Chapter 24 #2
“You do. It may not feel that way. But you do. Anything that’s inevitable will come to pass. But often time reveals options and new developments in a situation that seemed to be barreling forward.”
“Like an endangered species,” I say softly.
“What?” Mom asks.
“Nothing. The girls were joking about releasing an endangered species on the property.”
Mom laughs softly. “You have the best friends.”
“I do.”
“Give yourself time,” she echoes her advice, knowing I didn’t take it in at all the first time.
“Okay. I will. Or at least, I’ll try.”
“I love you, sweet girl.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
We hang up and I drift to sleep, thoughts of the bookshop, developments, my friends and Patrick O’Connell filling my pre-sleep haze and my dreams.
A few days later, I’m in the office, working on payroll.
I’ve been trying to take Mom’s words to heart.
Hardship can make us project into the future, ushering in doom ahead of schedule.
And more often than not, most of what we worry over never comes to pass.
Or at least it doesn’t happen the way we’ve feared it will.
One day at a time. My grandma used to say, Each day’s got enough in the bucket to last you and enough that you can carry it around.
I never really understood those words until now.
A ping notification from my bank comes through my computer. I click the pop-up.
Low Balance Alert
A heavy sigh rushes out. “The O’Connells aren’t my only problem,” I say to myself.
A completely unhelpful memory of Patrick’s firm grip on my arm in the parking lot fills my senses. He smells too good—looks too good—acts too good.
“And that’s definitely a problem,” I grumble.
I pick up my purse. I’ve been meaning to talk to someone at the bank about my options. At the very least, I’ll have to transfer from my personal account to cover this week’s payroll.
“Winona, can you cover for an hour?” I ask when I step out of the office. “I have to run to the bank.”
“Come back with pumpkin muffins from Baker From Another Mother and I can.” Winona winks.
“Deal.”
I grab my jacket and step out the door.
I’m only halfway down the steps when I glance toward the parking lot. What I see stops me in my tracks.
Construction trucks? Bulldozers? And a giant wood sign boasting: Future Site of Home Mart.
They’re blocking the entrance to my parking lot.
I stride toward the spot. No workers in sight. Fine. I’ll climb into the cab myself and figure out the ignition if I have to.
Patrick pulls up, parking right next to the cluster of vehicles and hopping out of his car. He must be here to help his dad kick off the destruction of the field.
“You’re in the habit of blocking me in, O’Connell,” I say, popping my hip on my hand. “First your moving truck, now this.”
I’m mustering a fierceness I don’t completely feel, considering only moments ago I battled thoughts of the way his hand felt cupping my elbow at Fork and Fiddle.
Patrick leans on his car, his face unreadable, but I think I detect a hint of a smirk.
“Maybe my car has a thing for your driveways,” he says.
Is he … flirting? No. Definitely not.
I make a show of bringing my hand up to my chest and gasping. Then I draw a line I actually mean from the bottom of my heart. “Your car and my driveway will never be friends. Ever.”
Okay. That made more sense in my head.
Patrick laughs softly. I barely believe what comes out of his mouth next. “Or maybe I just … like being where you are.” He clears his throat and his composure slips just the slightest. “I mean—uh …”
My eyes narrow. “We both know you don’t mean that. Unless you’re talking about plopping your family’s development on my front porch.”
Patrick shakes his head, pushing off the side of the car and striding toward me. “When you look at me like that …”
He looks … determined. Reckless. His eyes lock onto mine.
My heart lodges in my throat. Why is he still coming closer? He stops and bends toward me until our faces are inches apart.
“Like what?” I croak. What is wrong with me?
“Like you’re deciding whether to fight me or …”
I swallow hard. Is Patrick actually insinuating I want to kiss him?
My eyes betray me, darting to his lips. That full bottom lip. That stubbly jawline.
No. Absolutely not.
Warmth radiates off him, his gaze tracking mine.
His lips twitch into a satisfied half-smile.
I press my hand to his chest to shove him back, but the contact jolts me—heat, muscle, and those eyes, only inches away. My breath snags in my throat. My hand doesn’t budge. Instead, I’m riveted—his heartbeat strong beneath my palm like the ticking metronome of a hypnotist.
In one swift movement he catches my wrist. His fingers close around me, firm and warm. Everything inside me stutters to a halt. My protest dies unspoken, strangled by the shock sparking from our single point of contact.
My lips are dry. I lick them. My heart pounds, breath shallow. He’s going to—
I brace—unable to retreat—at war with him and myself.
Instead of his lips brushing my mouth, his cheek grazes mine, his whisper a hot caress across my ear.
“You drive me crazy, Daisy Clark.”
A shiver ripples through me.
“And you return the favor, Patrick O’Connell.” The words sputter out, unsteady and ragged.
He drags his cheek backward, across the same tender skin, torturing me and unleashing something in a move far too intimate—a taunt, a tease, a promise. One he won’t keep.
He doesn’t step back. He remains inches from me. For a beat, we’re frozen—eyes wide, breath colliding in the narrow space between us. Then I stumble forward or he leans in, and our mouths collide in a kiss so inevitable, so wholly consuming, I lose—the fight, myself, time, place.
Every nerve detonates with the shock of him—his mouth urgent, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, holding me like I might vanish. I grip his shirt, hanging on to him, this moment, my sanity.
My lungs forget how to work; my heart pounds as if trying to break free of my chest. I forget the past, my own name, who I’m with. No. I know. With every movement of our mouths, I know. It’s Patrick kissing me. And I’m kissing him back. Nothing has ever felt so right. And so wrong …
No! No. No. No. No. No.
This time when I place my palm on his chest, I wrench away, ripping free from his hold, my lips blazing, my wrist still tingling where his skin touched mine. My lungs claw for air like I’ve been underwater too long.
“We didn’t …” The words rasp out, raw, uneven. I run a hand through my hair, looking anywhere but into the eyes of the man who just kissed me.
“Daisy … I’m … I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry? We kissed, and he’s sorry? I thought I had reached the bottom of how much Patrick could humiliate me.
But apparently not. Because right now, heat is flooding my cheeks and I want to relocate to Siberia or Mongolia or any place that ends in uh and doesn’t involve ever having to face Patrick O’Connell again.
I step back quickly, “That was a mistake. Obviously.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “I mean. It never happened, actually.”
Patrick stares at me, silently sizing me up. There’s a note of pleading in his eyes, or maybe I’m just wishing for one.
“You wish you hated me less,” he says, his eyes still dilated and hooded.
“You wish I hated you less,” I volley. “I’m perfectly content with my feelings for you.”
His voice sounds nearly sincere when he asks, “Am I really that unbearable?”
His fingertips raise as if on their own volition and brush over his lips. His eyes bore into mine.
Okay. So what? Patrick’s a good kisser. Fair. A fair kisser. Passable. That doesn’t make him a good person.
“You’re definitely the worst,” I assure him.
He smiles impishly. “The worst …” He shakes his head and steps backward. “I’ll just move my truck.”
“Please—move your truck, please,” I say, waving toward the collection of Tonka trucks blocking my parking lot. “And all those things.” I desperately need to gain control of something—anything.
“As you wish,” Patrick says, quoting one of my favorite movies, and ironically, the book the host of Burning Through the Pages will be speaking about this week on his podcast.
I squint at Patrick and for one crazy second I wonder … No. Absolutely not.
“You’re infuriating,” I add, before I turn and walk toward my car.
I hear his retort even though he says it under his breath. “And you drive me out of my mind.”
I watch Patrick as he walks away toward the curb.
My lips tingle. For a split second, I didn’t hate him.
It’s been a while since I’ve been kissed.
That’s all. It’s not that his kiss was so much better than any other I’ve ever experienced.
It’s the drought. Any water will quench parched ground.
It’s absolutely not Patrick O’Connell, the most infuriating human on earth.
I’m so rattled, I don’t know my own mind. I was going somewhere when he ambushed me.
“And kissed me,” I remind myself.
“Shhhh.” I chide.
The bank. Yes. I was going to the bank. But I’m so flustered, the idea of getting behind a wheel seems unwise, so I do what any self-respecting bookshop owner would do when her hot nemesis kisses her out of the blue. I retreat into Moss & Maple.
Winona’s face scrunches up when I practically fly through the front door. “Back so soon?” She scans my face and her eyes fall to my hands. “And without muffins?”
“Um. Yeah. No. I just need a minute.” I walk to the office and I must mutter, “It meant nothing.”
Winona trails behind me, “What meant nothing?”
“Nothing. Nothing meant nothing,” I say, shaking my head and wondering if I’m losing my mind.
Is Patrick actually outside? Did he really just kiss me? And why?
“That’s usually what nothing means—nothing.” Winona’s eyes narrow.
“Exactly,” I affirm. “Nothing means nothing. And besides, this was all your fault.”
“What was?” Her brows draw in further.
“All that talk about people being good kissers.” I throw my hands up in the air.
“I’m so confused. Are you okay?”