The Sweetheart Secret by Shirley Jump Page A

had never treasured—until they were gone.
    Because of Colt’s mistakes. Mistakes Grandpa had never forgiven. For fourteen years, Colt had been doing his level best to atone, but the wall remained between Colt and Grandpa Earl. Two stubborn men, hurting in their own ways, and refusing to be the first to yield.
    Colt laid his briefcase by the door, dropped his keys into the wooden bowl on the credenza. He bit back a comment about the dirty dishes littering the kitchen counter and table, the empty ice cream container sitting beside, instead of in, the trash. In the weeks since Grandpa Earl had moved in with Colt, the daily silent battle between them about maintaining order had grown in proportion. It wasn’t an argument Colt wanted to have today. Or any day. “Grandpa, I’m not trying to hurt you—”
    â€œNo, worse. You’re trying to kill me. I don’t need any of those fancy medicines you keep trying to shove down my throat. And I don’t need to be living here, like a prisoner on death row. Let me go back to my own house and my own ways of treating these damned shakes.”
    The house his Grandpa had no longer been able to maintain on his own was now on the market, but Colt chose not to remind Grandpa of that fact. “Those shakes are called Parkinson’s, Grandpa. There are medications that can help and treatments that can ease the symptoms. You can’t just—”
    â€œI can and I will. It’s a free goddamn country. Something you’d know if you’d gone to war, like I did, instead of going to that fancy college.” Grandpa thumbed the remote and turned up the volume until Alex Trebek’s voice boomed in the tiny space.
    That fancy college had given Colt a medical degree, something his grandfather conveniently ignored every time the subject of his failing health came up. What was that saying about
physician, heal thyself
? Right now, Colt was having a hell of a time just
healing thy family.
    The doorbell rang, cutting off Colt’s next argument. Didn’t matter. Some days, it felt like he was just rehashing the words from the day before. Maybe he was crazy for trying to restore the past—for trying to get close again to the man who blamed Colt for the death of his youngest grandchild. Hell, Colt still blamed himself.
    If he couldn’t find a way to forgive himself, how could he expect to find a way for Grandpa to do the same?
    The doorbell rang again, and Colt shook off the thoughts. Grandpa gestured toward the door with a remote. “I bet that’s the pizza I ordered for dinner. Thank God.”
    Pizza? Again? After the Chinese food yesterday and subs the day before? Seemed like Grandpa had every delivery place in a ten-mile radius on speed dial. Colt threw up his hands. “What are you ordering pizza for? I had a perfectly healthy dinner planned.”
    â€œLet me guess. More rubber chicken and tasteless broccoli?” Grandpa scoffed. “I’d rather chew off my own hand.”
    â€œThat can be arranged,” Colt muttered. He crossed to the door, debating whether to send the pizza guy away or just buy a few moments of peace with a large pepperoni. But when he pulled open the front door, he found something far more tempting and dangerous standing on his front stoop. Colt sucked in a breath, told himself he wasn’t at all rocked by the sight of Daisy on his front step, looking radiant in a bright yellow dress that flared at the waist and showed off shapely legs that could erase a man’s willpower in the blink of an eye. “Daisy. What are you doing here?”
    Gee, way to start with a stellar conversational opener. He’d basically just repeated what he’d said earlier.
    â€œI handled our first meeting poorly and I wanted to try talking to you again,” she said. “Calmly this time.”
    Colt heard the TV volume descend, followed by the click of the La-Z-Boy’s footrest going down,