it.

She twisted into a sitting position and then had to laugh. The candle was set in a crystal holder, very fancy, very nice. The two blue plates matched. The napkins were neatly creased. The wine was served in serious stemware.

The dinner fare was simply peanut butter and bacon sandwiches with chips. “And ice cream bars for dessert—if you finish everything on your plate.” He waggled his finger at her. “You don't have to say anything. I'm aware that I'm not exactly a chef at your level.”

“Are you kidding? I haven't had this in years.”

“It's got all the food groups, right? Or it will as soon as we have the ice cream bars.”

“Especially if there's chocolate on the ice cream. You do know that chocolate's one of the critical food groups?”

He looked affronted at the question. “What, you think I was born in a cabbage patch? I never leave chocolate out of a serious meal.” He added, “I was missing fruit, but then I figured, there are grapes in the wine.”

“Right.”

“I guess there's no vitamin D. But tomorrow I could throw you out in the sunshine to take care of that.”

“Assuming there is sunshine.”

“That is a problem in winter,” he conceded. “But assuming we can steal some sunshine, we could have a snowball fight to get our vitamin D.”

“I'm amazed how far you're willing to go for the cause of nutrition.”

“Hey, there are a lot of things you don't know about me.”

They'd been talking and teasing each other all day, yet somehow both of them suddenly stopped talking. The fire snapped and sizzled. Shadows danced on the far walls. Silence seeped between them.

She'd looked at him all day…but not
looked.
He made it so easy to be with him. If he wanted something more from her than time, company, someone to work with—someone to make love with—he never let on. After their exuberant coming together earlier, he hadn't touched her, not in any come-on way, yet desire was like a third heartbeat between them. Just…there. Beating, beating, beating. The sound in her ears. The sound in her heart.

Slowly he pushed aside the dinner tray and held out a hand. She took it, her eyes still on his. She knew the question, although he didn't ask. She gave him the answer, by sweeping her arms around his neck and offering a slow, long, openmouthed kiss.

It seemed like a zillion times that day she'd peeled off her slacks and blouse. This time, though, was different. This time he pushed her blouse up, silky inch by silky inch, his strong callused hands cherishing every touch, every sensation. Yearning, licking hot, sang through her bloodstream. All her life she'd been restless. All her life she'd craved excitement. For the first time she had the crazy idea that he'd been the one she was searching for. Not an event or a place or an activity that was exciting—but him.

Only him.

The thought surfaced, then dissolved. He'd made her clothes disappear, so she concentrated on doing the same magic trick with his. Then they were together
again, on their knees, breasts, tummies, pelvises rocking to the same music, creating the same friction, dancing to the same primitive beat.

He lifted his head long enough to smile—one of those all-male disgusting smiles of complete possession.
I own you, babe.

Well, yeah. He did at that moment. But she owned him right back. Which she showed him at great length and detail.

She woke up past midnight to find him raining kisses all over her face and throat. “Are we waking up for a reason?” she murmured sleepily.

“I wasn't sure if you could sleep here or had to go back to your place. I want you to stay. But you could have to get up awfully early in the morning for the café.”

“I do. Five-thirty.”

“Well…” More kisses. Concentrating on her cheekbones. Then her jaw. “I can either get up and drive you home at five in the morning. Or now. Whatever works easiest for you.”

She hadn't thought about it, but now that he'd raised the question—and she was awake—she put in a vote. “I don't want to leave you, but it really would be easier to be at my place. Then I just have to walk downstairs to open up. And you don't have to get up at that ungodly hour.”

“I don't mind.”

“I do. It's not like we can't spend the whole night together another time.” She answered his sleepy kisses with more of her own, yet suddenly remembered. “Teague, you don't have to drive me at all. I have your car.”

“I know you do. But we're not making love and then you drive yourself home.”

He insisted, the silly man. So they dressed and bundled up—she took her new work clothes—and he saw her to the door. Main Street showed no signs of life by then. Occasional crystal snowflakes drifted around the traffic lights. Gossamer-thin clouds whisked around the full moon. The street was theirs, no one else anywhere in sight. A good-night kiss turned into two, then four.

She let him go finally, feeling warm inside all the way to the bones. That
love
word was humming in her pulse again as she unlocked the door and zoomed up the stairs on happy wings. At the top she kicked off her boots, plopped down her packages and bent down to switch on a lamp for light.

Her crazy, giddy smile suddenly faltered.

In the middle of the attic floor—heaven knew how it had gotten there—was a huge, four-foot chocolate heart wrapped in red crinkly paper.

“An early Valentine's Day,” the card read. “Four more days until the real thing. This is just the beginning.”

The heart was extravagant. Thoughtful. Romantic. Unique. And God knew she loved chocolate.

Yet a shiver chased up her spine.

The present was wonderful, but it was the kind of thing Jean-Luc would have done.

And suddenly she was scared.

C
arrying a dripping spatula, Daisy charged over to the window dividing the kitchen from the café. It wasn't even eight in the morning, yet people were pouring in as if there were no tomorrow.

Her lavender-lemon shortbread cookies were good, but not
this
good.

The café always drew a good morning crowd, but traditionally they were the coffee suckers, the commuters desperate for a fast cup or the retirees gathering for the daily fight about politics. This was…well, everyone. All ages.

“More cookies, Daisy!” Harry bellowed over the transom.

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” Or she was trying to. She hadn't slept well because of worrying about Teague, so she'd come in bleary-eyed—prepared to
bake. But damn. Not prepared to need quadruple batches of her shortbread cookies.

She sprinted back to her bowls and oven mitts and cookie sheets, too far to hear what people were saying and too busy to ask Harry what was going on. The shortbread recipe had passed down from her dad's family—the Scots side—but her mom had put the French flair to it, richening it up with the sneaky hints of lavender and lemon. The cookies weren't sweet so much as intense. Addictive. Particularly since she had the best source for the best lavender in the universe—her sister Violet.

A blast of cold air indicated more customers pouring in, and Daisy shook her head. As good as the cookies were—and she knew perfectly well that her skills as a baker made them darn near fabulous—there was still no explaining the high demand in the café this morning.

Harry showed up in the doorway. “I could use you a few more hours, if you want the work. Hell, Daisy, I had no idea you were gonna bring in this many customers when I took you on part-time.”

Again she glanced over the transom window. Standing-room only. Every booth was filled. And the door was opening yet again. “For Pete's sake, what on earth are all these people
doing
here?”

“What do we care? They're buying—although I have to admit,” Harry wiped his brow, “I'm not used to working this hard. I wish to hell we hadn't let Jason take off for a few days. And Janelle can't do the tables by herself.”

“I can see that. But what's the deal? Schools aren't closed today, are they? Or is it some historical person's birthday that I don't remember…?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Come on, Daisy. You know what they're here for.”

She didn't. Not only was she running on half empty, but she'd been too busy to think ever since they opened the café that morning. “I have no idea,” she insisted.

“They know all about the heart. The big four-foot chocolate heart. And now they want to know what you're going to do about it—and then what Teague's going to do next.” Harry waited for that to sink in before adding, “You didn't think it'd escape anyone in White Hills when UPS brought that package in, did you? The whole town's been watching Teague and you spend time together.”

She gulped. All this buzz was about
her?

Someone called Harry's name and he turned back to the bustling café she went back to her cookies and baking, pulling out croissants, three loaves of buttermilk-lavender bread, another round of cinnamon clusters, and of course more cookies. But her heart kept sinking.

She'd called Teague last night, sure his feelings would be hurt if she didn't—he'd want to know she'd found the heart. But he must have fallen dead asleep, because he didn't answer. She left a message, trying to express an exuberant thanks and hoping to catch up with him this afternoon. But now…

Unease kept rippling through her. Last night she'd been ruffled by a feeling of déjà vu, and now here was a second déjà vu, even more upsetting and nettling than last night's. She wanted to be thrilled over the heart. What woman wouldn't be charmed by such an extravagant romantic gesture?

Except, last night, her first thought was how many times Jean-Luc had done something like this—tried to pull the wool over her eyes by doing something effu
sively romantic. For years she'd built up a knee-jerk response. Gift, trick. Get a gift, look over your shoulder for the trick—because something was going to hurt and soon.

She knew that Teague was nothing like Jean-Luc. She knew. And it certainly wasn't Teague's fault that his gift had turned into a spectacle. He couldn't possibly understand how sick and shaken she felt about being the focus of attention. As a kid, God knew, she'd done wild things to get attention, but then she'd married Jean-Luc, the master of public, flashy gestures. So many times Jean-Luc had pulled off some grandiose gift or event in a big public way—as if to show everyone how much he loved her—when they couldn't afford that kind of extravagance. When she'd been working two or more jobs to pay for his last “wonderful” gesture.

Daisy just couldn't seem to stop feeling as if she were floundering. She'd just learned the harsh lesson that when a man felt obligated to shout how much he loved a woman…he likely didn't.

She heard the sheriff's booming voice, glanced out and saw George settling at his usual center seat at the counter—he always had his first cup at the café—only this morning Harry and Janelle were both running to keep up with the other customers. With everyone else so busy, Daisy brought out the pot and a fresh plate of cookies—but she mentally braced. To expect George not to flirt and tease was like wondering if the sun was going to come up in the morning.

Sure enough, George said immediately, “So. I hear you've got yourself a beau.”

“Beau? Isn't that a term that died out before the Civil War?”

George just grinned at her attempt to divert him. “So
maybe we need a different term than beau. How about victim? Here you've been in town less than three weeks and already you're breaking hearts.”

She was living up to her old reputation, he meant, which stung her conscience even more. She might have been careless with boys back in high school, but she'd grown up. So much so that the idea of hurting Teague in any way bothered her terribly. “Look, George, the heart was a joke. I've been doing some work with Teague, and I let on how much I love chocolate.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really, that's all it is!”

“Yeah, well, my ex-wife let on lots of times how much she liked chocolate and I bought her plenty, too. But nothing like a four-foot heart. That had to cost some. And Teague—he's usually the most practical guy in town. Practical, serious, quiet, sticks to himself. For him to make a big gesture like that—oh, baby, you've got him hooked with a capital
H.
”

Daisy frowned. The comment made her realize that the townspeople didn't know the real Teague. For darn sure, he was sturdy and strong and practical, but he wasn't all that quiet and didn't naturally have a loner personality at all. He also had a whole personality side that he didn't show easily to others—the side that bought a mutt named Hussy a pink collar. The side that made him lie about his expenses so a wheelchair-bound customer could afford him. The side of him that listened to a down-on-her-luck divorcee—such as herself—and somehow didn't make her feel bad for the failure she'd made of her life. The side that somehow wormed her into telling him the truth, because a woman just knew that she could trust him.

A white-haired lady in a plaid flannel shirt sat down
next to the sheriff, clearly hoping to join the conversation and sniff out more gossip. “Teague did my deck a couple years back. Did a great job, he did. I tried to fix him up with my granddaughter, but he just wouldn't bite, even though she's cute as all can be and smart besides.”

“Lorena?”

“Yes, Lorena,” she concurred to the sheriff, then turned back to Daisy. “Teague, he said, he'd learned the hard way that marriage wasn't for him. No one could live with him, he said. He'd tried, he said. It's not like he was against marriage, but somehow the woman always ended up mad at him, he—”

“Said,” Daisy finished for her. “What can I get for you?”

“Oh, one of those shortbread cookies, dear. When I heard about that big chocolate heart, I almost died…”

Daisy didn't hear the details about how she almost died, because she zipped back in the kitchen for another batch of the cookies. When she returned, the lady in the plaid jacket was still going on as if she'd never left.

“So I said to Sue Ellen, I said, some girl must have hurt him bad. He jokes about being bullheaded and all, but that's not a bad quality in a man. What girl wants a man with no backbone, right, dear? So that can't be the real reason. Some girl had to really stab his heart so bad he was afraid to try again. Or maybe that girl zapped his confidence in the sack, do you think?”

Daisy blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again. She glanced at George, whose mouth was twitching.

“Um,” she managed to say.

“Well, whatever she did to him doesn't matter. The point is, he's finally over it if he's chasing after you.
But you'd better snap him up before the rest of the girls realize he's on the market, you know?”

“Thanks for the advice. Would you like coffee with your cookie?”

“Oh, no, dear, I don't drink much coffee, not with my cholesterol.” She scooped two more butter-laden cookies on her plate and smiled. “Are you hoping he'll propose?”

“Yeah, Daisy,” George echoed, “Are you hoping he'll propose?”

A very rough morning was followed by a rough noon hour, and from there the day went seriously downhill. Around two Daisy started phoning Teague. She wasn't scheduled to work with him that day; he was doing some kind of one-man carpentry work, she didn't remember exactly where. Wherever, he always traveled with his cell phone so customers could always reach him.

Not today. She called at two. Then at two-thirty. Then at three. Then three-thirty. He simply didn't answer and his voice mail didn't activate. He was
always
reachable by phone.

Except for today.

Damnation, where
was
he?

 

“Teague,” the mayor said, “It's not that I have anything personal against your doing this. I just don't think I'm the one you should be asking permission from.”

Teague sighed. The mayor, Peter Strunk, had only been in office since November. In the true spirit of Vermont, where nobody really wanted government if they could avoid it, the people had elected a mayor who wasn't likely to interfere in much of anything. The
problem with a wishy-washy leader, though, was that he was…well…wishy-washy.

“Look,” Teague said, “there's no reason this has to be so complicated. I just want to put up some banners on Main Street for a few hours. Not even a whole day. I'll put them up myself. I'll take them down myself.”

“I know, you said all that.” Peter had the hen-pecked look he got when he had dinner with his wife. “That's not the issue. I think your idea is charming. I have no objections to it at all. I can't see what harm it would do—”

“So all I need is your permission.”

“But the things I'm in charge of—the things a mayor is supposed to do—there's nothing about this kind of thing.”

“Mayor,” Teague said patiently, “I've asked everyone else. I started with a cop, who sent me to the sheriff. He was gone, but at the office there, somebody said I had to go to the courthouse to get a permit. Then I went to get a permit, but they said they gave permits for things like parades and all, but for an individual request like this, they didn't know. The bottom line is nobody seems to be able to give me a yes but you.”

“But I'm not sure…”

Teague stood up. “I know you're not sure.” He pulled on his jacket, which he'd never thought he'd have to take off—but who'd have guessed he'd waste almost two hours in the mayor's office? “So the deal seems to be this. Maybe I can't get a ‘yes' out of anyone, but no one's given me a ‘no' either. So I'm doing it. If somebody uncovers that this is a major felony I'm guilty of, then put me in jail—but don't do it until Saturday, okay?”

“Just hold on, there. I know there have to be safety regulations—”

“I'm sure there are. But I think I'll just go with common sense, rather than waste another whole day trying to figure them out. You have a good day, now, Pete.”

Bureaucracy. It was enough to make a man want to move to Alaska. Teague bolted down the courthouse steps and slugged his hands in his pockets against the sharp-shooting wind. Forecast had been for a clear day with no wind. Naturally, it was snowing hard and the wind was fierce as a temper.

He'd missed the whole afternoon's work, but he figured he could make that up by working late tonight. He just had to pick the projects where the owners were gone or on vacation. And although this day had been totally frustrating so far, he glanced at his watch—he still had a good hour of daylight left.

He parked his truck at the far edge of Main Street's business section. Traffic wouldn't quite qualify as rush hour—there was no rush hour in White Hills—but just before dinner, lots of vehicles were cuddled tight at every light, and most of them were crabby. Moms who'd been kid-caring all day, dads who'd just put in nine hours straight, everybody tired of slushy roads and dark evenings. When Teague carted a ladder from the back of his truck, a couple of people honked a hello at him, but no one paid him much attention.

The three main shopping blocks of Main Street were gussied up with old-fashioned gas lights. Before Christmas, the lampposts had been decorated with wreaths and lights, but every season there seemed some excuse to string a banner across the road. It was a challenging job for one man to do alone, particularly when he had to stop traffic now and then to accomplish it. But, hell.
If a guy had to risk breaking his neck for a woman, the woman should at least be worth it, right?