Spooning Daisy

KISSING DAISY

“Max—”

“The truth is . . .” He stepped toward her. “The truth is . . . I feel bad about giving you such a hard time at breakfast.”

“Ohhhh. This is an apology.”

“No, absolutely not.” Max retracted the step he’d just taken. “This is absolutely NOT an apology.”

Daisy huffed. Normally, she’d take great satisfaction in Max’s guilt and take equal pleasure in the banter that would surely follow. However, she was a woman on a mission, and she didn’t have the time, not with Otter Bite hanging by a manila envelope. “Fine. Thank you for coming here
not
to apologize and for that apple strudel thing. And”—she momentarily softened—“the money. But I just don’t have the time for whatever this is.”

Once again he stepped toward her. “You’re making this extremely difficult.”

“
This
? This
what
? What am I making—”

“
This
,” he interrupted, the word melting into her mouth.

The two hundreds floated from her hand to the floor. Then her arms wrapped Max’s neck, his body pressed hers, and Daisy was lost in a kiss she never expected to own . . .

Spooning Daisy

Maggie McConnell

LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

KISSING DAISY
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page

For my mom
Helen Vivian Shelton
1922–2000

Acknowledgments

A lifetime ago, my mother handed me a memoir. She didn’t know the author, nor was she familiar with either title or story other than what she’d read in the local newspaper. I was visiting my mom in Illinois from Anchorage, where my own writing dream was withering unattended while I concentrated on my business career.

Mom explained that she went to the book signing and bought the book because one day I would be like this author and my mom wanted everyone, whether they knew me or not, to come to my signing and buy
my
book.

After that, what choice did I have? When I received my first Golden Heart nomination several years later, it was as much Mom’s as mine.

My mother would not give up on my dream and she made it impossible for me to.

Thanks, Mom. This is for you.

Many have provided a helping hand to
Spooning Daisy.
Here, in the order I drew their names out of my red plaid hat with the ear flaps, are those who have left indelible fingerprints:

Lt Col Brooks E. Shelton, USAF (Ret), my big brother and an all-around good guy, gave me the idea for a pivotal plot twist, which he will surely disavow.
This page will self-destruct in 30 seconds.
Read fast.

Gretchen Brinck and Lena Hubin are
first
, talented, insightful writers who influence every chapter and,
second
, intrepid guinea pigs for my vegan recipes. Strangers to me when our critique group banded, they are now cherished friends. God-willing, we shall still be sharing tea and conversation long after the Thesaurus has been shelved.

Elizabeth (Liz) Shelton, my big sister, and “Dixie,” to whom Liz has thus far devoted thirty-plus years, are the inspiration behind
Daisy
and
Elizabeth.

John Scognamiglio, Editor-in-Chief of Kensington Books, gently tells me the bad, enthusiastically tells me the good. If not for John,
Spooning Daisy
would be just another file on my hard drive. And did I mention,
Editor-in-Chief
?

Smiling Hill, and those living here, especially dog Molly, horses Quinn and Teena, and cat Sara, everyday demonstrate that in life, as in books, animals make the story.

David Cottrell is an Alaskan’s Alaskan—homesteader, businessman, entrepreneur, pilot, sailor, sportsman. By his side, I learned a lot, then shared it with Daisy and Max.

Marlene Stringer is smart, funny, loves animals, and knows talent. What else could I want? Sure, Lindt white-chocolate truffles, but I’m talking about agents. Because of Marlene,
Spooning Daisy
is CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE #1,
Embracing Felicity
is CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE #2, and
Tempting Eveline
is CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE #3.

Ken Taylor and Jerry Grover, my best buddies—gone too soon—invited me into their man caves so I might understand and write honestly, but with kindness.

Rebecca Cremonese, Production Editor for Kensington Books, guided me through the editing labyrinth much like Bartemius Crouch, Jr. helped Harry Potter survive the deadly Triwizard Maze . . . which is confusing since
four
wizards were competing. Thanks to Rebecca, revisions weren’t confusing. And no one died. That I know of.

Mari Klassert and Jeanne Dolan are my yin and my yang, oldest and dearest friends, influencing every “best friend” that starts in my head and ends on the page.

Linda Rupp, trail buddy & partner-in-crime, was there for the garage sale that started it all.

Victoria (Tory) Groshong, Copy Editor, has the unenviable task of suggesting revisions to writers who like to think their every word is gold. Tory has prevented blunders such as
He screwed his face
from going to print. More like
fool’s
gold.

Seldovia and Kachemak Bay, Alaska—where I scattered my mom’s ashes—are the inspiration behind Otter Bite. Forever in my heart, and now in the hearts of Daisy, Felicity, and Eveline, as well. Exactly as it
otter
be.

Chapter One

“W
hat’ll ya take for this?”

Daisy Moon lifted her glazed eyes from a makeshift plywood table where she had been tidying pieces of her past. She focused on the midlife, mostly brunette whose brassy streaks fit her gravel voice. Backlit by the golden afternoon pushing into the garage, the woman appeared heaven-sent. After a closer look, Daisy knew better.

In her right hand, a cigarette was wedged between two fingers while her left hand strangled a porcelain figurine, its milky pastels and melted contours in unhappy contrast to the black polish on the woman’s talons.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t smoke,” Daisy said politely. “There’s a bucket outside—”

Too late. The cigarette was crushed between the sole of one strappy stiletto sandal and the pristine concrete of Daisy’s double garage.

“So how much?”

A cloud dulled the sun and the saintly aura faded.

Stepping back to allow yet another stranger to judge the resale value of her life, Daisy answered the brunette. “Doesn’t the tag say fifty dollars?” as if she couldn’t remember how, in the wee hours of the morning while Lady Antebellum pleaded “Need You Now,” she’d painstakingly tied the price tag around the necks of the porcelain lovers.

“Ye-ahh,” the woman answered as if Daisy were dense. “But how much will you
take
?”

“Excuse me,” a voice from behind interrupted. “What size is this?”

Daisy turned to a stout woman who held a Kelly-green midcalf skirt and matching short jacket. Daisy loved that suit—it perfectly complemented her Irish genes—but love wasn’t a good enough reason to keep something that squeezed the breath from her. “Size six.”

“Is there some place I could try it on?”

“Try it on . . . ?” Daisy imagined popped buttons and exploding seams.

“I’ll handle this,” Charity Wagstaff whispered, coming through the milling browsers. “You take care of Cruella.”

Daisy shot her eyes toward the heavens.

“But remember,” her best friend softly chided, “you’re turning the page, moving on, taking risks. You’re
letting go
—”

“I know, I know.” Forcing a smile, Daisy attended to the brunette. “Make me an offer.”

“Ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks? That’s a
Lladró
!”

The brunette stared impatiently, as if she were tapping a foot.

“It’s a limited edition and it cost $275
last year
. They’ve probably broken the mold.”

“Well, if it’s so valuable, why’re y’ selling it?”

Because it was meant to crown the top layer of a fabulous, five-tier Amaretto wedding cake . . .
“Because I’m moving,” Daisy said instead. “And I don’t have the room.”

The brunette yawned.

“It’s like this—” Daisy tried to look pitiful. But it took memories of her long-departed mutt, Sophie, to produce the tears needed for effect. “My husband died and I have to downsize.”

“Twenty bucks,” countered the dry-eyed shopper.

“She’ll take it,” Charity said, sneaking up from behind.

Her auburn frizz quivering with indignation, Daisy spun toward the sunny blonde. “Have you lost your mind? It’s worth more than twenty dollars. It’s worth more than
fifty
dollars!”

“Let it go.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s only clay.
Let it go
.”

“I don’t have all day.” The woman held out a rumpled bill. “Y’ want the twenty or not?”

Reaching across the plywood, Charity snatched the money.

“I’ve changed my mind, it’s not for sale!” Daisy screamed. Charity blocked her attempt to chase the woman, who fled down the drive like a hyena with carrion.

Daisy wilted, then quickly tensed. The browsing had stopped and all eyes were upon her. A Miss Marple–type linked elbows with her equally tweedy companion and the two scurried out of the garage, pausing briefly at the garden tools displayed along the drive before glancing back and continuing their escape.