Wild in the Moment (6 page)

A new flutter kicked up in her pulse. Not just a sexual-zing flutter, but a downright dangerous, feather flutter. He was beginning to touch that soft place that she never let anyone near. Pound on a wall, what harm could you do? But pound on that soft spot, and a girl could get hurt really badly.

She knew how to be a wall. For damn sure, she knew how to keep her heart from being broken again. “Naw,” she said lightly. “Adventure's always fun. But too many days of it, and we'd have run out of condoms—and food—and you'd probably have started to worry that we were getting too attached, developing ‘A Relationship' or some crazy thing like that.”

“You think I'd worry about that, do you?”

Nothing she said seemed to erase that dangerous gleam in his eye, so she aimed straight for the best defense there was. The truth. “We couldn't last, Teague. But I'm not going to regret last night, and I hope you don't.”

“I don't.”

She hesitated. She wanted—needed—to be careful, but she didn't want to leave the conversation with him being hurt in any way. She said softly, “Last night, I feel like…we made a memory.”

Those steady, intense eyes never left her face. “I like that phrase. Making a memory. Doesn't happen to me often. Not like that.”

“Not for me, either. But I'm not going to be in White Hills for long. That's for positive.” She smiled briskly. “Sheesh, we've
got
to get dressed. Clock's ticking. We're going to have people knocking at the door in a matter of minutes.”

Yet when she moved toward the doorway, he didn't seem inclined to budge. He didn't touch her. Teague didn't seem the kind of guy who'd touch a woman who hadn't specifically invited it. But trying to cover herself with his carpenter's apron suddenly seemed humorously foolish. She hadn't minded his seeing her naked last night. She'd wanted him to. She'd wanted to be naked for him, with him. But this morning her fanny felt as if it was hanging naked in the wind in every sense.

“Daisy…you really dislike White Hills that much?”

He'd asked the question seriously, so she answered in kind. “Actually, I always loved it. At least when my family was here—we were always close. But for me, living in a small town…” She shook her head.

“You find it boring?”

“Not…boring. But I always felt as if I were living in a fishbowl. Everybody knows everybody else's business. If you wore a red dress to a funeral, everyone in a three-county radius would know it. You can't make a mistake. You can't want something different. You can't be…anonymous. You have to fit the mold.”

“What's the mold?”

“The mold is…behaving like everyone else behaves. Around here, the most excitement on a Saturday night is watching tractors drive by and the high school football game. Women still hang out their wash. Guys wash their cars on Sunday afternoon. People pay their bills, raise their kids, compete for the coolest Christmas decorations.”

“And all that's bad?”

“Not bad. Not bad in any way for most people.” She struggled to explain. “My mom used to say that I was the only daughter she misnamed. Daisy. The ordinary flower. When I could never seem to do anything ‘ordinary.' I think I came out of the womb wanting to dance until dawn. And there was no one to do that with. Not here.”

“You really hated growing up here.” He didn't make it sound like a question. Good thing. Because it wasn't.

“Not hated. I love my parents, and my sisters and I were always thick as thieves. And honestly, I liked the town. It just didn't like me,” she said frankly, and then grinned. “You won't like me, either, when you get to know me better.”

His eyes seemed to pick up a challenging gleam. “You sound very sure of that.”

“Oh, I'm dead sure of it. Neighbors used to say I was as restless as a leaf in a high wind. Mamas used to make their teenage boys go inside when I was driving by, just to protect them from the influence of ‘that wild Daisy Campbell.'”

“Now you've got me scared,” he said dryly.

They both chuckled—and then both hustled to get dressed and get the house back in order before the snowplows arrived.

Daisy knew perfectly well that she hadn't really scared him, but she hoped—from the heart—that she'd gotten through. She wasn't the kind of woman that a nice guy married. Not a nice guy who was into roots and settling down in a house with 2.2 kids and a basketball hoop over the garage and an SUV. She was the kind of woman who a guy wanted to have an adventure with.

Like they'd had.

Last night.

But good guys didn't last—not with her. Whether it was her fault or theirs, Daisy didn't know. Right then it didn't matter. It just mattered that she'd made sure Teague was warned off before either of them could be hurt—particularly because she was going to be stuck in White Hills for a while.

For his sake, and hers, she intended to stay far away from Teague Larson.

T
eague trudged down Main Street. Since the blizzard two weeks ago, there'd been no bad snowstorms, but no temperature melt, either. The sludge and crusty ice were piled so high you could barely find a decent place to park—which is why he'd been stuck walking the last three blocks. Usually he liked winter, but typically by late January, the snow had dirtied up; people were sick of bundling in winter gear; the thrill of Christmas was over and everybody was broke.

Actually, he wasn't. He was making more money than he had time to spend—a totally unjust state of affairs—but blizzards had a way of soliciting business. When people were stuck in their homes, they tended to look around more, see the cracks, hear the groans. He swore half the town had called him, hoping to get a major rehab project going over the winter. More to the
point—for him—was that working nonstop the past two weeks had kept his mind off Daisy Campbell.

Sort of.

Hands in his pockets, he passed by Carcutter's Books, then Ruby's Hair Salon. After Ruby's, he crossed the road, automatically bending down to save little Tommie Willis from falling—that kid was always getting away from his mother, and the pavement was extra slick this afternoon. Still, he barely noticed the child or the storefronts.

She was still in White Hills, because everywhere he went—customers, gas station, hardware, grocery store—people were buzzing about the glamorous, prodigal daughter come home. But he'd driven out to the farmhouse countless times. No one was there and no phone had been hooked up.

It wasn't as if he assumed they had a big thing going. He didn't. But she distinctly hadn't called him. It's not as if he were hoping for the earth and the sun. He just wanted to find out if she could possibly, conceivably, want to turn his nights inside out ever again in this century.

The wind whipped around his neck, slapped his cheeks red. That's how his heart felt. Slapped. Obviously he hadn't turned
her
nights inside out. And since he knew he functioned best solo, he had no explanation for his heart feeling so roughed up and skinned.

He hiked on, his ears freezing because he forgot his hat—he always forgot his hat. He was headed for Karen Brown's store, a place called Inner Connections. He'd never been inside the decorating place, never planned to, never wanted to. But he'd taken out a wall in John Cochran's house, and they wanted a bay window, and
Mrs. Cochran was housebound because of some recent surgery and she wanted some swatches.

Teague had no idea what a swatch was, but the interior decorating store—Karen Black, or whoever, did curtains and upholstery stuff—was supposed to have them. Lately he couldn't seem to escape this kind of exasperating problem. All his clients weren't as sweet and frail as Mrs. Cochran, but lots of women wanted decorating ideas to go with their carpentry and rehab projects.

Ask him, the whole thing was dumb. When you had a good-looking window, why cover the thing with a bunch of fabric?

He trudged past the barber shop, then Lamb's Feed Store, then the cleaners. First place on the next block was the Marble Bridge Café. In the spring and summer, the café set Adirondack chairs outside so the locals could sip brew and fight about politics, Vermont-style. Teague wouldn't mind popping in for a fast coffee—and to warm his hands—but he wanted to get this torturous swatch thing over with. Maybe after. Assuming he survived the decorating store. Assuming someone was there who could explain about the swatch thing. Assuming…

He stopped dead, then backed up three paces.

Something was odd. He wasn't sure what snagged his attention, but walking down Main Street was invariably like listening to his own heartbeat. He knew how it was supposed to sound. He knew how it was supposed to look.

The Marble Bridge Café was one of those places that never failed to be predictable. By this time in the afternoon, George'd be sipping free coffee at the counter, his sheriff's hat on the hook inside the door. The place
would smell like something burned, because Harry Mackay—who'd owned the café for the past forty years—invariably started talking and forgot what he was cooking. People didn't come for the food unless they were desperate, anyway. The café was primarily a breakfast and lunch place that Harry kept open through the afternoon because he had nothing better to do. In the early part of the day, it was a place to hang out, to fight about politics, to read the paper. It was tradition. And traditionally, by late January, Harry hadn't taken down the Christmas lights; tired garlands were sagging from the windows; and the linoleum was muddy from people charging in with boots all day.

The garlands and lights were there.

The floor was the color of dirty snow.

The sheriff was sipping free coffee.

Teague couldn't fathom what was different—and then realized there were people inside. By this time in the afternoon, the clientele had usually thinned out. Today at least half the booths and tables were occupied. Maybe Harry had a sale on burned food?

The thought struck his funny bone, but Teague would still have continued on if he hadn't suddenly spotted a woman behind the counter. Not Janelle or the other part-time waitress who worked for Harry. Not anyone he'd ever seen in the café before. And he immediately pushed open the door.

Several called out greetings. He answered or nodded, but he hadn't taken his eyes off the woman. Her back was to him, but he could still tell that she wasn't a normal woman—at least not normal by Marble Bridge Café standards. Her height clocked in around five-seven and she had glossy dark hair, worn shoulder length, the kind of hair that swayed when she moved and sifted
colors in the right light. She wasn't wearing jeans and an L.L. Bean sweater, which was the winter indoor uniform in White Hills. Not that he'd know designer clothes if they bit him in the butt, but he guessed the silky blue shirt and slacks cost the moon and then some.

It wasn't remotely a wild outfit, but for White Hills, the cut and fancy lines were always going to draw attention. More to the point, he'd have known that glossy dark hair, that elegant little rump, anywhere.

He was halfway to the counter when she suddenly turned around. The instant she spotted him, the instant their eyes met, she froze. She was carrying a plate of cookies, and someone was talking to her from the kitchen—an open transom window led to the back room—but for a moment she just stood there, looking back at him.

Teague knew hurt pride could affect a guy's imagination, yet he swore he saw a willful rose tint her cheeks, a sweep of yearning shine in her eyes. She looked just plain happy to see him—but anxious, too. Still she stood there. Still she didn't move, as if she'd sucked in a sudden deep breath and just couldn't seem to let it out again.

By then both the sheriff and Harry glanced up. It's not as if anyone had a choice about being a stranger in White Hills.

“Hey, Teague,” Harry greeted him. “Rare for you to stop in on an afternoon. You playing hooky?”

“Everybody deserves a vice,” he said.

“Hey, Teague.”

“Sheriff.” He had no reason to know George Webster well, but it was the same with everyone there. They knew of him, or well enough to extend a greeting.

By the time he'd shed his jacket and wasted those
few seconds on hellos, Daisy had disappeared back into the kitchen—whether she had a good reason or just wanted to avoid him, he couldn't guess.

Either way, sitting down gave him a few minutes to analyze the situation. The more he looked around, the more he had the feeling that the Marble Bridge Café had turned into an alternate universe. Instead of smelling like old grease and burned food, scents wafted in the air that could make a guy throw himself on the ground and grovel—like the scent of fresh, warm bread. Blueberry muffins. Pastries. Cookies. Delicate, delectable stuff.

Maybe Harry owned the café and was given credit for feeding people, but he wouldn't know “delectable” if threatened with ptomaine.

But it was seeing Daisy—finding Daisy—that kept stunning Teague. She belonged in that café like a Monet belonged in a hardware store. Boots in Vermont meant, well, boots. But she'd paired the blouse and snug black slacks with high-heeled boots so calf-hide soft they weren't meant to ever walk in harsh weather. Silver glinted from her ears and wrist. A tiny towel had been slung around her waist, apparently auditioning as an apron, but she still looked elegant from the ground up.

Daisy? The town's infamous exotic flower and favorite wild girl, cooking in an aging café? Ms. Five-Hundred-Dollar-Boots Campbell, wearing an apron?

“Cold out there,” the sheriff said. It was George's standard conversational opener. Since the town rarely needed law for much of anything, there was no reason George shouldn't hang out here, gaining weight on pastries and shooting the breeze and casting moony eyes at Daisy.

More to the point, he was usually good for infor
mation, so Teague tried pumping him. “Well, it's sure warm in here, with a crowd like this. I don't get it—I've never seen this many people in the café since I came to live here. What's going on?”

“Daisy's French baking, that's what's going on. About a week ago, Harry let her wander into the kitchen, and ever since then she's been coming out with stuff nobody ever heard of. And before it's gone, you better be asking for the lavender sponge cake. Trust me, you'll never taste anything like it again. I forget what all else she came up with today. You could try the lavender-custard ice cream.”

“Lavender ice cream,” Teague echoed.

“I know, I know. Sounds like pansy food. In fact, that's what she says, that there's lavender in it. I swear, though, it doesn't taste like any sissy flower—”

Someone tapped on the sheriff's shoulder, and when he got embroiled in that conversation, Harry hiked over from the cash register. “What can I get you, Teague?”

“I've barely got a minute, but I could sure use a fast coffee. And some…” He was going to ask for a piece of the lavender sponge cake, but he spotted the empty cake platter on the counter. “Just coffee,” he said.

Seconds later his hands were snugged around a mug of hair-curling coffee, but Daisy still hadn't shown back up. He could hear her voice in the distance—he assumed she was talking to Jason, Harry's brother and short-order cook—but she didn't come back.

He gulped the coffee, burned his throat, and gulped some more. His mind kept spilling out questions. All the evidence pointed to her working here, but that just seemed impossible. Harry didn't hire extras—the café didn't have enough business to justify more staff, especially in the slow month of January. And Teague
couldn't fathom why she'd seek any kind of job, much less a low-paying one, when the clothes she wore cost more than most of the cars parked outside. Besides which, he couldn't figure out what she was still doing here at all, when she'd made such a point of telling him how much she hated small towns.

One other question hammered at his mind. The same tiny question that had been jamming his brain in the wee hours of every damn morning since he met her. If she'd hung around White Hills these past couple of weeks, then why hadn't she given him a call? Why had she been avoiding him?

Harry twisted his considerable beer belly to engage him in more friendly conversation, but by then Teague had stood up, wrestled some change from his pocket and swung away from the counter. Obviously, he couldn't chase her down in front of all these people. He grabbed his jacket and aimed for the door, thinking that now he knew she was here, he'd choose a free time, a quiet place, to corner her. Yet somewhere between the last table and the front door, his boots pivoted around. Instead of leaving, he found himself charging straight down the aisle, past the cash register, past the counter, past the saloon-style double doors that led to the kitchen area. Harry didn't stop him. The sheriff didn't stop him. Hell, nobody dared try to stop him.

He pushed the swinging doors so hard that one banged against the inside wall.
“Daisy!”
he yelled out.

Almost instantly, two heads showed up from around the corner of the freezer room. The small head with the exotic eyes and lush, soft mouth was definitely hers. The big one looked like a twin rendition of Harry—eyebrows bushier than weeds, a tummy that looked like a hot-air balloon, three sprouts of hair straight on top.
Harry's brother disappeared back into the fog of the freezer room.

Daisy stepped out.

Teague wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Something like, “Damn it, woman, I'm not in the habit of having the best sex I ever had in my life and then having my lover disappear as if it never happened.” Or “Daisy, why didn't you let me know you were still in town?” Or “Daisy, for God's sake, what are you doing in this café?”

But somehow he sensed vulnerability in those soft, dark eyes. He knew he was crazy. He'd been crazy ever since he made love to her. Daisy was sophisticated and capable of handling herself in any situation—God knew he'd seen her step up in the blizzard, even if she would hate the idea of being labeled resourceful and practical. The point, though, was that imagining vulnerability in her eyes was likely a sign of more lunacy in him, not of anything that was really there.

Still, something went wrong. He managed a scowl and a bellow, but what came out of his mouth was hardly confrontational. “Daisy, do you know what a swatch is?”

“A swatch?” she echoed in confusion.

“Yeah. A swatch. Like a woman needs to do curtains or upholstery or something.”

“Oh, like a swatch of fabric?”

“I think so.”

“Well, sure,” she said.

“Thank God. Can you explain it to me at dinner?”

“Okay,” she responded, as if she'd never disappeared from his life and it was no big deal to go to dinner together.

Possibly he was a certifiable lunatic, but that didn't
mean he'd lost the ability to recognize he'd gained ground. “Seven o'clock?” he pressed.