Wild in the Moment (7 page)

“Okay.”

“Where do you want me to pick you up?”

“How about if I meet you right outside the café here?”

There. He'd got that settled. Before she could change her mind—and ignoring all the interested eyes in the restaurant—he charged right back down the aisle and this time, directly outside. The sudden spank of icy wind tried to slap some reality into him, but didn't seem to work. His head was still reeling. Had he imagined it? That wild night? That extraordinary coming together, the connection he'd never felt with anyone else, the jolt of excitement just talking to each other? Was it some fantasy he'd imagined in the stress of a blizzard? Because he'd had no one for so long? Because he'd stopped believing he'd ever find a woman who bamboozled his common sense ever again?

Was Daisy real—or had being knocked out two weeks ago seriously addled his brain?

 

As if she weren't already anxious-times-ten to be seeing Teague again, she was running late. To add insult to injury, she was just tugging on a cowl-necked sweater when her new cell phone beeped. Impatiently she grabbed it.

“Finally,” a feminine voice scolded. “I got your voice mail about having a new phone number, but you didn't say where you
are.
I'm gonna shoot you if you ever do this again!”

Anxious or not anxious, Daisy had to chuckle. Her baby sister sounded so bossy. Camille had been through hell and back over the past couple years, losing her first
love and almost losing herself in the aftermath. It had taken a long time—and the love of a terrific guy—to put that strident, bossy confidence back in her voice. “Hey, I called Mom and Dad and you and Violet, to let everyone know my new phone number—”

“But all you did was leave messages, so no one actually had a chance to talk to you! Nobody still knows where you are!”

“Well, I'm here. Home in White Hills. For a little while, anyway.” With the cell phone clapped to her ear, she pushed on black Manolo Blahnik shoes, then stuffed a bill in her Kate Spade purse.

“But no one's there! You know Violet closed up the house for the whole winter. And that I'm off with Pete and the boys.”

As much as Daisy missed her sister, she shot another glance at her watch and kept hustling, grabbing a hair-brush, then lipstick. “Like it's my fault the family's gallivanting all over the place? For that matter, you're the only one in the family who's totally settled in White Hills, but instead of being around with your new husband and kids—”

“And dogs. And my father-in-law.”

“Yeah. You sure know how to do a honeymoon, kid.”

“Quit distracting me,” Camille chided. “The last I knew you were still in France. Violet and I both knew there was something wrong with Jean-Luc, something serious, but you never once told us what was going on. The next thing I know, I get the message that you have a new cell phone number
and
you're back in the U.S.
and
your last name is suddenly Campbell again.”

“Yup,” Daisy said, which seemed to cover everything.

“You got a divorce?”

She couldn't answer that question quite so lightly. “Yes. And I'll tell you about it. And Violet. But right now I'm rushed—just please don't say anything to Mom and Dad until I've had the chance to tell you two completely what's going on first, all right?”

“No, it's not all right. First I want to know—”

“Camille, I can't talk now, honestly. I swear I'm not evading a conversation. I'm just plain short on time. And I need more than two seconds to explain what's been happening.”

“Okay, but—”

Daisy hung up. It was already ten minutes after seven. Being a few minutes late wasn't criminal, but she'd asked Teague to meet her outside—which meant he was stuck out there on a frigid-cold night. She tugged on a jacket, locked the back door and charged down the stairs.

She'd carefully thought through everything she was wearing, from the St. John's sweater and slacks to using the last of her hoarded Cle Peau makeup. Daisy couldn't imagine Teague remotely caring about designer labels—and right now, he had no idea that all these silly, impractical clothes were all she owned. She'd played the pricey look up, rather than down, to help create a distance between them. She didn't want him to think of her as normal, as conceivably staying in White Hills, or that there was any potential between them.

That was the theory. But she'd also hoped to have more time to plan how to handle this meeting, and instead felt rushed inside and out.

The bottom door opened into the vestibule of the Marble Bridge Café—and then one more door led her out to the street, where a tall, dark-haired man in a
sheepskin jacket stomping his feet to keep warm stood. He spun around when he heard the door, then stopped dead when he saw her.

The streetlamp glowed on his ruddy cheeks and snow-dusted hair, but he looked at her with a fierce glow in his eyes. A blister-cold night suddenly warmed. A lonely heart was tempted…or, Daisy corrected herself, a lonely heart would have been tempted by the promise in those wonderful, sexy, warm eyes if she didn't know better.

She wasn't going to repeat the same mistakes. She couldn't possibly have fallen in love at first sight—or first night—not the kind of love that could conceivably work. It didn't matter what her heart told her. Her heart had been dead wrong before.

“You came from inside the café? It looked all closed up and locked down to me. I never thought Harry kept it open past the afternoon hours,” he said in confusion.

“You're right, the café's closed. I'm living in the apartment above it.”

He glanced up. “I didn't even realize there was an apartment up there.” He opened his mouth as if intending to question her further, but then he looked at her again. Really looked. She had the shivery feeling he would like to swallow her up, because his gaze seemed like a vacuum that sucked in every tiny detail and kept it. “You look terrific.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.”

“Only, you look too darn terrific for any restaurant this town can offer.”

“Trust me,” she said wryly, “you can afford me.”

She recognized where he was driving—McCutcheon's, the best restaurant in White Hills—and diverted him to a fast-food burger place instead. He looked tired,
her one-time lover. Fit and full of hell and more than capable of causing her a great deal of trouble, but still, tired.

“Your head's okay? All recovered from that major bump?” she asked him a few minutes later—while stealing another of his French fries. It was the first time she'd seen him in clothes, she realized. He hadn't been naked the whole time during the blizzard, but when she'd first found him knocked out, he'd been in work duds. Tonight he wore dark cords and a dark sweater with a Nordic pattern. Nothing fancy, still practical, but good clothes that looked more than good on him.

Daisy couldn't name a single item in her wardrobe that qualified as practical, but that didn't mean she couldn't admire someone with traits she didn't have.

“Actually, the sheriff insisted I go to a doctor, and the doctor decided I'd had a concussion. Like this was meaningful, to have a new definition for a headache.”

“And the ankle?”

“Aw, that. Not worth mentioning. I've still got it taped, but that's just because I'm a sissy.”

“Excuse me.” She stood up, her hand slapped over her heart. “We need to broadcast to greater America that a man in the universe just admitted he was a sissy.”

He just grinned—and threw a French fry at her.

“So it was sprained, huh?”

“Just a little sprain.”

“Even little sprains hurt like a bear.”

“You know?”

She nodded. “I fell off a boat one time, hit an ankle. It was one of my more graceful moves.”

“Did someone get a photograph? Because I don't believe this story about you not being graceful.”

She stopped dipping fries in the ketchup. She knew
charm. All too well. But there wasn't charm in his voice, only honesty, and that gentle, honest compliment put an itch in her heart.

That's all it was, though.

An itch.

The itch was bad. Downright unignorable and unforgettable—but still, no worse than a mosquito bite. She could get past it. What she wasn't sure she could cope with was getting through a more serious conversation, but she sucked in a breath for courage and determined to try. “Teague, you have to be wondering what I was doing in the café—”

“Actually, I was hoping you'd help me with my swatch problem.”

Daisy hesitated. She'd thought his swatch question was a joke—Teague's making up an excuse to have dinner with her. She'd been positive that if he found her again, he'd ask for an explanation of why she'd disappeared after the blizzard and made no effort to contact him.

The truth was, she'd wanted to. Fiercely. She'd had to work on it every day, giving herself emotional pep talks, exercising her hard heart muscle—or trying to develop one. She was in no position to take on any guy, much less one in White Hills. She'd fooled herself before, about thinking a man was right for her. She shouldn't make too much of a one-night encounter. It was the blizzard. A wild moment in time. But that's all.

So she'd told herself.

But looking at him now, laughing with him over ketchup and burgers and fries, she knew why she'd really hidden away. She'd been afraid to see him again. Afraid she'd feel like this. Happy. Lifted up. Her hor
mones all asizzle and her pulse thumping like a puppy's tail, just to be with him. “The swatch?” she echoed.

“Yeah. Would you mind coming with me? Seeing the Cochran house, the project I'm working on?”

“Come with you?” she parroted blankly.

“It's in town. Just three blocks over. I just want to ask your advice. We could be in and out in ten minutes.”

She opened her mouth to say no, but that just seemed cowardly and dumb. What possible harm could it do to spend a few more minutes together, especially at some kind of torn-up construction site? “Okay,” she said.

T
eague railroaded her to the front porch of the Cochran house before she could balk—although she was thinking about it. “Teague, we can't just walk into someone's place.”

“We're not going to just walk in.” He rapped hard on the door, rang the bell, then stuck in a key and yelled out a yoo-hoo.

“Teague—”

“They know I come in at all hours. They want to get the job done, so they gave me a key. Just hold up for a second so I can tell them you're with me this time.”

He bolted up a staircase before she could respond. So she stood there, feeling ill-at-ease in a stranger's house—even if she did know the Cochran name from her childhood—and more restless than a wet cat in a downpour.

Teague was being easy to be with. Too easy. He
hadn't asked why she was living over the café. Why she hadn't contacted him after the blizzard. Surely he was going to ask some difficult questions sooner or later?

He bounded back down the stairs, carrying his jacket this time and making a motion for her to hand over hers. “They're home. They're happy we're here, and they're even happier that I brought someone to give me some advice.”

“You're talking about the swatch problem advice?”

“Yeah. Come on, so you can see what I'm doing.” He led her through a hall to the back of the stone two-story house. Obviously, the family was living upstairs for now, because the downstairs was too chewed-up to function in. But Daisy sucked in a breath when she saw what he'd been up to.

Even before he switched on a glaring overhead light, she saw the slate walls and white marble fireplace and the shiny dark tiles. It wasn't like any place she'd seen—not corny country, not citified either, but wonderfully unique without being in-your-face elegant.

“They had beige carpeting in here before. Two cramped little rooms. The fireplace was in the same spot, but it was brick, kind of a dirty red color. It seemed to make good sense to use Vermont white marble, then contrast it with slate—you like?”

“I'm not going to give you compliments for being brilliant. They'd go straight to your head,” she said.

He chuckled. “Okay. So you like it. But now you can see the problem.” He motioned.

On both sides of the fireplace were two huge, new bay windows. The Cochrans' backyard looked over a ravine, with overgrown woods to the west and a meadow drifting off to the east—a meadow Daisy could
so easily imagine in springtime, coming in pale green and then turning lush with wildflowers. “Mrs. Cochran doesn't want curtains,” she said absently.

“No?”

“I'm assuming that's why she wanted a swatch, because she thinks she's supposed to have some kind of draperies. A ‘swatch' is a piece of fabric so she could see different designs, see how the fabric worked in the room. But she doesn't want to cover these windows, Teague. There are no neighbors to see in. The view is part of the beauty of the room.” Daisy wandered, touched, looked. “What she's probably more afraid of is that all these new textures could come across as cold. Attractive, but not warm, not like a home.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And the truth is that the textures are cold. Beautiful, but cold.” She touched the marble fireplace, the slate wall. “The thing she needs to work with, though, is the furniture. No wood, no arms or legs showing. All upholstery. She needs to choose soft fabrics, like ultrasuede or micro fiber. And then colors bright enough to attract the eye—colors with courage. No grays, no colors with gray in the paint. Yellow would warm it up. Or red. Or prints with warm colors. And then she needs a throw rug—just one—round, not rectangular or square. The rug also needs to have some kind of thick texture, like sheepskin or fur or fake fur—something with body and depth…” She could picture it. Her fingers itched to get into the colors, the fabrics, that could make this fabulous room come to life.

“Um, you wouldn't mind telling Mrs. Cochran this stuff, would you?”

Daisy glanced back at him, startled. “I can't imagine
she'd want to listen to a stranger's advice. I was just woolgathering to you.”

“Trust me. This is exactly the stuff she wanted me to tell her. Only, I didn't get it. I understood how to make better use of the space, how to make the view come to life, showcase the fireplace, all that kind of thing. Hell, I love those kinds of problems.”

“And you did fabulously. If this were a room in my house, I'd hang out here and never leave.”

That was obviously too much praise. Whether consciously or unconsciously, he backed away a few steps, looked out at the snow-covered woods. “I like it okay. It isn't my best. Mostly what I like about carpentry is studying someone's house, figuring out what works for what they want, what they need, what would make the most of their specific living space. So each job is individual to the person or couple, you know? Except…”

“Except what?”

“Except that I just can't handle the decorating-stuff part of it.”

The way he shivered in mock horror made her chuckle. “What, you're afraid of curtains? A great big lug like you?”

He turned, pinned her with a look that was suddenly quiet, suddenly intense. His eyes seemed to catch fire. “And what are you scared of, Daisy?”

She didn't immediately answer, simply because she didn't have to. They both heard the clip of footsteps, and then the Cochrans walked in. Introductions followed, and faster than two women could smell a sale, she was sharing decorating ideas with Mrs. Cochran.

It was well over an hour later before they left the house—with the Cochrans still trailing them, coaxing them to stay for another glass of wine.

By then the temperature had fallen a good dozen degrees and snow glistened in the air. She was warm enough, with fur mittens and a fur scarf, but Teague was hunched in his jacket.

“You goof, where's your hat?” she teased him.

“The town's decorated with my hats. I don't like them, so I seem to unconsciously leave them wherever they get tossed.”

“You're going to freeze.” She hooked her arm with his, snuggling closer. They'd been getting along like brother and sister, she told herself. Teasing. Talking. Just being together. It was only three blocks back to the café.

Unfortunately, it just wasn't long enough to delude herself. She didn't feel like a sister with Teague. He didn't look at her like a brother would. It wasn't working, the pretending, no matter how hard she tried.

When they reached the café, it was closed tighter than a drum. An occasional car dawdled past. Streetlights turned red and green with no one to see. The overhead security light helped her find the key in her purse. She plucked it out, looked at him and then hesitated. “Would you like to come up?” His expression changed so fast, she added swiftly, “Not for the reason you're thinking.”

“What, you think I planned to jump your bones the instant we walked in the door?”

“I wasn't worried about you, Teague. I was afraid I might jump you, not the other way around.” She could see he liked it, the teasing, but as she led him up the dark stairwell, her heart seemed to be suffering sharp pangs of nerves.

He'd allowed the easy familiarity between them. Hadn't asked her a single question. Hadn't implied in
any way that they'd spent one wild, long night naked together, hadn't pushed in any way.

It wasn't natural, a man being that nice. In fact, it was so unnatural it was nerve-racking.

It wasn't that she owed him an explanation of her life or anything else, just because they'd slept together. But there was something about the damn man that made her want to be honest with him. At the top of the stairs she opened the door, but before she flipped on a light, she turned and said seriously, “If you see my place, I think it'll explain a lot. Enough so that you just might not want to jump my bones the way we did before. That was a blizzard. A wild moment in time.”

“As compared to this moment, which is…?”

“More like straight old real life.” She flipped the light switch. Without looking at him, she slipped off her coat and scarf, tossed her bag on a chair and aimed for the wine. She wasn't trying to create a cozy drink-together atmosphere, but almost anyone could look at her current “home” and need some whiskey to absorb the shock.

Moments later she handed him a glass of Merlot. Not good Merlot. For damn sure, not French Merlot. Just the stuff she'd found in the grocery store—which was even then too expensive. Of course, air was too expensive for her these days.

“What in God's name was this place when you moved in?”

“Some kind of storage attic. Which is undoubtedly why Harry was willing to give it to me rent free,” she said dryly.

She watched him look around. He'd shed his jacket, but he hadn't sat down yet, didn't look as if he was necessarily going to.

Her first week here was right after the blizzard—when she'd realized the farmhouse furnace needed a complete overhaul. That wasn't her expense problem. It was Violet's. And Violet could afford it just fine. But it was going to be another three weeks before the plumber could even get to the problem, and by then she'd realized how much it would cost her to live home…and how bad her financial situation really was. That same day she'd seen the Temporary Help Wanted sign in the café window.

This room…well, it had taken her seven days of scrubbing before she could even stand it. Apparently no one had ever washed it before. Mice and birds and bees had set up housekeeping under the eaves, but nothing human. There was a utilitarian bathroom with a teensy shower; the white porcelain sink was rusty, but it was all usable. And there were two windows built into the slant of the roof.

When her boxes had arrived from France at the farmhouse, she sorted through and discovered that she had all kinds of “things.” The only thing she didn't have was money.

So there was an original oil over the couch with no springs. The old iron bed was nothing to admire, but the quilt was convent-made, in rich purples and lavenders. She'd covered a hole in the wall with a Versace blouse, draping it as if it were intended to be a wall covering. She'd used scarves—Hermes, Dior, Chanel—to cover the paint-scarred tables. Her china was fine-boned, a pale cream with a rim of gold, even if the rickety card table was the only place to eat. A hot plate and small fridge functioned as her kitchen.

“If I tried to explain this to anyone, they'd never believe it,” Teague said.

“Yeah…well, that's my reality. I'm dead broke. And I do mean broke.”

“That's not what I meant or thought. You've made something original and interesting and even beautiful out of…out of God knows what.”

“It's hardly beautiful.”

“Yeah, it is. All the color, the scarves and stuff…it looks intentional. Not like you're covering up the horrible room. But like you were creating an artsy cool boudoir.”

She frowned, confused.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “You want me to take this more seriously. You're not just broke. You're
really
broke.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Teague, I don't mind you knowing. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything around town, because my parents and family still communicate with a ton of people here. I don't want word to get back to my family. Obviously, they know about the divorce, but not much more—and especially not what financial shape I'm in. It's just…complicated. They didn't know I was unhappy.”

Somehow she found herself sitting across from him, Teague on the couch, hunched over, playing with that wineglass, and her settled at the bottom edge of the bed. There was no other place to sit, not where she could comfortably face him. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

“Why what?”

“Why didn't you tell your family how unhappy you were—or that you're this strapped for money?”

“Because.” She lifted a hand in a sweeping motion, one of those gestures that was supposed to communicate there were a zillion reasons. “At the time I first realized the marriage wasn't going to make it, my mom and dad
were just retiring. I was in another country. They would have worried to death. And I didn't tell my two sisters…”

“Yeah, they're another question. I thought you said you were really close to your sisters.”

“We were. We are. But I'm the oldest, you know? I'm the one they always looked to for advice, to take charge.” She added, “In fact, I'm the one who did a little masterminding behind the scenes to help them hook up with the guys they just married. Good men. And they're both totally happy—”

Teague didn't exactly interrupt her, but he acted as if he had no interest in hearing how happy the rest of her family was. “I get it,” he said. “You didn't want your family to know because of pride.”

She scowled. “All right. So I have a little issue with pride.”

“Little?”

“Okay. Big.”
Cripes,
she'd have denied it if she could. Unfortunately when it came down to it, except for all the designer clothes and accessories, she pretty much didn't have a pot to pee in. And pride or no pride, she felt the oddest sense of relief to finally tell someone. Someone not her family.

And Teague could have judged her. Instead he just seemed to keep taking in information like a sponge. “The point isn't your pride, sweet pea. The point is…where you're going from here.”

“Well. Like I told you, I'm living free above the café, because Harry was hot to have someone in the place. Food's free, rent's free, electricity—it isn't costing me a dime to be here. On top of which, I'm a little short on wheels temporarily.”

“You had a car,” he said with a frown.

“A rental car that I picked up at the airport. And that's the thing. I don't need a car at all for a few weeks if I live here. I can walk anywhere in town and eat downstairs.”