as much about ambience as it is about food. Subdued lighting, flickering candles, sparkling crystal, gleaming silverware, where each of the fork tines are perfectly aligned and the pieces match in pattern—”
Max glanced down at his setting, noting the slight bend in the outer tine of the dinner fork. Like he cared . . .
“—And the linen should be crisp and creamy white, never stark white, without a wrinkle, or a stain, not even a water mark. The napkins folded precisely, each edge and corner aligned with the next, and the china evenly glazed without the minutest dull patch—”
Speaking of dull . . . Daisy’s dedication to precision and perfection reminded Max of his navy flight commander, “Knife” Newton. He’d never met anyone as obsessively compulsive as Commander Newton until Daisy Moon. If she didn’t end her monologue soon, his brain would be as glazed as his dinner plate.
“Actually, that’s kind of why I’m on this ferry . . .”
Max nodded, his thoughts on a lone thirty-something blonde spilling out of a low-cut sweater two tables behind Daisy. The blonde smiled at him. He could sit here, look in Daisy’s direction and flirt with the blonde, and Daisy would be none the wiser. That would keep things interesting until she finished her discourse on napkins.
Picking up a breadstick, the mystery woman discreetly licked the sides, then slowly worked the shaft through her red lips. Lucky breadstick. His thoughts came to a screeching halt when a well-dressed, white-haired man—maybe twenty years older than Max—returned to the table that held only dessert dishes and coffee cups. When the man looked his way, Max diverted his eyes to Daisy. Then, sensing it was safe, Max looked at the blonde, who held him in a side-glance.
“. . . Otter Bite.”
Max nodded, wondering if he’d heard right, then went back to his fantasy. This woman held promise, assuming there wasn’t a gold band hiding beneath that large sapphire on her marriage finger. Max Kendall didn’t do wives. Fiancées, possibly; girlfriends, definitely. But he wouldn’t be an accomplice to breaking vows. It might be a fine line, but it was his fine line and he’d never knowingly crossed it.
“So, Max, what do you think?”
Max blinked at Daisy, who was leaning into the table, intent on him, her eyes . . . hopeful? He had no idea what he thought, but it was probably best to be amenable or risk an even more boring verbal treatise on God only knew what. Of course, he could tell her that he’d been flirting with the well-endowed blonde and hadn’t been listening . . .
“What do you think?” he asked instead.
Daisy frowned. “I just told you what I think. Weren’t you listening?”
The bane of every man’s relationship with women—the weren’t you listening? complaint! He could confess that no, he wasn’t, but judging by Daisy’s expression, he figured frankness might end his chances for her cabin.
“I just want to be sure you’ve thought it through,” Max said, having had practice with the song and dance.
“Oh.” Sounding apologetic. “Well, I have. I know it’s a little unorthodox—”
What? Max silently joked. Folding a napkin on the diagonal?
“—But this isn’t the nineteen fifties and we are adults. With a little tolerance and patience, I think it would work. As I see it, commitment is the key to success.”
“Commitment?” Max asked suspiciously.
“Well, sure. Every plan requires commitment. Otherwise you’ll never get through the rough spots. Right?”
Max wasn’t sure yet again what he was agreeing to— rough spots? —but if it could move Daisy to a conversation he had some participation in, he was all for it. “Sure.”
Daisy scrutinized him as she’d done the silver. “Not very convincing.”
“If it works for you, it’ll work for me.”
“Really?” Sounding grateful. “I’m . . . surprised. Honestly, I thought you’d have reservations or at least an opinion.”
“Unlike you,
Max glanced down at his setting, noting the slight bend in the outer tine of the dinner fork. Like he cared . . .
“—And the linen should be crisp and creamy white, never stark white, without a wrinkle, or a stain, not even a water mark. The napkins folded precisely, each edge and corner aligned with the next, and the china evenly glazed without the minutest dull patch—”
Speaking of dull . . . Daisy’s dedication to precision and perfection reminded Max of his navy flight commander, “Knife” Newton. He’d never met anyone as obsessively compulsive as Commander Newton until Daisy Moon. If she didn’t end her monologue soon, his brain would be as glazed as his dinner plate.
“Actually, that’s kind of why I’m on this ferry . . .”
Max nodded, his thoughts on a lone thirty-something blonde spilling out of a low-cut sweater two tables behind Daisy. The blonde smiled at him. He could sit here, look in Daisy’s direction and flirt with the blonde, and Daisy would be none the wiser. That would keep things interesting until she finished her discourse on napkins.
Picking up a breadstick, the mystery woman discreetly licked the sides, then slowly worked the shaft through her red lips. Lucky breadstick. His thoughts came to a screeching halt when a well-dressed, white-haired man—maybe twenty years older than Max—returned to the table that held only dessert dishes and coffee cups. When the man looked his way, Max diverted his eyes to Daisy. Then, sensing it was safe, Max looked at the blonde, who held him in a side-glance.
“. . . Otter Bite.”
Max nodded, wondering if he’d heard right, then went back to his fantasy. This woman held promise, assuming there wasn’t a gold band hiding beneath that large sapphire on her marriage finger. Max Kendall didn’t do wives. Fiancées, possibly; girlfriends, definitely. But he wouldn’t be an accomplice to breaking vows. It might be a fine line, but it was his fine line and he’d never knowingly crossed it.
“So, Max, what do you think?”
Max blinked at Daisy, who was leaning into the table, intent on him, her eyes . . . hopeful? He had no idea what he thought, but it was probably best to be amenable or risk an even more boring verbal treatise on God only knew what. Of course, he could tell her that he’d been flirting with the well-endowed blonde and hadn’t been listening . . .
“What do you think?” he asked instead.
Daisy frowned. “I just told you what I think. Weren’t you listening?”
The bane of every man’s relationship with women—the weren’t you listening? complaint! He could confess that no, he wasn’t, but judging by Daisy’s expression, he figured frankness might end his chances for her cabin.
“I just want to be sure you’ve thought it through,” Max said, having had practice with the song and dance.
“Oh.” Sounding apologetic. “Well, I have. I know it’s a little unorthodox—”
What? Max silently joked. Folding a napkin on the diagonal?
“—But this isn’t the nineteen fifties and we are adults. With a little tolerance and patience, I think it would work. As I see it, commitment is the key to success.”
“Commitment?” Max asked suspiciously.
“Well, sure. Every plan requires commitment. Otherwise you’ll never get through the rough spots. Right?”
Max wasn’t sure yet again what he was agreeing to— rough spots? —but if it could move Daisy to a conversation he had some participation in, he was all for it. “Sure.”
Daisy scrutinized him as she’d done the silver. “Not very convincing.”
“If it works for you, it’ll work for me.”
“Really?” Sounding grateful. “I’m . . . surprised. Honestly, I thought you’d have reservations or at least an opinion.”
“Unlike you,
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