4. Daisy
CHAPTER FOUR
DAISY
He doesn’t even blink when I insist on driving. In fact, it’s pretty freaking funny watching him fold his six-and a-half-foot-frame into my tiny Fiat.
Harrison Stafford ducks his head and swings one long leg in, knees up around his ears, and for a second, I think he’s physically incapable of fitting. There’s a grunt, a shoulder, a massive bicep flexing against the door frame. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh out loud.
“Make sure to keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” I tease, putting the key in the ignition.
He glances over at me and groans. “I can’t make any promises.”
I peel out of the parking lot, fast and clean, and I don’t miss the way his hand instantly grabs the oh-shit bar above the window. Knuckles white, forearm bulging. I pretend not to notice, but the way he’s braced in the seat, muscles tight, tells me he’s not nearly as chill as he acts.
“You’re a confident driver,” he says, which is a polite way of saying I drive like I’m qualifying for the Indy 500.
“Hold on tight, Stafford.”
He glares, but there’s a flash of a grin. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
The words hit in a way they shouldn’t. I take the next corner sharp, just to see what he’ll do. He laughs, hand gripping tighter, eyes locked on me.
I take the final turn into Lou’s Diner hard enough to make the tires squeal. Harrison lets out another laugh, louder this time, like it actually feels good to hang on for dear life. His hand is welded to the oh-shit bar. His body takes up all the oxygen in the car.
Oh, my word, he looks like a caged animal. Or a circus bear jammed into a Smart Car, but somehow hotter.
I kill the engine, letting the silence settle around us. He’s breathing faster, chest moving under that black henley, collar just a little damp where it hugs his neck. I don’t let myself notice his thighs spread to bracket the tiny glove box. I absolutely do not look at his hands.
I look at his hands.
“You gonna be able to get out of there, or do you need extraction?” I ask, keeping my voice flat, even though I’m inches from cracking up. Part of me wants to just watch him struggle. The rest of me wants to crawl over the console and see what happens if I straddle his lap.
He grins, all teeth, and lets go of the oh-shit bar. For one second, it looks like the cramped seat is actually winning. Then he unfolds himself, slow and dirty, dragging his body out the door like it’s a striptease and I’m the only audience.
“Not the first time I’ve had to squeeze out of a tight spot, Daisy.”
Fudgemuffin. The way he says my name, low and rough, does things to my hussy lady bits. “Good to know,” I call over my shoulder as I lead him to the front door of Lou’s Diner.
It isn’t much more than a little hole in the wall, but it’s got the best burgers in a fifty-mile radius.
The bell above the glass door dings as we enter, hard enough to announce us to the whole room.
Nobody bothers to look. Not the guy at the counter, hunched over his crossword puzzle.
Not the two women in the corner booth with matching perms and matching attitudes.
Not even the cook, visible through the pass, flipping something greasy on the flat-top.
“Seat yourselves,” the middle-aged waitress calls from behind the counter.
I lead the way to a booth against the far wall.
The red vinyl is cracked and duct-taped at the seams, more silver than scarlet these days.
The Formica tabletop has been scrubbed down so many times the pattern is basically gone.
There are napkin dispensers, salt and pepper, and a sugar shaker that’s probably older than me. Classic.
Harrison slides in, adjusting his knees so he doesn’t dislocate something. Here, he looks normal. Less like a headline, more like just a guy at lunch.
A minute later, the waitress materializes. Her gray hair is spun into a bun so tight it looks like it could stop a bullet. The name tag pinned crooked on her chest reads “Bev.” She slaps two laminated menus onto the table in front of us.
“Breakfast or lunch?” she asks, still not looking at us.
“Lunch,” I say, because I hate breakfast food no matter what time of day it is.
She turns the laminated menus over. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Coke Zero.” I don’t glance down at the menu. I already know what I want.
Harrison glances up. “Whatever’s on tap.”
She barely nods. “I’ll be back to get your orders.” Bev obviously doesn’t like to waste words.
I glance at Harrison across the table. “They have the best cheeseburgers.”
“Sounds great.” He slings his arm across the back of the booth.
Bev returns with our drinks and stares down at us with a raised eyebrow. Damn. She really doesn’t like to waste words.
“Two cheeseburgers, both with fries,” I order for both of us.
Bev grunts in approximate agreement and disappears into the void.
For a minute, there’s nothing to do but sip my Coke and listen to the ceiling fan threaten to launch itself into orbit.
I’m about to start in with empty small talk when Harrison beats me to it.
“You come here a lot?”
It’s a harmless question, but there’s an edge to it.
“Used to. When I was a kid, my dad would drag me in for lunch on the weekends. I always got fries and a cherry Coke, and he’d bullshit with Lou like they were old war buddies. After he retired, it became less of a thing.”
Harrison watches me, chin propped on his hand. He looks… interested. Like the story is actually for him, not just space-filler.
“Retired from what?” he asks.
I almost laugh. Not what you think. “Owning the bar. My dad started The Sin Bin before I was born. Ran it for three decades, then decided he’d had enough.
After I graduated from Arizona State last year, he sold me half of it and became my silent partner.
Then he moved to Toledo Bend so he could go fishing every damn day. ”
There’s pride in my voice, and I don’t bother to hide it.
He laughs, low and genuine. For a second, I can almost see what he must’ve looked like as a kid. Mischief, pure and undiluted.
“Were you always planning to take over?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not really. I thought I’d move to California and get a desk job.” I shrug. “But I missed Houston and The Sin Bin.”
Bev brings our food out a few minutes later. The burgers are the size of my fist, and the fries are hot enough to burn fingerprints off.
Harrison digs in like he hasn’t eaten in days. I pop a fry in my mouth and moan, just a little. Worth it.
The fan above us clatters like it’s trying to drown out the conversation. Harrison leans forward, eyes sharp.
He nods and lets the conversation roll. “You got a good crew?”
“Best. Marcy’s been my best friend since grade school. She teaches first grade during the week and works a few weekend shifts a month to help out. Almost everyone has been there since my dad ran the place.”
He grins, mouth full of fries. “Sounds like a family.”
“Sometimes it is.”
Another wave of silence, but it’s comfortable this time. The sort you lean into.
I try to shift focus. “What about you? Ever want to walk away from the ice?”
Harrison’s whole body stiffens, but only for a second. He wipes his hands on a napkin and looks at me, all pretense gone.
“Not yet,” he says. “I like what I do. But I’m not dumb. I know it doesn’t last. So, I have back-up plans just in case hockey falls through.”
I nod, thinking of the old regulars at my place who still talk about “their” glory days.
“What would you do instead?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He thinks about it, brows furrowed. “I invested in several gyms here and in Maine. Once my hockey career comes to an end, I’ll work in one of them or maybe coach high school. Something to keep me busy and out of trouble.”
I get that, more than I want to admit.
Our eyes meet, and there’s a jolt of something real. Like we’ve both stopped pretending for a split second.
I eat another fry, just for the distraction. It doesn’t help.
Harrison leans back, stretching so the vinyl creaks under his weight, and there’s a heat in his eyes, but it’s not just physical. It’s like he’s actually seeing me. Even the parts I don’t bother showing most people.
For a second, I have to look away.
Bev sweeps by and tops off my Coke, then does a double-take at Harrison’s empty pint glass. “You want another?” she asks, and still somehow manages not to make this sound like a kindness.
“No. Thank you,” he says.
We linger there, two grown adults picking at the scraps of fries and pretending we don’t have anywhere else to be. When Bev comes by with the check, I grab it and hand her my credit card. “I’m paying you back for all your hard work,” I tell Harrison before he can argue.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Thank you.”
I shrug, not wanting to make it a thing. “You earned it. Manual labor and all.”
He laughs, and it’s a little softer now. “Did I possibly earn a second date?”
The words hang between us, thicker than the diner air.
My heart is shouting, “Say yes, say yes,” but my mind is warning me that this is dangerous territory.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask him before I’m able to talk myself out of it.
“I have a game tomorrow night, then a three-day road stretch, but I’m free on Monday.”
“Could we do lunch again?” I stare into his eyes. “I don’t get many nights off.”
“That works for me.” His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.
I’m not going to lie. I’m looking forward to our date on Monday way more than I should.