Chapter 17
Daisy
I love and I hate you, yet I love you and I hate you.
~ William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
Chet and I couldn’t make lunch or coffee work. He’s a rancher, I’m a small business owner—midday’s a wash for both of us. So we ended up making a dinner date.
Chet’s been regaling me with stories of his time on the ranch.
“Had to chase that foal down …” he says, fighting another yawn, “... and use the mare to lure it to safety.”
I feel like I’m keeping Chet from sleep he desperately needs. Conversation with him has been easy, but he’s obviously fighting to stay awake. He’s a sweet man with a steadiness to him that feels oddly anchoring. And I admire his old-fashioned manners.
But there’s no spark. Not even a flicker.
“Sorry,” he drawls in that honey-sweet accent of his. “I’m not always this drowsy. Usually in bed two hours ago. Roosters wait for no man.”
I smile. “It’s fine. I’ve been distracted too—lots going on at the shop.”
Chet nods, his eyes intent on my face. He’s an attentive listener too.
I practically beg my belly to zip or zing—willing a spark to come to life.
At least he didn’t bring his mom.
I groan inwardly. Is this my new standard? No parental chaperone?
“We can get the check whenever,” I offer. “I’m not in a rush, but you need sleep.”
Chet signals the waiter. “I enjoyed tonight, Daisy.”
“Me too.” It was a pleasant date.
“I’m thinkin’ you’d rather be friends.” He tips his head. It’s adorable.
Still, no spark.
“I would like that very much,” I admit.
“A man can always use a friend,” he says, easily.
I kick myself. Why can’t I fall for a decent guy like Chet?
The heart wants what the heart wants.
Then it hits—like lightning splitting a tree.
I want the host of Burning Through the Pages.
No one else makes me feel giddy and grounded at once.
I’m utterly doomed.
I’ve got a crush on a man I’ll never meet. Might as well pine for Mr. Darcy—I’ve got the same odds with him as with my online mystery man.
Chet and I walk to our cars. He asks if he can give me a hug, and I say yes. I try to muster anything but a fondness when I’m being held by him. Still nothing. Friends it is.
I drive home, wistfulness pooling in my chest—part worry over Moss and Maple, part letdown from another “not my man” night.
And, speaking of “not my man,” Patrick happens to be on the porch when I pull up.
He doesn’t move as I climb the porch steps, just watches me draw closer.
“Daisy,” he says cautiously.
I haven’t seen Patrick since the fire station book pickup—and that’s been just fine by me.
“Patrick,” I answer him.
He simply stands there, staring.
“I … uh …” he stammers.
His hand lifts, then drops to his side, fist curling tight.
Was he reaching for me? No. Of course not.
The porch light carves shadows over the sharp lines of his jaw, and his gaze burns through the dark, undimmed.
I cross my arms, waiting for whatever he needs to say.
When he stays silent, I huff, unlock my door, and all but slam it behind me.
Chet left me lukewarm. Patrick? He sets me on fire. That man!
What’s crazy? I want to fling the door open and shake him. Pound my fists against his chest. Release the chaos swirling through me. The pull is magnetic. But our poles repel.
In the best of worlds, we’d turn back time. He wouldn’t have stranded me, wrecking my dream with his misplaced loyalty to his family. And his dad wouldn’t return to Waterford hell-bent on overshadowing and eliminating my shop.
“Then what?” I whisper.
The answer chills me. I snap the deadbolt with a clammy hand.
I eye my laptop. Is it healthy to lean on the host of BTTP as my emotional support person? Who knows. What I do know: he’s been there, freely giving advice, in my corner—a true friend.
I settle into my couch, tugging the cushions just right, and pull my laptop onto my lap.
I literally release a contented sigh as I open the DMs. I’ll take a shot at him actually being online.
M&M: You’re going to think I’m terrible.
His cursor blinks to life, and I can’t stop my smile.
BTTP: I won’t, because you’re not. What’s up?
M&M: Confession: my neighbor is getting on my last nerve. I’m trying to be neighborly. He’s impossible.
BTTP: I think it was Thoreau who said, “good fences make good neighbors.”
BTTP: Correction. It was Frost.
A man who knows Thoreau and Frost and uses them to encourage others? Sweet mother of Moses, I’m toast.
M&M: So you think I should build a fence?
BTTP: At least metaphorically. Draw your lines and hold them.
Lines with Patrick? Ha! He’s right there on the other side of the wall as I type. But I’ve given my annoying neighbor enough rent-free space in my head tonight, so I shift the topic.
M&M: So … what did you do tonight?
BTTP: Work earlier, then routine stuff around the house. You?
M&M: Another setup, as in a date.
BTTP: Another one?
M&M: Apparently it’s monsoon season.
BTTP: Ha. Verdict?
M&M: Parent-approved. Not me-approved. He was genuinely nice. I wish I felt more.
BTTP: “Nice” is the baseline, not sufficient. There has to be a spark.
M&M: Sometimes I wonder if my standards are too high.
BTTP: Don’t settle. Especially not in love.
If only he knew how I’m feeling. Not only crushing on him, but …
M&M: Sometimes I just get … lonely.
BTTP: I understand. We all get lonely. Those feelings are real, and beyond uncomfortable at times—but never a reason to lower your standards.
M&M: Agreed. I’d rather live alone than settle.