by Beth Ciotta
“The one with that actor, the one with the crazy eyebrows and dark sunglasses. You know, the one who starred in the ‘cuckoo nest’ movie. And that other actor, the handsome black geezer from Driving Miss Daisy.”
Vincent munched on his toast and considered. “Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman?”
“If you say so,” Daisy said.
“What movie?”
“The Bucket List!”
“Never seen it.”
“We’ll have to remedy that,” Daisy said. “Just know they lived life to the fullest even if it meant breaking the rules.”
“Knowing you,” Vincent said, “I understand bucket list. But what’s family bucket list?”
“A bucket list involving family.”
Vincent sipped coffee then smiled, his kind eyes twinkling with interest. “Could you expand on that explanation?”
Daisy nodded. Her old heart fluttered and it had nothing to do with her ongoing medical issues. Her first husband, Jessup Monroe, her wedded husband of fifty years, wouldn’t have asked her to expand on her thoughts. Jessup, God rest his soul, had been too wrapped up in his own business to care diddly about her personal aspirations.
Focusing on the here and now, Daisy plucked a folded paper from her pocket and passed it across the table. “I’m blessed to have a large family—including extended family beyond the immediate Monroes. Some of them are floundering in the romance department. Before I kick the bucket I’d like to make sure they’re as hooked up and happy as I am right now. With you.”
Vincent flushed as he slipped on his reading glasses. “I appreciate the sentiment, but if you’re asking me to play matchmaker—”
“I’ll do most of the work, but I’d appreciate a partner in crime.” She wasn’t supposed to drive anymore, not that she didn’t sneak now and then, but she had lots of places to go. Every one of her grandkids and nieces and nephews had offered to give her a ride anytime, anywhere, but she’d prefer to keep these matchmaking missions private.
“Your heart acting up?” Vincent asked.
She’d had a mild attack over a year ago—something she’d managed to keep from the family until Vincent had spilled the beans, darn him. Now everyone hounded her all the more about her health. “No,” she said. “Why?”
“You mentioned kicking the bucket.”
“No one lasts forever and this matchmaking thing could take a while. Take Sam for instance.”
“I see he’s at the top of your list,” Vincent said while squinting at her writing. “Chicken scrawl,” he called it.
“He’s a tough nut,” Daisy said, while cleaning her plate. “The Cupcake Lovers have all but given up on fixing him up. But not me. I know another tough nut, and I think I can crack them both.”
“I know this nut?”
“Harper Day.” No sense holding back when Daisy had planted the seed to move forward earlier this morning.
Vincent wrinkled his nose. “The snooty publicist?”
“Not snooty. Aloof.”
“Same difference. She’s shopped at Oslow’s, though not in a while. Organic produce only.”
“She’s health conscious.”
“I’ve tried talking to her, friendly conversation. She has a way of answering your questions and ignoring you at the same time. Always on her phone—talking, texting.”
“Multitasking,” Daisy said.
“It’s rude,” Vincent said.
“I told her that once,” Daisy said. “I don’t think she can help herself. Her brain’s always running. She comes to Sugar Creek to wind down, but I’ve never seen her in slow mode. Never seen her relax. She doesn’t have any interests outside of work. Except maybe Sam.” Daisy leaned forward and waggled her eyebrows. “I’ve seen her sneak looks at Sam and vice versa. I think they’d be good together.”
“Never mind that her primary residence is across the country,” Vincent said. “Sam likes sweet-natured women. Harper’s self-absorbed and, like you said, kind of manic.”
Daisy had thought the same thing, but then she’d started picking up on little things. Things maybe other people didn’t notice. Harper wasn’t self-absorbed at all. She was obsessed with keeping self-destructive people on track. A Hollywood soul-saver who was also obsessed with lost-soul Mary Rothwell. A gifted publicist who had a soft spot for the Cupcake Lovers and their devotion to spreading sugary sunshine to soldiers.
Daisy would bet her Millie Moose costume that Harper stuffed down her own needs and dreams because she felt other people’s needs and dreams were more important. Daisy knew a kindred spirit when she saw one.
“Remember how I used to be?” she asked Vincent. “Reserved. Prim and proper. Aloof. There was more to me than met the eye, but I kept it locked away, kept my true self to myself, and pretended to be the person Jessup wanted me to be. Sensible and serene.”
Vincent slid his glasses to the end of his nose and peered over the rims at Daisy. The sympathy in his direct gaze made her legs all noodly. “I always sensed you were holding back. I like that you’re comfortable enough with me not to put on pretenses.”
“Comfortable enough and safe enough,” Daisy said. “Harper needs to learn that it’s okay to kick back and enjoy life. To focus on her own happiness.”
“And you’re going to help her with that.”
“I’m going to point her in the right direction.”
“Sam.”
“He needs a challenge. Someone to spice up his life.”
“Harper.”
“See! We’re on the same wavelength.”
“Mmm.”
“I have an appointment with Harper later tonight. Out at the Rothwell Farm. I don’t suppose—”
“Sure.”
“Maybe after, we can take a joyride through the state park.”
His lip twitched. “Maybe.” He turned his attention back to the list. “Hey. My granddaughter Peppy is listed.”
Peppy Redding would be another tough nut. Mostly because she was such an odd bird. A songwriting guitar player who’d flitted all over the country trying to hitch her wagon to a star. Struggling financially, she’d returned to the home roost, temporarily living with her dad, Vincent’s son Marvin, and taking up with a local band. All Daisy really knew was that Peppy was a disappointment to her father and a source of concern for Vincent.
“Why is my granddaughter on your family bucket list?” he asked.
Now it was Daisy’s turn to frown. “I guess I assumed, given our … situation, well, I thought … Don’t you think of my family as your own?”
“I’m fond of everyone, of course. But I guarantee they don’t think of me as family.”
“Sure they do.”
Vincent tossed her a skeptical look.
“Okay. Maybe not my son. And maybe not Devlin.” Her eldest grandson was practically a chip off his old man’s block, both of them being overprotective stick-in-the-muds.
“It would be easier if we made our situation legal.”
“Why ruin a good thing?”
Vincent sighed. “More coffee?”
She’d hurt his feelings. Again. But darn it all, she’d already been that route with Jessup. It’s not that he’d abused her, but he’d strangled her spirit, manipulated her behavior, narrowed her scope. Daisy didn’t believe in divorce. And she’d feel bad about kicking a man out. If things turned sour with Vincent, she needed to be able to walk away. Just one of the reasons she’d moved out of her home and into his. It gave her the freedom to leave. Life was short and freedom was priceless.
“I’ll do it,” Vincent said as he stood to clear the table.
Daisy snapped out of her reverie. “You’ll cut back on work to help me with my family bucket list?”
“Yup.”
“Just like that?”
“Nope.”
Daisy shot to her moose-slippered feet, snatched up her dishes, and shuffled to his side. “What’s that mean?” she asked as he filled the basin with hot water and a squirt of Palmolive.<
br />
“Means you owe me.”
Daisy slid their dishes into the sudsy water. “What are we talking?”
His fleshy lips twitched into an ornery smile that sort of scared and excited Daisy at the same time. “When I know, Princess Petunia, you’ll know.”
SEVEN
Sam steered his truck along Swamp Road at a leisurely pace. Unlike last night, he wasn’t racing to Harper’s rescue. He was picking her up for a date. Their first date. Considering he’d already proposed marriage, they were going at this bassackward. Then again their short association had an overall slam-bam theme. From their adrenaline-surged initial meeting to their subsequent erotic liaisons. Sam had caressed, sampled, and admired every inch of Harper Day’s delectable body, yet he didn’t know anything about her beyond the obvious. That wouldn’t go well with immigration and it didn’t sit right with Sam. Today they’d take it slow. Today they’d talk. As in a meaningful two-sided conversation.
“This should be good.”
It would definitely be a first.
Sam flexed his fingers as he turned onto Fox Lane. Sweaty palms? He angled the rearview mirror and glanced at his reflection. He’d nicked his jaw trying for a closer shave than usual and the creases fanning from the corners of his eyes were pronounced due to a sleepless night. He swore he spied a gray hair and that it had sprouted just this morning compliments of a war raging between Ben and Mina.
In truth, aside from the shaving injury, Sam looked like he did every day. He’d never been leading-man handsome. Not even ten years and two kids ago. He’d always been rough around the edges. Solidly built with rugged features. Although some women—like Paula—went for the unconventional. Other women—like the several he’d speed-dated last month—seemed enamored by his single-dad status. They praised his devotion to his children, thought it was admirable and sexy. He should have been charmed or at least intrigued. They’d expressed motherly tendencies as well as interest in Sam’s hobbies and goals. They’d probed to find his softer side, attempted to connect emotionally.
Unlike Harper who’d only wanted Sam for kinky sex and his mad (as she called them) carpentry skills. Their relationship was this side of warped and yet he’d suggested marriage without a second thought. Without discussing it with the kids first. Typically, he was more grounded, more cautious, more sensitive to the long term.
Fact: Harper wasn’t keen on being a mom.
Fact: Harper had no interest in, or was incapable of, an emotionally intimate relationship.
Hello, train wreck.
Or maybe not.
Sam couldn’t shake his discussion with Rae. She’d suggested breaking with convention, being adventurous. Considering future bliss with cayenne pepper as opposed to maple syrup. The military had trained him to rely on his gut and his gut screamed Harper.
There was also the sense that she was running from someone or something. Yeah. There was that.
Sam focused back on the road, tensing as the Rothwell Farm came into view. It’s not like he had to impress, seduce, or court the enigmatic publicist. She wasn’t marrying him for his looks, wit, or charm. She was marrying him for a green card. Still, he’d changed clothes three times before deciding on a white open-collar shirt and his go-to-teacher-conference jeans. He hadn’t second-guessed his appearance on any one of a dozen dates he’d been on in the last month. Why he was sweating a sure thing was a mystery.
Or maybe he was sweating because this was a sure thing.
Even though he’d spent the night wrestling with a hundred reasons not to marry Harper Day, he had no intention of backing out. He was haunted by that kiss, by the hint of a deeper connection, by the glimpse of a woman with heart. Try as he might, he couldn’t block the image of her fighting back tears and struggling to breathe. That vulnerability had snaked through his blood as sure as her signature perfume.
It was the image he had in his head as he parked the truck then scaled the porch. An image that shattered as soon as she opened the front door. She was talking on the phone and she held up a finger signaling Sam to give her a minute or ten. Something she’d done a million times before. Just one of her irritating habits.
“I know I missed the premiere. Yes, of course I know it was a big deal. Sapphire, I…” Harper rolled her eyes and fell back, motioning Sam to step inside.
Instead of moving into the living room and taking a seat while she finished her business, he hovered in the foyer, making it clear he was waiting. Even so, background chatter prompted him to look into the next room over. The chatter came from the TV—a journalist and a cop.
Once again Hollywood Access had lost out to CNN.
Huh.
Harper continued to pacify her client.
Sam glanced at his watch. One o’clock. He signaled Harper to wrap the call.
She turned her back while trying to state her case. Only Sapphire—whoever she was—wouldn’t allow Harper a word in edgewise. The woman—a celebrity client, he assumed—was ripping Harper a new one. Sapphire’s voice was so shrill and loud, Sam heard about every third word, most of them foul. And here he thought only marines utilized fuck as a verb, adjective, and noun.
“Have I not been there every other time you needed me?” Harper interjected. “What about that glitch with paparazzi? I…”
Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and admired the curvy publicist’s backside. Overall, Harper had a body to die for. Although Sam appreciated her stylish wardrobe, he liked her best in the raw. Call him a dog, but he liked Harper naked. Naked now would be good. He had a major case of blue balls.
She turned and caught his gaze.
He knew, without a doubt, if he chucked her phone under the sofa and hauled her into his arms, she’d be hot and ready for a go against the wall. Tempting. But also distracting.
Sam glanced at his watch and mouthed, “One-oh-five.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sapphire,” she said calmly to the woman while glaring at Sam. “Maybe we could revisit … I’m sure I can spin that…”
Ah, yes. Harper doing what she did best. Smoothing ruffled feathers. Fixing someone’s problems. Taking control. No trace of the panicked woman who’d lost it the night before. Harper in full Harper mode. He knew her well enough to know this could go on forever. But he also sensed a new element of desperation that rubbed him the wrong way. Why was Harper, a woman who bent over backward for clients, essentially begging mean-spirited, foulmouthed Sapphire to give her a second chance?
Sam turned on his heel. If Harper wouldn’t end the verbal abuse, he would.
“Wait,” Harper said. “Hold on … Sam!”
He looked over his shoulder, saw her holding the phone to her chest.
“Where are you going?”
“We had a date.”
“I know. I’m coming. Just—”
He opened the door then walked out.
“Dammit,” she blurted. Then … “I’ll get back to you, Sapphire.”
Sam didn’t know how Sapphire felt about being cut off. He didn’t care. One thing he’d learned during the time he’d spent in Harper’s company was that most of her clients were has-beens, one-time-wonders, or reality stars. Most of them were self-absorbed and reckless. All of them were needy. He’d never understood why Harper wasted her time putting their train-wreck lives back on track. Maybe he’d ask her today. Burning question number ninety-five.
That’s if this date ever got off the ground.
Just as he reached the truck, he heard the front door slam. He turned and saw Harper eating up the stone path in her shiny yellow heels. She was wearing a short, flowery dress and a snug yellow sweater. Her long dark hair bounced around her perfectly made-up face. She was gorgeous. And angry.
“What the hell, McCloud? You’d break our date just because I’m running late?”
“I suggested noon. You said one would be better. It’s one-ten.”
“What are you, the Time Nazi?”
Sam opened the p
assenger door and helped her up into the truck. His gaze lingered on her long legs as she set aside her massive pocketbook and buckled in. “Why did you let her talk to you like that?”
“Like what?”
“She was screaming at you, Harper. Berating you. I’d have to be deaf not to overhear.”
“Sapphire’s high-strung to begin with and I let her down.” She frowned. “I’ve let a lot of people down lately.”
“Doesn’t sound like you.”
“Haven’t been myself for the last month.”
“Why’s that?”
She broke his gaze, stared at the dashboard. He’d never known her to be at a loss for words, but she was struggling now. She clasped the silver bracelet around her wrist. Twirled it once, twice. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Try me.”
Sam stood rooted, his body positioned between the open door and Harper’s wired body. He was keen to her every twitch. Saw the moment anxiety reared. Now she was staring out the window, mind spinning. Along with that bracelet. Twirl. Twirl. “You look pretty,” he said.
An unexpected compliment that snatched her out of her daze. Exactly what he wanted.
“I like your dress,” he added when she looked at him quizzically. Which sounded lame and awkward, even though he meant it.
She arched a brow and smirked. “No offense, Rambo. But no wonder your recent string of dates bombed. You suck at casual flirtation.”
He skated over the teasing insult. Besides, it was true. “Who told you about my recent dates?”
“Daisy. She keeps me apprised of all Cupcake Lover issues.”
“My social life has no bearing on the Cupcake Lovers.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’re in the limelight alongside every CL involved in the recipe book.”
“About that—”
“I’m sure any one of those prospects would have made a better wife and mother than me,” she said, getting back to his dates.
“Maybe.” If Harper was jealous or resentful, she didn’t show it. But Sam detected a hint of annoyance. Interesting, since she’d been the one to end their affair. “But you’ve got something they don’t.”
