The Man She'll Marry Read online

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Doc asked, his kindly face now as stern as a Baptist minister preaching about sin.

  “I can’t leave?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not till I stitch up that gash.” He frowned at the gaping wound, which had started to bleed again.

  The color drained from her face. “Do I really need stitches?”

  “Unless you want a scar on that pretty leg.”

  Nobody asked, but in Nick’s opinion, no scar could ruin her leg.

  “I don’t want that.” She swallowed nervously. “It’s just, it hurts so much when anything touches it.” Her hands started a fresh round of fidgeting. “The thought of stitches…” The words trailed off, and Nick worried she might pass out.

  Doc gave a sympathetic nod. “I can give you something for the pain.”

  “And I’ll hold your hand again, if you promise not to break my fingers,” Nick teased, hoping to coax a smile.

  Instead he earned a frown that smarted like a slap and sent a clear message: she no longer needed him. Time to get out of here.

  He backed away from the table. “Look, I’ll wait outside.”

  “I would if I were you,” Cinnamon said without much enthusiasm.

  Was that a silent plea in her eyes? Did she want him by her side after all, or was that wishful thinking? Wishful thinking, he figured. As he opened the door, he glanced at the doctor. “Come get me when you’re through.”

  Hands in his pockets, he wandered past two exam rooms, both with patients ready for Doc, into the spacious waiting room. This morning there were only two adults there, which didn’t surprise Nick since nowadays most people used the clinic outside town. He preferred the family doctor who’d seen him, Sharon and Abby through injuries and all the childhood stuff his niece had caught and shared. Doc’s friendly manner put Nick at ease. Also, he liked getting appointments right away.

  What he didn’t like was seeing Liz Jessup on the sofa near the fish tank. As always, she was decked out in seductive clothes, this time a low-cut, clingy sweater, a tight, short skirt, diamond-patterned hose and heels so high he wondered how she walked in them.

  A man couldn’t help appreciating her big breasts and round behind, but she wasn’t Nick’s type. Years back, the then thirty-something divorcée and single mom had hired him to fix her washing machine. Though Nick was ten-plus years her junior, she’d propositioned him more than once. Since he wasn’t attracted, he’d turned her down every time. Plenty of other men were interested, and she had her pick of dates. Word was, she wanted a husband, but so far no man had gone there. In the meantime she’d never stopped trying to seduce Nick.

  Careful to keep his eyes off her impressive cleavage, he bypassed the sofa for a less comfortable ladder-back chair. He took the seat beside Bill Patterson, a whale-size man who’d retired from the cranberry factory several years earlier.

  “Morning.” He nodded to both of them.

  “Hey, Nick,” Bill returned, hooking his thumbs through his trademark cranberry-red suspenders.

  Liz fluttered lashes so long and black they had to be fakes, tossed her thick, wavy hair sexily and curved her red lips into a smile. “Well, hello, there.” She crossed her legs, a move that revealed a long slice of thigh. “What are you doing here? I hope Abby’s not sick, not with that math bee tomorrow.”

  Her legs were nice, but nothing like Cinnamon’s.

  Nick explained about the accident, while Bill, Liz and Audrey Eames, the plump, fifty-something receptionist-nurse behind the check-in station, listened attentively.

  “I heard Cinnamon was at Rosy’s last night,” Liz commented. “What’s she like?”

  Bill nodded that he, too, wondered. “The one night I decided to eat in,” he muttered.

  Their interest came as no surprise. Winters in Cranberry were dark, slow times, and they were curious about the only outsider in town.

  “She’s okay,” he said hedged.

  Okay? More like sexy and beautiful, just about the classiest woman he ever had met. Way classier than he’d ever be.

  “That doesn’t tell us much.” Liz shook her head at the tile ceiling. “Men.”

  “I met her when she checked in,” Audrey said.

  “Yeah?” Patting the cushion, Liz gestured her over. “Tell us about her.”

  “Guess I can, for a minute.” The receptionist-nurse left her station, talking as she joined them. “She’s a pretty little thing, average height, and slender. Huge eyes and a black, spiky hairstyle that looks real cute on her.”

  Liz nodded, then glanced from man to man. “That’s the kind of stuff a woman wants to know.”

  Audrey sat down beside her, then turned her attention on Nick. “What do you know about her as a person? We want details.”

  At Nick’s blank look, Bill grinned and shook his head. “Better tell ’em something or they’ll nag you to death.”

  Probably true. Nick shrugged. “I don’t know that much, except that she’s a former corporate executive looking for work.”

  “And she thinks she’ll find it here?” Audrey tsked and shook her head.

  “Not with Tate’s in trouble,” Bill said.

  “Big trouble,” Liz seconded with a worried frown. Her brother and nineteen-year-old son worked there, one in shipping and the other in processing.

  “Cinnamon isn’t looking for work here,” Nick said. “She only came to visit Fran. They’re old friends.” He eyed Audrey. “Satisfied?”

  “Not really.”

  Not about to say more, Nick set his jaw.

  Sighing, the receptionist gave up. “But I guess it’ll have to do.” The phone rang, and she hurried back to her station.

  In no mood for further conversation, Nick picked up a magazine and pointedly opened it, beyond caring that he couldn’t read it.

  Chapter Six

  Half an hour later, cupping Cinnamon’s elbow, Doc slowly walked her into the waiting room. “She’s all yours, Nick.”

  Ignoring curious looks from Liz and Bill, he tossed aside the magazine and stood.

  “Take care, young lady,” Doc said. “If you change your mind about crutches or that pain medication, call me.”

  “I don’t think I will, thank you,” she said.

  As Nick moved to her side, Audrey bustled off to ready the room for another patient. “Take care, hon,” she called out in a pleasant voice, “and hope to see you again—only not here.”

  “Definitely not here,” Cinnamon replied with a polite smile.

  Nick grasped her arm as Doc had, but she brushed off his hand, her smile abruptly gone. “I’m okay.”

  Stung and forgetting that he didn’t want to touch her anyway, he dropped his hand.

  “What were you reading?” she asked, shooting a curious glance at the magazine he’d tossed aside.

  “Nothing.” Past ready to get back to the Oceanside, he jerked his chin toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  She squinted at the magazine. “Entrepreneur. I read that issue a few months back. Did you see the article on building up your—”

  “Liz, your room’s ready,” Audrey called from the hall.

  “Be right there.” The divorcée stood and sashayed toward Cinnamon. “I’m Liz Jessup, an old friend of Nick’s.”

  Winking at him as if they shared a secret, she touched his biceps. Nick sidestepped away from her.

  Ignoring the rebuff, she smiled at Cinnamon, who extended her hand the same as she’d done with Sharon. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise. I manage a store called Cranberries-to-Go, at the far end of Main Street. Be sure to stop in.”

  “I noticed your shop, and had planned to come in this afternoon.” She glanced at the rectangular bandage covering her shin and offered a wry smile. “Not anymore.”

  “Too bad,” Liz said. “Sorry about your accident.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cinnamon insisted, “And I will stop by your shop tomorrow.”

  Nick shook his head at that.
Unless her leg felt a whole lot better she wouldn’t be driving anyplace for a while. He wouldn’t be around to help her tomorrow, either, as he’d be in Portland, rooting for Abby at the math bee. Fran would have to chauffeur her.

  “Well, time for my annual checkup.” Liz winked. “I’ll watch for you tomorrow, Cinnamon.” She waved her scarlet nails at Bill, then blew Nick a kiss. “’Bye, hon.” Wiggling her hips seductively, she strutted toward the exam rooms.

  “She’s pretty, in a dancehall-girl way,” Cinnamon noted, shooting him a look he couldn’t decipher.

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  From his seat, Bill cleared his throat. “I’m Bill Patterson. I’d get up but I had hip surgery a while back and the darn thing’s still stiff as a piece of driftwood.”

  Expression sympathetic, Cinnamon nodded. “I hope it feels better soon. I’d come over and shake your hand but…” She glanced at her leg.

  “Aren’t we a pair, now.” If Bill’s grin grew any wider his mouth would split, a sign that Cinnamon had charmed him. He glanced at her shin. “What’d Doc do to you?”

  “X-ray and stitches, but they’re the dissolving kind, so I don’t have to come back.”

  “Lucky you. I had stitches, too. Mine itched like a son of a gun. Don’t scratch ’em or you might need new ones.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  At this rate they’d never leave. Nick cleared his throat. “Can we go now?”

  His less-than-thrilled tone must have surprised Cinnamon, for her eyes widened. “Right away. ’Bye, Bill.”

  “Hope to see you again. Good luck finding a job.”

  Her startled gaze darted to Nick. By now she was easy to read, and he noted her displeasure with surprise of his own. Her unemployment was no secret, so he shrugged and shuttled her out.

  WALKING UNASSISTED TOWARD the door of Doc’s office required concentration, and Cinnamon didn’t try to make conversation. Nick, too, was silent, which was fine by her, since at the moment she didn’t want to talk to him. Awful enough he’d half undressed her and then been stuck with driving her here. She’d also squeezed the life from his fingers like a helpless little thing, something her mother might have done.

  Cinnamon cringed. She hated weakness, and had spent her whole adult life suppressing anything that resembled it. Yet this was the second time Nick had seen her at her most vulnerable. He must think her an emotional mess. Compared to blond, sexy Liz she looked a physical wreck, too.

  Nick opened the door and she limped slowly outside. The driving rain had turned into a cold mist that bit at her face and legs despite the covered walkway. Shivering, she pulled her jacket close.

  “Cold?” He slanted her the same worried look she’d seen in the exam room.

  She nodded.

  “I’d give you my jacket if I had it. You’ll warm up in the truck,” he said, gesturing at the vehicle parked about thirty feet away. “Wait here and I’ll bring it around like I did before.”

  He strode forward, his legs rapidly covering the distance. He moved with an easy grace that made watching him enjoyable. Like all trucks, his required a big step up to reach the cab, even with his long legs. He hopped into his seat, and a moment later the engine purred to life.

  Parking within a few feet of her, he leaned over and opened the passenger door. His raised eyebrows told her he was ready to help, but she tightened her mouth and narrowed her eyes, warning him off. He stayed in his seat.

  She hobbled carefully around the front of the truck, using the hood for support despite its being wet. And wondering just what she was trying to prove.

  As she reached the open passenger door, she hesitated. Unable to bear much weight on her bad leg, how was she going to climb up? Nick had helped her on the way here. Darn it, she needed him again.

  “You going to yell at me if I help you?”

  The wary look on his face surprised her. Had she been that nasty? She tried an apologetic smile. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

  “Stand tight, then.” He slid nimbly out of his seat. Seconds later he stood at her side. “Ready?”

  She nodded. Warm hands circled her waist. Though she weighed 115 pounds, Nick lifted her as if she were as light as her laptop. She clasped his biceps and felt his muscles flex. So different from Dwight’s flabby arms. So very sexy.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

  “My pleasure.”

  Heat flared in his eyes, throwing her body into chaos. He settled her in the bucket seat, his hands lingering a moment on her waist. She wanted him even more than she had this morning. Her hands itched to clasp his neck and pull him close for a kiss. Until she remembered flirty Liz and her suggestive, intimate looks at Nick.

  Whatever the two of them had shared, sex likely was included. Hot sex. None of Cinnamon’s business, but the very thought put a sour taste in her mouth. “You can let go now,” she said coolly.

  Jerking as if she’d slapped him, he released her. He shut the door with more force than necessary and headed around the truck to his side. Cinnamon fastened her seat belt with stiff movements.

  He climbed into the cab, slamming the door behind him. Before he finished buckling his belt, she spoke.

  “I suppose you and Liz date,” she said, unable to stem the disapproval in her voice.

  “Are you kidding?” Nick shifted out of Park, laughing and shaking his head. “Her son, Bret, is nineteen, only thirteen years younger than I am. She’s too old for me, and she’s not my type,” he stated, glancing straight into Cinnamon’s eyes.

  Relieved and at the same time feeling foolish, she flushed. “What is your type?” She could have bitten her tongue.

  As he pulled away from the curb he was still smiling. “A woman who likes to have fun, no strings attached.”

  “Exactly like Liz,” Cinnamon pointed out.

  Nick scoffed. “That’s all show. She’s husband hunting and will do about anything to snag herself one. So far nobody’s been fool enough to take the bait.” As he waited for several cars to pass, he eyed Cinnamon. “What kind of man do you like?”

  “He should be single, upwardly mobile, as I am, financially comfortable and looking to settle down and start a family.”

  Voicing her requirements aloud reminded her that Nick wasn’t what she wanted. Except, he had been reading that business magazine in Doc’s waiting room, which could mean he was more successoriented than she’d guessed.

  She waited until he turned out of the parking lot to pose her question. “Did you happen to read the article in Entrepreneur about building your business?”

  “No,” he said. His hands tightened on the wheel and his face closed.

  For some reason she’d upset him. Puzzled, she frowned. “Did I somehow offend you?”

  “Nope.”

  Now his whole body was stiff and tense, and a tiny muscle jumped in his jaw.

  “Are you sure? Because whatever—”

  “Subject closed,” he barked, his expression as dark as the cloud-laden sky.

  He turned on the radio, cranking up the sound. Country music was not Cinnamon’s favorite, especially when it was played so loud the whole truck vibrated. Bracing for an explosion, she cautiously turned down the volume.

  None came. Relieved, she sank against the seat. The rest of the drive back, neither she nor Nick spoke. Staring at the modest houses and dripping trees as they sped down the road, Cinnamon mulled over the conversation and tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

  Clearly she’d hit a sore spot about Nick’s handyman business, though what that could be eluded her. Fran said he was happy with less than full-time work. If he wasn’t interested in growing his business, why not just say so? No, she decided, his strong negative reaction stemmed from something more. But what?

  She stifled a frustrated sigh. This really wasn’t her concern. She had troubles of her own. Still, she was curious….

  Through lowered lashes she studied Nick. His attention was fixed firmly on
the road, his shoulders were taut and his mouth compressed—nonverbal barriers that told her not to broach the subject again.

  By the time the sullen man pulled into the Ocean-side driveway, Cinnamon could hardly wait to exit the truck and get out of his space, this time without his help.

  “Thank you for the ride and your time,” she said before opening her door, “and please wish Abby good luck tomorrow.”

  With his jaw clamped, he gave a terse nod.

  Best to stay out of his way the rest of the day. She’d grab something from the fridge and spend the afternoon in her suite, checking e-mails, and if she still didn’t hear from her contacts, making calls. Time to search the Internet, too. Plenty to keep her busy.

  She wouldn’t venture downstairs again until Nick left for the day.

  BY MIDAFTERNOON NICK had washed every window and taken paint samples from all rooms and hallways except those in Cinnamon’s suite. Since it was nearly time to pick up Abby and Sharon, the suite’s windows and overhead fan would have to wait. But first thing Monday morning he intended to stop at the hardware store for custom-matched paint, so he needed that sample now.

  At least, that was what he told himself as he hesitated before Cinnamon’s closed door, as uncomfortable as a rebellious kid about to be punished by the school principal.

  He lifted his fist to knock but faltered. He and Cinnamon hadn’t spoken since the ride home from Doc’s this morning. She’d refused his help up the Oceanside steps and had insisted on making her own lunch and taking it upstairs under her own steam.

  The awful tension between them had weighted the air, and despite the door separating them, still did. His fault for blowing his cool and holding on to his anger. She’d given him an opportunity to apologize by wishing Abby good luck, yet he’d said nothing.

  Nick felt bad about that and about yelling at her—he felt lousy about the whole thing. And wasn’t sure he wanted to face her. Maybe he’d get that paint sample Monday, instead.

  Coward.

  Straightening his shoulders he rapped softly on the door. “Cinnamon? You all right in there?”

  “Fine, thank you,” came the muffled but chilly reply.