15. Daisy
Chapter 15
Daisy
Hi, it's me.
Who?
Daisy St. James
Doesn't ring a bell.
Sorry, wrong number.
Daisy, I'm kidding.
angry emoji I hope fire ants attack your big toe.
Arizona doesn't have fire ants.
Fine. I hope a scorpion stings you.
Now that's just mean.
I take it back.
Don't take it back. Stick to your guns. Say what you mean, and mean what you say.
I should remain steadfast in my insults. Got it for next time. As for today… Are you still able to come by and help me? It's ok if you can't, or you've changed your mind.
Did I tell you yesterday that I'd be there today?
Yes.
Then I'll be there today. At two.
See you soon, Sailor.
"Sunshine."
Peter stands in my front walk, me in the open doorway. He says the word again, this time more languidly, infusing it with warmth. "Sunshine."
My head tips sideways. He looks good. Too good. His pants are a jean material, but they are navy blue. His heather gray T-shirt hugs his biceps, shoulders pushing back against the fabric.
"Are you reporting the weather?" I give the sunny sky a once-over.
"That"—he points at me with one stiff finger—"is your nickname."
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Are you sure about that? Because you keep telling me I have fire inside me."
His head tips sideways, one eye blinking closed. "The sun is a humongous ball of fire, so technically..." he trails off.
I smirk. "It fits."
He shrugs. "I happen to think so." He peers around me into my house. "Are you guarding the entrance? Is there a password?"
"Penn," I blurt.
His head rears back like he's been sucker punched. Or, shocked .
"The password is Penn," I clarify. Following our text messages this morning, I decided that I would be brave and ask the question I've been too scared to ask. Maybe talking to Hugo tapped into a long hidden thirst, and now there's no going back. I need to know more about Penn.
He swallows. Hard. Runs his palm over the back of his neck. Clears his throat. I almost feel bad about his level of discomfort, but then I remember he's standing between me and learning more about the person who has plagued me for years.
"Hugo told me you know him. I mean, I figured you did, because you were hired to clean out his old house."
His lips press together for a moment, peeling apart as he visibly swallows. Given the preamble, I'm expecting a long response. But what he offers is a simple, "Yes."
I step back and pivot ninety degrees, so my back is pressed up against the open door. Gesturing, I say, "Come in. It's a mess."
Peter gives me a weird look. "Of course it's a mess, Daisy. You're remodeling."
So, here's the thing. I'm surprised I allowed him here at all, given the state of my home. I've been very careful not to tell anybody what I have going on inside my house right now. Including Duke. Most of the time we spend together is for the visual benefit of others, which means we are almost never alone together in one another's homes. We will be soon enough, I suppose. After the wedding. We've worked out most of the finer details, with me planning to move into his home but keep this one. Maybe one day I'll use it as a rental, but for now the plan is to keep it as a secondary place. An escape.
I lead Peter into the living room, the one place that's not an absolute disaster. "Can I get you something to drink?"
He shakes his head. "I'm not here to be entertained. I'm here to help you."
"I was just being polite," I grumble.
He crosses his arms. We stand across from one another, my wooden coffee table between us. "You wanted to talk about Penn?"
Was that a wince? Did he just wince when he said Penn's name?
My arms cross too, body posture mirroring his. "I know he's the reason you know Hugo. And you're here in Olive Township because of him."
He nods. "Correct on both counts. What is it you want to know about him?"
Now that I'm here, asking the questions and looking Peter in his eyes, I'm not sure what I want to say. What I want to ask. Fearing I'll sound stupid and whiny if I ask the one question I really want an answer to, I say, "Hugo said he doesn't think Penn is happy."
One of Peter's eyebrows lift. "Is that right?"
I blow out a hard breath. "I guess what he said was that he doesn't know if Penn is happy. Definitively."
"And you want him to be?"
I nod, one long strand of hair escaping the clip holding back half my hair. "Of course."
Peter is quiet for a long moment, and it hits me this is probably weird for him. It's entirely possible Penn never mentioned me, and honestly, why would he? How many guys sit around and talk about their childhood best friends?
Do you want a beer? Have you seen the new movie about the Roman Empire? Somehow I don't think Let's sit in a circle and bare our hearts about our childhoods is something a single one of them says.
Which means Peter has almost certainly never heard of me. I have to ask though. I have to know. The answer might decimate me, but this is my chance to ask, and if I don't take it, I might not get it again.
Heart in my throat, I say, "Has Penn ever mentioned me?"
I see it in the micro movements of his face, the fractioned squinting of his eyes. He feels bad for me.
"Forget it," I say, waving my hand. My cheeks are hot, and the heat spreads up and out, to my forehead and my neck. "We were friends back in the day, but we were kids. Practically babies." It sure didn't feel like it at the time. It felt big, overwhelming and all-encompassing. My friendship with Penn did not exist in its own lane, but rather a thread woven into the fabric of my life. He was there. Always there.
Penn.
Penn.
Penn.
And to know he did not speak of me, even to someone with whom he probably spent long hours with nothing to do. It's soul crushing, except it's not supposed to be. I told myself I wouldn't ask, and then I asked. I told myself a positive answer was good, and a negative answer was neutral.
What a lie.
"Daisy," Peter says, voice pained. He feels bad for me, and that makes me angry. Indignant. Embarrassed.
Impending tears sting my nose. "Help me with the bathroom cabinet, ok?" I ask, voice shaky, volume a little louder than it needs to be. I turn on my heel, heading with purpose toward the master bath. The house is silent for a few seconds, the only sound my footfalls, and then behind me there is movement. The swish of pants, the thud of footfalls heavier than mine.
I enter my room and cross it, stopping just before the open entrance to my bathroom, and the mess that lay beyond it. Peter hovers in the bedroom door, looking unsure.
Belatedly, I realize I'm inviting a man into my bedroom. A man who isn't my fiancé.
"Duke won't mind that you're here," I rush to say, in case propriety is what has Peter pausing. "He has meetings all day. All week, really. He can't help me."
Not that I asked him. Duke would have, I'm sure. Or, he would've suggested I hire somebody, or maybe even hired somebody without telling me, and they would've shown up and surprised me.
Something flashes across Peter's face at the mention of Duke. He did that before, the first night we met at Summerhill. At the time I was confused, but now I know he was in the military with Penn. Penn must have said things about Duke, shaping Peter's opinion of him. But if Penn mentioned Duke, how could he have not mentioned me?
"Right, of course. The fiancé," Peter says, stepping into my room. He stops and looks around the space. "This is not what I would've expected from looking at you."
I look down at my sundress, the long cardigan I've paired with it to combat the slight chill in the air. It's typical attire for me. "My best friend Vivi calls my room 'Daisy's dark side.'"
The room is moody, with touches of femininity. The headboard of my bed is made of smoky glass tiles and framed in ornate gold. The wall behind it is papered in a matte black with flora in colors of ivory and bronze. On my nightstand is a Tiffany lamp in shades of green, books stacked four high below it.
"I can see why," Peter says, moving deeper into the room. He stops beside a bookshelf I painted black, pointing at the shelf that is mostly framed photos. "May I?" He gestures at the pictures.
I nod as I come closer to his side, and he skims his gaze over the most important people in my life.
"Mom and Dad," I explain, pointing at my smiling parents. My dad wears a flowered shirt, my mom's in a flowy dress. "On a cruise they took a few years ago, before her diagnosis."
Peter's eyes slice to mine. "Diagnosis?"
A lump blossoms automatically in my throat. "Stage four uterine cancer. We didn't find out until it was too late. She"—I swallow back the emotion that comes with saying the words—"she's chosen not to fight. The odds of winning weren't favorable, and she didn't want to spend what time she has left feeling awful."
Peter looks stricken. "Daisy, I'm sorry you're going through this. That's terrible." His hand lifts as if he's going to reach for me, but halfway into the motion, he thinks better of it and drops his arm. It puts an odd feeling in my chest to see him this distraught. I know he is a nice person, but I didn't take him for somebody with this much empathy. Maybe he had someone in his life who has been through something similar.
"Me and my best friend, Vivi," I say, moving on before the reality of what my mom is going through brings me all the way down. "From high school. It was the homecoming football game, that's why our faces are painted blue and white."
Peter nods, reaching for a framed photo sitting back from the others. He holds it for a moment, bouncing it up and down as if it weighs more than a few ounces.
"Penn," I explain, and his head bounces up, gaze expectant, as if I've called him by name. "That was me and Penn, when we were eleven, at the county fair. My parents took us." We ate cotton candy and funnel cakes, and Penn puked disembarking the Tilt-A-Whirl.
Peter stays silent, replacing the photo on the shelf. He is quiet when I mention Duke, he is quiet when I mention Penn. Why is that? Does he simply have nothing to say, or is it more?
Peter moves away from the shelf, and together we walk to the entrance to the bathroom. He looks over my head, eyes bulging. "Daisy," he says, "this is worse than you let on."
My teeth capture my lower lip. "Yeah. It is."
Old, ugly tile sits in piles around the space. I wasn't lying when I said I had to use the pry bar to pry off the cabinetry, but I didn't say I was also using it and various other tools to remove the tile from the walls.
He steps around me, striding to the shower with the glass door thrown open. "Is this even usable?"
"There's a second bathroom with a shower. I've been using that."
Peter nudges one of the piles of tile, and they make a tinkling sound as they knock together. "I guess the pry bar is your new BFF."
"Ha. Ha," I deadpan. "It's not my fault the last person to live in this house decided to tile the entire bathroom, including the walls."
Peter walks the length of the small room, running his hand over the tile that remains on the wall. "How long have you lived here?"
I can clearly see what he's getting at, but I answer anyway. "Four years."
"And you decided that right now is the best time to rip up your master bathroom?"
I bite my lip, choosing to go ahead and tell him the full extent. In for a penny, in for a pound. "My kitchen looks a lot like this, too."
He gives me an inscrutable look. There's something he's not saying, and I bet I know exactly what it is, because I'm thinking it myself.
My why . Why would I choose to rip up my house when I'm planning a fast-track wedding? Who has time for that? Someone who wants to distract themselves from what it is they're really doing in life, that's who.
But I won't be having that come-to-Jesus with myself, or anyone else.
Defend. Deflect.
My fisted hands find my hips. "I did not expect you to come here and pass judgment. You're supposed to help me haul all this"—I bend, swiping up a loose tile from the ground—"away. So, are you in, or are you out, Sailor?"
He huffs a laugh. "I'm in, Sunshine. Anything for you."
The tile clatters to the ground.
Anything for you.
"Right," I whisper, turning away.
It has been years since anybody has said that to me. It's entirely possible the last person to say that phrase was Penn. Anything for you . The very phrase he uttered every time I called him into my house to help me with something that final summer.
"I need to grab another broom, I'll be back in a minute," I say in a rushed voice, hurrying from the room.
I could be thirteen years old again, confessing to Penn that I've never been kissed, and asking him to rectify that. The immense mortification, the glimmer of hope, they could be fresh emotions inside me. Anything for you . That was his response, followed by cupping my cheek, leaning forward, eyes locked on mine until the moment our lips touched.
I haven't allowed myself to think about that in so long, but three little words and boom! there it is, an avalanche bringing with it not just memories, but a barrage of emotions.
Get it together , I instruct, my inner voice harsh. I'm past all that. It's been a long damn time since everything happened. I'm a woman now, with a college degree, and I'm marrying a man most women in this town would give their right pinky toe to have. I'm not just fine, or great, I am OVER IT.
My resolve renewed, I grab the utility broom and dustpan and head back to my bathroom. Peter leans over my counter, pry bar wedged in place, pulling on the top end. He doesn't know I'm here yet, so I take a moment to study him. The man is dazzling, in the literal sense of the word. Sunlight streams through the clouded glass window beside my tub, highlighting his sandy blond hair, which has given up its fight to stay in place and flops over his forehead in the cutest way. The muscles in his upper back flex with his effort, cinching in the center. I bet his ab muscles are coiled tight, too, and those generous thighs are probably hard as he braces.
Am I in heat? Judging by the slickness accumulating at the apex of my thighs, I'm thinking I might be. How could I not be with the waves of masculinity rolling off this man?
"Sunshine?"
I rip my gaze from his backside, finding his eyes in the builder mirror above the sink. His grin is satisfied, the cat who ate the canary for sure, and I know there's no talking myself out of this one. Still, I have to give it the old college try.
I arch a brow, chin lifted haughtily."Yes, Sailor?"
"I'm not sure your fiancé would approve of you eye-fucking another man."
My jaw drops. I wasn't expecting him to say that. Side note: the term 'eye-fucking' coming from Peter's mouth sets a twinge low in my belly.
I recover. "That is not what I was doing."
He ignores me, propping his foot on the wall to brace himself as he lifts up on his other foot, bringing all his weight down and, with a cracking noise, dislocates the cabinet from the wall. He pushes off, standing on two feet again, and looks back at me.
He walks closer, tool dangling lazy at his side. There's a playful tilt to his mouth. "Why don't you tell me exactly what it was you were doing standing there staring at me for a full ten seconds."
"Reconnaissance."
He stops a foot away from me. Why does he have to smell so good? Like his usual cedar and citrus, but this time with a dash of peppermint.
"Are you ascertaining strategic features?"
"What? No." I'm not entirely sure what that means.
"Are you locating an enemy?"
"Also no."
He grins. "Then you weren't engaging in reconnaissance."
I blow out a loud, overly done, annoyed breath. "There was a spider next to your foot, and I was watching it to make sure it didn't crawl onto your leg."
"You're cute when you lie."
Ohh this man. He's stubborn, and tenacious, and low-key infuriating. Why can't he let me ogle without rubbing my face in it?
He steps closer, six inches separating us. He looks down at me. "Admit it, Sunshine."
I glare up at him. "Never, Sailor."
He nods slowly, tongue darting out to wet his upper lip. "You are so fucking stubborn."
"Takes one to know one."
We're quiet. His chest rises, falls, his gaze searching my face. The air between us grows heavy and thick. My heart beats like a hummingbird, a thrum in my chest. What would it be like to run my hand through his messy hair? Scratch my nails over his scalp? Would his eyes close, expression relaxing with the goodness of it?
As if reading my mind, Peter's hand lifts. Fingers sweep my hair. My head tilts up, arching closer to his touch, seeking him. His thumb grazes my ear, his fingers brushing my forehead, fire burning brightly in his eyes.
He steps back suddenly, ripping his gaze and his proximity away from me, working the pad of his thumb over his fingers like he's attempting to get something off his skin. "There was something in your hair," he says, voice strained. He resumes his work on the cabinet, positioning the pry bar and pulling the cabinet further from the wall with a newfound ferocity. "Is your fiancé's job really keeping him"—heavy exhale as a section comes away from the wall—"from being here helping you?"
I blink against the abrupt atmospheric change. My heart rate is still trying to recalibrate from where it went when his fingers caressed my skin, and now I'm hustling to meet Peter at the next place his mind went.
"Duke is not the kind of guy to get his hands dirty." I sweep tile into the dustpan. "Though he would argue my assertion because he wants to be a guy who gets his hands dirty."
"Ah. So he has dirty aspirations?"
I widen my eyes, waiting for Peter to get the connection.
"Yeah," he nods. "I heard it."
I grin. "Duke wants to be a man who's handy around the house. Changes the oil in his car. Yada yada. But he's not."
Peter nods. His face is a mask of nothingness, so it's impossible for me to tell if he has an opinion about this. "He's a good man, though."
"I hope so. You're marrying him." Peter's voice is roughened by an emotion I can't name. I can't figure out why every time we talk about Duke or my engagement Peter becomes pricklier than the cactus in my front yard.
We're quiet after that, working in a companionable silence. Peter focuses on removing the tile from the walls, and I collect the detritus, filling up two black heavy-duty trash bags.
Together we take the bags of tile to his truck, adding them to what's already back there.
"Is that stuff from the Bellamy house?"
He nods. "One of many trips."
"Is it a mess?"
"Everything but the front yard."
"What do you mean?"
"The inside is a disaster, which is to be expected from an abandoned home. The backyard isn't any better, overgrown and who knows what else. But the front yard—" He pulls off the heavy-duty gloves he'd donned when he started working on the tile. "The front yard looks like somebody's been tending to it. For a long time, from the looks of it."
"Hmm." I'm not sure what else to say.
He smacks the empty gloves against the side of his truck. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"About a tidy front yard?"
"Yes."
Of course I would. I know everything about it. Just call me Daisy the landscaper .
"Nope," I lie, popping the 'p.'
Peter side eyes me. "If not you, then who?"
Reaching up and gently poking the end of his nose with one finger, I say, "Some mysteries will never be solved."
Like how Penn left me without an explanation. Sometimes in life you don't get answers, and you have to accept that.
"Daisy," Peter starts, scratching at his eyebrow with his thumb. "I don't mean to show up and start interrogating you, or micromanaging you, but what is it exactly you plan on doing with your bathroom? Your kitchen?"
"I didn't get that far," I admit. It's unlike me to jump into a project, or anything really, without looking. "It's hard to explain."
"Try me."
"I had this feeling come over me, this restlessness. I just...I don't know. I needed to do something." It was the day I had the conversation with Hugo, after I hung up the phone. Frustration filled me to the brim, choking and slapping at me. First it was the guilt over choosing daisies for an inauthentic marriage, followed by facing the reality that Hugo and Penn are in touch but he never bothered to reach out to me. It bit at me as I walked into my bathroom to wash my face, and the tile, which had always been old and ugly but faded into the background of everyday life until I no longer saw it, suddenly displayed its flaws. I went into the garage for the pry bar I'd borrowed from my dad at some point and never returned, and I went to town on the bathroom. Until I cut myself.
Peter crosses his arms, leaning against his truck as if settling in. "You needed to break something? Destroy?"
"You saw that bathroom," I protest, waving a hand toward my house. "I'm doing it a favor."
"Right. It's just that most people don't take on more than one big project at a time."
"It's only the master bath, and kitchen cabinets. It's not like I ripped up the flooring."
Peter's eyes lock in on me without moving any closer. Intensity burns in the squall. "I was referring to planning your wedding."
I do my best not to show the fear streaking through me, that jittery feeling right before getting caught. "Why do you keep bringing this up?" I use sass to cover up my dread. "This is the third time."
"Because," he says through clenched teeth. "I'm hoping you'll understand what I'm getting at without having to hear it said plainly."
My fisted hands find my hips. "Say it plainly."
Without hesitation, he bites out, "I think you're having mixed feelings about getting married."
I scoff, but there's that fear again. Pungent and sharp and accurate. "How could you say that? You barely know me."
"Fair," he concedes with a dip of his chin. "But don't forget I found you hiding out from your engagement party."
Ok, yes. I admit that wasn't my finest moment. "I was overwhelmed. Have you never been overwhelmed?"
Besides, you know, the time he spent broken and concussed in the ocean.
His eyes narrow. "Obviously I have. But it seems like that should be the last thing that overwhelms you. And it makes me think?—"
"Did it hurt?" I narrow my eyes.
"Did what hurt?" He narrows his right back.
"For you to think."
"Very funny."
I motion, like I'm saying continue .
"It makes me ponder the possibility that you're having feelings that are less than joyous. Magical." He frowns at the word, as if it has a sour taste. "Whatever else a person who is getting married is supposed to feel."
I cross my arms. I do not appreciate how deeply Peter is looking into me right now. I feel exposed, and I don't like it. I also can't understand the way Peter seems to know me, in a way no stranger should.
"You know what I think?" I twirl a finger in the air between us.
"Lay it on me."
"I think you hate love."
"Wrong."
"Right."
"On what are you basing this?"
"You become perturbed every time I mention Duke, or my engagement, even—" I hold up my hand when Peter opens his mouth to argue, and he pauses whatever it was he was about to say.
"Even on the first night I met you," I finish. "So it must not be Duke or my engagement that bothers you, because there wouldn't be a reason for either. It's love that bothers you. Or the concept of it." My lips curve into a smug smile.
"Now who's acting like they know somebody better than they really do?"
I step closer, lifting my face in challenge. "Tell me I'm wrong."
"You're wrong." The baritone of his voice floats down over me, a conviction I can almost feel. He's either telling the truth, or he's a fantastic liar.
"Then what is it?"
"That"—he winks—"is a story for another time." He walks backward until he's standing beside his truck door. "There's a lot that still needs to be done in your home. Are you planning on handling that by yourself?"
"Sure am." Except I don't know a damn thing about how to fix what I broke. I'm better at demolishing than I am at building, but I won't be admitting that to Peter.
He opens his truck door and pauses in the open space, staring at me with shrewd eyes. "You're lying."
"One hundred percent yes."
He barks a sudden laugh. "That's what I thought." His eyes flicker toward my house. "I can help you, you know."
"I thought you were only here to clean out the Bellamy house and sell it."
"I am."
"So why are you taking a special interest in helping me?" I point harshly, a stern set to my eyebrows. "Don't you dare call me a damsel in distress."
"I would never, Sunshine. Except you are a damsel, and the state of your home is very distressing." He scratches his eyebrow, glaze flickering to my house. "There's still a destroyed kitchen in there."
I roll my eyes. "I'm not going to let you work for free though. How about we exchange services? I will no longer charge you for physical therapy appointments, and in exchange, you will help me remodel."
"You have yourself a deal." He walks halfway across the space separating us, hand extended.
I close the space, placing my hand in his.
A colossal misstep. His rough calluses scrape my sensitive palm, thumb sweeping over the ridge of my knuckles, heat infusing my body. His fingers grip me tighter.
"Oh!" I breathe sharply as he tugs me in close.
In a low murmur that falls over me, he says, "I do not hate love, Sunshine. But I do hate the man you're marrying."
Then he drops my hand, takes two steps away and hops into his truck.
"What did Penn tell you about Duke?" I half-yell, but it doesn't matter. He closes the door, starts the engine, then drives away with a single wave in my direction.
I trudge back into the house, more confused than ever.