23. Daisy
Chapter 23
Daisy
"Do you mind if we stop at my house to drop off Slim Jim before I take you back to your car? He needs food and a bathroom break." Peter leans a forearm on the center console, eyebrows lifted as he asks me the question.
"Sure, no problem." A flurry of excitement starts in my belly at the prospect of our time together not yet coming to a close. "You've seen where I live. It's only fair if I see where you're living."
Peter makes a right instead of a left, taking him in the direction of the house where he's staying. My hands press together between my knees, my quiet attempt to keep my thrill at spending more time with him to myself.
"Whatcha doing over there?" Peter asks, throwing a curious glance my way.
I withdraw my hands. "Nothing."
"That was not nothing. You were pushing your hands together like you were crushing something between them. A clear sign of suppression."
"Hmph." I turn up my nose playfully, despite the butterflies racing around inside me. These butterflies aren't from nerves; these are varied emotion creatures, trepidation and unease and concern and, strongest of all, delight. Before today, I would've called Peter a friend and a client, but that was before he held me in his arms in that store, so safe and secure. Before he defended me to the store owner. Before he admitted he likes the way I smell. Intoxicating . That was the word he used. What I didn't tell him was that I remember the night I met him, how I catalogued his scent. Cedar and citrus.
I didn't mention it because it seemed inappropriate to say, and maybe that's what has these frenetic butterflies flapping their wings. It's becoming increasingly difficult to deny the chemistry between me and Peter. I'm not sure how much of a problem that is. Is it something I should address with Duke? Or is it only a passing fancy, an attraction that will disappear when he leaves town?
Peter takes the final turn that will lead him to the development.
"It's Hugo's rental property," he reminds me, turning the steering wheel in that way that's been driving me crazy since I got in this truck with him a couple hours ago. He flattens his hand on the wheel, pressing harder with the heel of his palm, to where his fingers aren't touching the wheel.
It's unbelievably sexy. And, leaving the disaster of a trip to the home décor store, his backup camera was blocked by dust, so he hooked an arm over the back of the seat, gripping my head rest, and reversed the old-fashioned way. The sun shone off his blond hair, highlighting the gray flecks in his blue eyes, and all I could think was well, this is how I die .
Do not get me started on the rippling of the tattooed forearm. I will surely perish if I spend one more moment envisioning his arms wrapped around me like they were in that snooty store. And then the way he came to my defense. Like some kind of hero, riding in to rescue his lady and banish the awful witch. Or, you know, tell her to fuck right off.
All this to say, the day has been a humdinger. I need a drink. Maybe an orgasm, or three. All delivered by yours truly, because Duke and I don't get down like that.
I take a moment to study Peter's profile. Thick thighs, a shirt that falls just right from developed pec muscles. And those forearms. Sweet mother, those might demolish me.
"Home sweet home," Peter says as we pull up to Hugo's rental house.
I pretend to study the house through the windshield, then say, "All seems to be in order," and throw him a wink.
"Are you a home inspector? Because I don't need anybody else nagging me."
"Who is nag number one?"
"Bobbie from the HOA. Do you know her?"
"No."
"Perfect. Now I can talk shit about her, and it won't bother you."
"Talk all the shit," I say dramatically, adding a grand sweep of my hand before climbing from the parked truck. "What'd she do?"
"Harassed me for allowing the neighborhood kids to draw on my driveway in chalk."
"Seriously?"
He nods. "Yeah. But I used my artistic abilities to deliver her a message." He reverses the truck back down the driveway into the street. Indicating with his chin toward his driveway, he says, "The most recent rain washed it away, but you can still make out a little bit of the outline if you look closely."
I lean forward, squinting. It comes to life, a large white circle, red tufts on the top third. "Are those eyes? And a... red nose?"
Peter nods enthusiastically. "Bobbie the clown."
A cupped hand covers my mouth. "Did you draw that?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny how that clown drawing appeared on my driveway."
My lips press together as I shake my head. "You're a troublemaker."
"Rebel," he corrects, shifting back into drive and parking on the driveway. "Bobbie deserves it. I bet she knows the rude shop owner."
"Those swamp hags are probably best friends," I declare, getting in on it. "Maybe they attend group meetings."
Peter nods decisively. "Hags 'R' Us."
I hop out, laughings at our antics. "I'll pull the trash can up from the curb," I yell over the vehicle. Trash is about the least sexy thing I can think of right now, and after Peter admitted he likes the way I smell and proceeded to drive in a manner fit for a romantic hero, I need a dose of something unpleasant to quell the thirsty ho living inside me.
My fingers are wrapped around the handle of the trash can when I notice a piece of paper taped to the top. I opt for reading the paper, peeling it off and bringing it up to my face. My eyes bulge. Oh shit .
Peter's reaction is going to be epic.
"Ohh, Peter," I singsong.
He rounds the front of the truck. "Yes?" he asks reluctantly.
I hold the top of the paper as it flaps in the breeze. "Bobbie from the HOA sent you a love note."
Peter strides over, and I hand it to him. He scans the paper, face scrunching in indignation. "Over my dead body."
"I feel like she can arrange that."
"Do you have ten minutes to spare so I can write her an email?"
"Depends. Are you gonna fold the way you did with Noelle?" I puff out my chest and pretend to flex my arms. "Come, watch me as I give you a lesson in playing hardball," I say in the deepest voice I can manage. "Never mind, my backbone is a cooked spaghetti noodle. Here, Bobbie, I'll pay the fifty dollar fine for leaving my trash can out for an extra day."
Peter stands tall, legs spread a little further than hip distance apart, watching me with an amused expression. "You think you're funny, Sunshine?"
I step closer, poking his chest. "No, Sailor. I know I'm funny."
He looks down at my finger, eyes dragging back up to mine. We're standing too close to be in his driveway within eyeshot of any of his neighbors. I'm an engaged woman, even if only for show, but still I take a step back. A very big step back.
Peter whistles for Slim Jim, who hustles in from relieving himself against a bush in the front yard.
We walk into the house and I'm pleased to find it's actually pretty clean. I don't know what I've been expecting, but it's a single guy living alone with his dog. Some amount of mess would be expected. But this is pristine, countertops that shine and a floor that doesn't show a trace of dog hair.
"Did you murder someone in here recently?"
"Not recently," Peter says, coming away from the fridge with two beers. He pops the tops, throws the bottle caps in the trash, and hands one to me. I take a deep drink, almost as long as Peter's.
"I forget how quickly you can become dehydrated in this climate," he says.
"How could you possibly know? It's not like you've been here before." I'm running my thumb over the condensation on the outside of the glass, but I see it. The panic that flips across his eyes. And it's not the first time. He did it at my house when he showed up to help haul away the cabinets and tile, and then in the truck today when I told him I no longer believe in true love. Why does he do that?
"Right," he says, sidestepping me. "Would you like a tour of the house?"
"I've been here before, after Hugo closed on the property. Vivi and I helped him set it up to be a rental. She and I stayed the weekend here, trying to live a normal life the way potential renters would, looking for gaps in things a typical house would have."
"Very nice of you." Peter moves to a drawer and opens it. "You're the reason I have"—he looks down at what he's grabbed—"a whisk?"
I step up beside him, peering into the utensils and choosing one. "I'm responsible for this ladle. Vivi and I made soup that weekend, but we had no way to serve it." I tap the bottom of my bottle against his. "I thought you had an email to write."
Before Peter sits down to write his email response to Bobbie, he shows me how to engage with Slim Jim, giving him commands and leading him through exercises. "He has a very sharp and busy mind. He loves to be engaged in activity, but he'll pretty much do whatever you tell him to do."
Peter takes a seat at the four-person dining room table nearby. I do what he's taught me with Slim Jim, leading him through a walking exercise where he's supposed to stick to my leg like Velcro. Then I pay him with a treat, and a scratch under the chin.
"Oh my Lord," I say when I get a solid look at what's between his legs. "He's intact."
Peter looks up from his computer. "I couldn't bear to have him snipped."
Slim Jim sits, waiting for my next command. I take a peek at where his private part is connected to the ground. "You do realize that every time he sits down, he's teabagging."
"Geez. Fuck," Peter groans, pinching the top of his nose.
"Good thing you keep your floors spotless. I don't recommend eating off them though, no matter how clean."
"I would have never ever assumed that sentence would come out of your mouth."
"You'd be surprised the things I'm capable of saying." I regret the sentence as soon as I say it. It sounds so sexual, so flirtatious. And maybe under some circumstances that would be fine, but in Peter's eyes, I'm in love with another man. Whether or not that's true isn't the point. The point is, I probably shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be alone in this house with Peter. Shouldn't be driving in his truck and going into stores together. And then, as if I've summoned him, Duke sends me a text.
Don't take this as me stalking you, or tailing you, or anything else that involves me keeping tabs on you, because I'm definitely not, but somebody said they saw you go into Hugo's rental house with Peter??
Damn small town. Damn gossips.
He helped me buy items I need to fix some stuff around my house. We drove to the store together, but he had to stop at his house and take care of his dog.
Optics, Daisy.
Eesh. He's using my name. He only does that when he's exasperated.
I know, and I'm sorry.
The best thing right now would be for me to show up there, come inside, and then leave with you hand-in-hand.
What? How in the world am I supposed to explain that to Peter?
I lift my phone to type, but there's nothing for me to say. Duke is right. I messed this up, and now I'm going to have to fix it.
Head over to Hugo's rental house. That's where he's staying. I'll figure out what to say to Peter.
I tuck my phone in my back pocket. I hate this. I really, really hate it.
"Hey, Peter?"
Peter gives me a one second signal, his eyes scanning his email. "Send," he declares, making a big show out of clicking the button. He grins proudly. "Do you want me to read it to you?"
"Yes, I do but first, I just wanted to let you know that Duke's coming to pick me up."
Peter's brow furrows. "Why? Is everything okay?"
"Yes, yes. Everything is fine. I forgot we had something planned."
Peter is not buying it. His eyes tighten. "Daisy." He says my name cautiously. "You can tell me anything."
I bite the side of my lip, unsure how to proceed. I can't tell him the whole truth, but I can offer partial honesty.
"One of your neighbors saw me walk in here with you and got the wrong idea. I don't know how the game of telephone went, but apparently they told somebody who told Duke that I'm here." Peter opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but I stop him with an upraised hand. "Duke knows nothing is going on. He trusts me. But in an effort to avoid further chatter, he's going to come here and pick me up."
Peter closes his laptop, bracing his palms on the table as he pushes to stand. "What about all the stuff in my truck? Do you want me to put it in his car, or bring it over later, when it's dark? I can park around the corner from your house." He grins crookedly. "Maybe send a carrier pigeon."
Relief fills me. If he's being playful, it means he's not upset about this. Something tells me he wants no part of the Olive Township rumor mill.
Duke knocks on the front door a few minutes later. Peter answers right away, a fake smile plastered on his face as he steps back and welcomes Duke inside. It's awkward once the door closes, the three of us standing in the foyer, staring at each other.
"Hey, Peter," Duke says, extending a hand in greeting. "Thanks for taking Daisy to buy whatever it was she needed for her house." There's a manufactured friendliness to his tone that immediately makes me suspicious.
"Sure, no problem," Peter responds with the same tone. "I'm out there fixing up the Bellamy house and I needed a few items, and then it turned out Daisy did too, so we went together."
Slim Jim trots over, sitting down beside Peter.
"He looks like an assassin," Duke says, eyes cast down on the dog.
Peter grunts. "Given the circumstance, he could be."
What the hell is going on? Peter made it clear he hated Duke, but I thought some of that was tempered after their pleasant interaction at King's Ransom. Most concerning of all is Duke's low-key hostility toward Peter. Peter came to Olive Township with dislike locked and loaded, but where did Duke get his?
I put a hand on Duke's upper arm. "Do you think it's safe to go out there now? We'll make a show of it."
"We'd better," he grumbles. I don't think he's mad at me, just the situation. "It was my dad who called me."
I grimace. "Oh, that's bad."
"Exactly," Duke says.
Peter doesn't know Duke's dad, so I explain. "Duke's dad is a hard-ass. Cares a lot about image. The face his family presents."
"That's too bad," Peter says. "I hope he didn't pass it on to his son."
My mouth drops open, but Peter's mouth turns up in a grin. "You'd better be on your way," he says, motioning at the door.
Duke offers me his hand. "You ready, Daze?"
He nicknamed me Daze a long time ago, and for years I've liked the friendly name. But being called Sunshine? It puts a warmth in my limbs, a feeling that it's more than simply a nickname.
I nod at Duke, tucking my hand in his and stepping into his side. To Peter, I say, "Thank you for today." It's not nearly enough to cover the way he helped me, how he showed me the tools and products I'd need. He wasn't doing it for me, he was teaching me.
Peter opens the front door and steps back to allow us through. "Always happy to share my home repair knowledge."
Duke leads me from the home, and in a little twist I wasn't expecting, Peter follows us outside. He stands on the front porch, watching us walk to Duke's SUV. Duke opens my door and I climb inside, then Duke turns and looks up at the house. Peter's waving, smiling a little too broadly. Duke returns the wave, a little too emphatically.
I understand they're giving the neighbors a show, making certain they know there wasn't any funny business going on. But is that all it is? Because it feels a little like overkill.
Duke closes my door, and Peter retreats into the house. I pull out my phone and send him a short text.
What did your email say?
Dear Bobbie, No court of law in the United States would convict a person of a crime without evidence, and since you don't have photographic proof of the alleged infraction, a guilty verdict cannot be rendered. Have a nice day.
What do you think she'll do next?
That remains to be seen.
I am invested, Sailor.
I promise to report in, Sunshine.