A Week Till the Wedding. Linda Winstead Jones

stood there with the phone in his hand, staring at it as if somehow Daisy was still there, harassing him. Driving him crazy.

      Making him pay.

      He hadn’t purposely left her behind, it had just happened. Like that made a difference. He’d planned to send for her, to send for them all, but the one time he’d mentioned moving, Daisy had been horrified. She wouldn’t uproot her sisters, she’d said, wouldn’t drag them away from their friends and the only home they’d ever known. He’d planned to come home for Christmas that year, to convince her face-to-face to return to California with him.

      But he hadn’t made Christmas that year. There had been a business emergency—in hindsight so unimportant that right now he could not remember what it had been—and he’d canceled his travel plans.

      And that had been that, though there had been a few awkward phone conversations in the early months of the new year. Not many and nothing had been said that could break through the distance between them, distance both physical and emotional. He and Daisy had no longer wanted the same things. They’d drifted apart. His life was there, her life was here. Simple. She’d faded in his memory, as he was certain he’d faded in hers. Life went on.

      Dammit, that hadn’t been entirely his fault. She’d played a part, as well. Maybe he hadn’t fought for her the way he should have, but she hadn’t exactly fought for him, either.

      When Daisy called back he was still holding the cordless phone in his hand, ready for her. Her words were sharp. “Grab a pen and paper. I’m going to tell you what I need, and you’re going to put on that fancy suit of yours and head to the Piggly Wiggly.”

      A part of her wanted to kick Jacob out of her house and tackle this chore alone, but two things stopped her. One, she needed the help. Two, she’d never get over him if she didn’t kick this annoying habit of being downright twitchy when he was around. Not twitchy in a bad way. No, he made her squirm in a way that was annoyingly pleasant. She felt like he had literally worked his way under her skin.

      He looked good in khakis and a golf shirt. She’d kidded him about his suits, but he did look sharp in them. The more casual outfit he wore this afternoon showed off the muscle he’d built up since he’d left her. Not massive muscle, thank goodness, but he did have some interesting definition.

      More reminder that they weren’t the same people they’d been seven years ago. Of course they weren’t! They’d been little more than babies, untouched by the real world, unshaped by loss and hardship and responsibility.

      Daisy tried to keep her mind on lemon cake, but she really wanted to touch Jacob’s forearm to see if it felt as hard as it looked. She wanted to look under that shirt—just a peek—to see what muscles he’d added there. He’d probably added some chest hair, as well. He hadn’t had much at twenty-four. Oh, she really hoped he hadn’t turned into one of those guys who worked out in a gym and waxed his chest….

      Her mind could not wander there.

      “Do you actually play golf?” she asked, pointing at the dark blue shirt with the little embroidered doodad on the pocket.

      “No.”

      “Doesn’t that make your outfit false advertising?”

      He’d didn’t answer, but he did give her a frustrated look that made her smile as he unpacked everything he’d bought at the Piggly Wiggly down the road, a small grocery store that served the next town over as well as two communities that were too small to support their own. His purchases lined the counter in the Bell kitchen, a boxy room with a small table that was older than she was and appliances that weren’t much newer. They worked. And it wasn’t like she cooked all that often anyway.

      He picked up a box. “I’m pretty sure your mom’s famous homemade lemon cake didn’t start with a cake mix.”

      Daisy shot him a cutting glance. “No, but I don’t have time to make a homemade cake, and besides, it’s the icing that makes it special.”

      “It’s a good thing you were free this afternoon.”

      She glared at him. Again. Still. “I wasn’t free. I had to reschedule a regular for tomorrow afternoon. Remember Miss Hattie?”

      “How could I forget. Did you tell her why you had to cancel?”

      “No, I lied and told her I didn’t feel well. Do you know how much I hate lying to my clients?” She didn’t point out that she hated the idea that the facts of this charade might get out much more than she hated fibbing to her customers.

      “Sorry. I’ll be happy to pay you for any income you lose because you’re helping me.”

      “I still don’t want your money, Tasker.” She made sure she sounded sharp and certain. And annoyed.

      He sounded pretty annoyed, himself. “I don’t want you to lose money because you’re helping me out of a tough spot.”

      “I’m not helping you. I’m helping your grandmother.” He could drown in his tough spots for all she cared.

      “Sorry,” he said sharply. “I forgot.”

      The tension in the air was almost unbearable. It hung between them, like every unspoken word that haunted her, still. He was angry. She was antsy.

      “Are you married?” She’d planned to ask, needed to know, but the question could’ve come at a better time and been delivered more graciously. Instead she’d just blurted it out, standing in the kitchen with an apron worn over a pair of denim shorts and an old red tank—she always made such a mess when she did try to cook—feet bare, a box of butter in one hand and a sack of lemons in the other. The question did diffuse the tension, a bit. Maybe because it apparently took Jacob by surprise.

      He shook his head. “No.”

      His answer was sadly insufficient, so Daisy pressed on. “Engaged? Dating seriously? Involved with any woman on any level?”

      “No.”

      “Why the hell not? I’m sure you’re quite the catch, even in California. I’ll bet the women looooove your Southern accent.”

      “I lost my Southern accent years ago,” he insisted.

      Daisy laughed. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

      Jacob’s lips thinned. His jaw twitched. Finally he asked, “Would I have kissed you last night if I was married, engaged, or involved?”