Daff was in the middle of reorganizing her overstuffed closet when her phone rang. Her eyes skimmed the room, and she wondered which pile of clothes hid the clamoring device.
“Shitsticks,” she muttered as she dug through the nearby charity heap. Not there. She dived through a few more heaps: skirts, blouses, and jumpsuits—how in the hell had she managed to accumulate so many jumpsuits?—before she finally found it beneath a smaller pile of scarves. Naturally, the second she laid her hands on the damned thing, it stopped ringing, and she swore colorfully while she checked the screen to see who had messed with her cleaning mojo. Her language got even more creatively foul when she saw who the call had been from.
She had a brief moment of hesitation before jabbing at the screen to return the call.
“Hey.” He answered on the first ring, and she glared at the mess she had made of her packing system while searching for the phone.
“Why were you calling me?”
“Must you always be so rude?” he chastised, and that made her even more irritable. She hated being called out on her bad behavior. And she discovered that she hated it that much more when it was Spencer doing the calling out.
“It’s ten o’clock . . . at night.” She tacked on the last two words for emphasis, and he chuckled; the rich sound startled her and sent a wave of warmth through her.
“Yeah. I got that.”
“There is no reason to be calling me at ten p.m., Spencer.”
“I beg to differ.”
She said nothing in response to that, merely waited silently for him to elaborate. But the silence stretched for what seemed like an endless moment and she sighed.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Why the call?”
“Oh.” She could practically hear the smile in his voice, and she wondered what possible joy he got out of annoying her like this. But at the same time, she sat down on the soft sofa and folded her feet under her butt, wriggling slightly to get comfortable. “I was wondering if you’re allergic to eggs.”
“What?” The fuck? The last two words were unspoken but had to be pretty apparent in her tone of voice.
“I was thinking of making something eggy for lunch tomorrow.”
“Don’t bring me lunch tomorrow, Spencer.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s weird. I told you, I don’t understand why you’d do something like that.”
“I’m a giving kind of guy. And we can start strategizing our BM/MOH stuff.”
“What?”
“Best man, maid of honor. Apparently it’s the thing to use acronyms—MIL, FIL, BM, and so on.”
She fought back a smile; he sounded so pleased to actually know that bit of information. She toyed with the frayed edge of a silk cushion for a few moments before talking again.
“No,” she said, and he was quiet for a couple of seconds.
“No, what?”
“I don’t have an egg allergy.”
“Cool.”
“But I don’t like eggs,” she continued smugly.
“Who doesn’t like eggs?”
“I don’t.” Nobody else really knew that. Back in the sixth grade, a cute boy had offered her half of his egg-mayo sandwich, and she had accepted the hateful thing with a gracious smile before swallowing it down without even flinching. A week later, Daff and young Byron Blake had been going steady. Ugh, she winced at the memory . . . and at the thought of his name. His parents had named his sister Barrett and his younger brother Browning. Apparently back in the day, it had been all the rage to give your kids dumb alliterative names that would make them cringe when they were adults. Her own parents had also fallen prey to the unfortunate trend. Her innocent relationship with Byron had set the tone for every relationship that followed. She liked whatever her guy of the moment liked, wanted what he wanted, ate what he ate, and after years of the same, it was hard for Daff to know what her real likes and dislikes were.
Except eggs. She knew that she hated eggs, and she had relished telling Spencer that. Almost as if admitting it confirmed that she didn’t find him attractive. She had no wish to put up her usual perfect potential partner façade. It was liberating.
“Okay, no eggs,” he said easily. “Do you like mayonnaise?”
Did she? She thought about it for a moment before shrugging.
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“So what are you doing?” he asked, his voice intimate and gentle in her ear. He sounded too far removed from his usual awkward self, and it was making her very uncomfortable.
“Irrelevant,” she replied.
“But interesting.”
“Not really . . . I’m rearranging my closet.”
“I was doing some accounts.” Again, she could hear a smile in his voice, and once more she wondered what he found so amusing. This was probably the most infuriating conversation she’d ever had, nothing amusing here at all.
“And you probably want to get back to that.”
“Not really. It’s frustrating the hell out of me.”
“Why?” she asked before she could stop herself. She heard the muffled sound of fabric against fabric and pictured him making himself more comfortable in his chair. She imagined him lounging, legs stretched in front of him and thighs spread. Again she found herself wondering what he was wearing. It was pretty late; he must have had a shower by now. Once more the image of him bare chested and in boxers floated to mind, and she swallowed down the saliva that suddenly flooded her mouth. Why was she salivating at the thought of Spencer Carlisle’s bare chest and thighs? She needed serious help.
“Well, I was trying to find the funds to fix the plumbing at the community center.”
“Why is that your problem?” she asked curiously.
“The youth outreach program,” he replied succinctly. “Our last couple of meetings were washed out by the rain and the community doesn’t appear to have enough money to fix it, so I figured maybe I could work something out.”
Of course. It had been stupid of her to ask; everybody knew how strongly he felt about that program. In fact, he was the one who had taken it to where it was today. Over the last four years, since he had started helping Oom Herbert with the program, three at-risk kids had gone on to college or technical school, thanks directly to Spencer’s influence and help. He was doing admirable work, but until now, Daff had only been peripherally aware of it.
“It doesn’t seem right, using your own money to fix the community center. It belongs to the town—surely there are funds allocated toward maintenance?”
“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill maintenance job. Looks like all the pipes will have to be replaced. They’re over a hundred years old and should have been sorted out long before now. There just isn’t enough money in the budget for it.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m on the town committee.”
“I thought only old people were allowed on that committee,” she mused.
The high school principal, the Catholic priest, the township minister, the librarian, the alderman, and also Daff’s dad, the vet, were all middle-aged or older. Daff couldn’t picture a strapping thirty-four-year-old like Spencer sitting on that committee.
“I have an old soul,” he quipped, and she frowned. Who the hell was this witty guy? She didn’t like feeling so completely wrong-footed by him, it was too unsettling.
“Well, good luck with that. I have to get back to what I was doing.”
“Cleaning out your closet, you mean?” Why did he have to make it sound like a metaphor?
“Yes. Good night.” She severed the connection before he could respond and stared blindly at the lit screen of her phone for a few long moments.
CHAPTER FOUR
The following afternoon, Spencer showed up at the boutique just after twelve. This time Daff was ready for him; she didn’t have her novel out, instead she was industriously changing Maggie—one of her trendy silver mannequins—into a ridiculously expensive designer dress. She enjoyed this aspect of her job. Window dressing, marketing, trying to attract clients. In summer she consistently had the best-dressed windows on Main Road, and the boutique had won the best Christmas store display three years in a row.
“Hey,” he greeted casually as he dragged the same spindly chair as yesterday over to the checkout counter.
“I’m really busy today, Spencer,” she grunted, dragging the mannequin’s arm up in an attempt to shove it through the dress’s armhole. It was an exercise in frustration, since the dress was stupidly strappy and Maggie’s splayed fingers were getting caught on the straps.
“Hmm.” The low, rumbling sound could have been interpreted as agreement. She kept her attention on the task at hand but was fully aware of his every move. He ignored her while he unpacked plastic containers and plates and cutlery from the big brown paper bag. Once he had everything laid out to his liking, he refocused his attention on her.
“Need help?” He drifted over to where she was building up a fine sheen of sweat, struggling to get Maggie’s stupid fingers untangled from the millions of spaghetti straps.
“I’m fine. Just super busy.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, hanging back to watch her. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked slightly back and forth on his heels. His silent perusal unnerved her and made her clumsy.