Free Wild in the Moment by Jennifer Greene Page B

designer clothes if they bit him in the butt, but he guessed the silky blue shirt and slacks cost the moon and then some.
    It wasn’t remotely a wild outfit, but for White Hills, the cut and fancy lines were always going to draw attention. More to the point, he’d have known that glossy dark hair, that elegant little rump, anywhere.
    He was halfway to the counter when she suddenly turned around. The instant she spotted him, the instant their eyes met, she froze. She was carrying a plate of cookies, and someone was talking to her from the kitchen—an open transom window led to the back room—but for a moment she just stood there, looking back at him.
    Teague knew hurt pride could affect a guy’s imagination, yet he swore he saw a willful rose tint her cheeks, a sweep of yearning shine in her eyes. She looked just plain happy to see him—but anxious, too. Still she stood there. Still she didn’t move, as if she’d sucked in a sudden deep breath and just couldn’t seem to let it out again.
    By then both the sheriff and Harry glanced up. It’s not as if anyone had a choice about being a stranger in White Hills.
    â€œHey, Teague,” Harry greeted him. “Rare for you to stop in on an afternoon. You playing hooky?”
    â€œEverybody deserves a vice,” he said.
    â€œHey, Teague.”
    â€œSheriff.” He had no reason to know George Webster well, but it was the same with everyone there. They knew of him, or well enough to extend a greeting.
    By the time he’d shed his jacket and wasted thosefew seconds on hellos, Daisy had disappeared back into the kitchen—whether she had a good reason or just wanted to avoid him, he couldn’t guess.
    Either way, sitting down gave him a few minutes to analyze the situation. The more he looked around, the more he had the feeling that the Marble Bridge Café had turned into an alternate universe. Instead of smelling like old grease and burned food, scents wafted in the air that could make a guy throw himself on the ground and grovel—like the scent of fresh, warm bread. Blueberry muffins. Pastries. Cookies. Delicate, delectable stuff.
    Maybe Harry owned the café and was given credit for feeding people, but he wouldn’t know “delectable” if threatened with ptomaine.
    But it was seeing Daisy—finding Daisy—that kept stunning Teague. She belonged in that café like a Monet belonged in a hardware store. Boots in Vermont meant, well, boots. But she’d paired the blouse and snug black slacks with high-heeled boots so calf-hide soft they weren’t meant to ever walk in harsh weather. Silver glinted from her ears and wrist. A tiny towel had been slung around her waist, apparently auditioning as an apron, but she still looked elegant from the ground up.
    Daisy? The town’s infamous exotic flower and favorite wild girl, cooking in an aging café? Ms. Five-Hundred-Dollar-Boots Campbell, wearing an apron?
    â€œCold out there,” the sheriff said. It was George’s standard conversational opener. Since the town rarely needed law for much of anything, there was no reason George shouldn’t hang out here, gaining weight on pastries and shooting the breeze and casting moony eyes at Daisy.
    More to the point, he was usually good for information, so Teague tried pumping him. “Well, it’s sure warm in here, with a crowd like this. I don’t get it—I’ve never seen this many people in the café since I came to live here. What’s going on?”
    â€œDaisy’s French baking, that’s what’s going on. About a week ago, Harry let her wander into the kitchen, and ever since then she’s been coming out with stuff nobody ever heard of. And before it’s gone, you better be asking for the lavender sponge cake. Trust me, you’ll never taste anything like it again. I forget what all else she came up with today. You could try the lavender-custard ice