The Man She'll Marry Page 8

  He tried again, fingering the tool belt hanging on his hips. “I need a paint chip to match at the hardware store. Okay if I open the door and come in?”

  “Do what you must.”

  She was nestled in the oversized blue armchair that faced the cloud-darkened view, laptop on her lap and still-bare legs, though she wore socks, propped on the matching ottoman. Rosy lamplight lit the room, and a cheery fire that had been laid by Fran crackled in the fireplace.

  A cozy image, except for the bandage on Cinnamon’s shin and the pained expression on her face. A result of the injury, or his being here? He stood uncertainly at the threshold while she stared at him. Her expression was cool, but with her head angled a fraction, he knew she expected him to say something.

  “How’s the leg?” he asked, leaning his shoulder on the doorjamb.

  “Bearable, so long as I prop it up.”

  “Smart, to work stretched out that way,” he said, hoping for a smile, or at least a brighter face.

  Not a hint of either in sight, only a dismissive shrug. “At the moment I don’t feel very smart, but thanks.”

  “Hey, anybody could have slipped on those wet steps. When I come back on Monday I’ll lay nonskid tape on each riser. That should help, and ease Fran’s mind. She nearly had a heart attack when I told her what happened to you.”

  “I spoke with her, too—twice before I convinced her I’m okay.” A brief smile flickered and died. “The nonskid tape sounds like a good idea.”

  She threw a worried glance at the laptop, and he guessed the crack about not feeling smart was more about that than the accident.

  “How goes the job search?” he asked.

  “Not so well.”

  A pink flush climbed her face and she looked flustered. Why? “With your background there must be dozens of companies interested in you.”

  “You’d think. I contacted my friends about that, but they don’t seem to want to…” She shook her head, sighed and dropped her gaze. “They won’t help me.”

  “They don’t sound like friends to me.”

  “I thought they were until recently.” Frowning, she fussed with the hem of her sweater, smoothing it down. “Guess I was wrong.”

  That had to sting. “Sorry to hear that.”

  Up went her chin. She wasn’t looking for pity.

  “It’s nothing I can’t deal with. I’ve been surfing the Web, looking at various consulting company Web sites. Something’s bound to come up.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  An awkward silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling fire. Now was a good time for that apology. Nick pushed away from the doorjamb and moved toward her, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I shouldn’t have snapped at you this morning.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. I was only trying to make conversation. I don’t even know how I offended you.”

  Her prickly tone didn’t make this easy. “You didn’t.”

  But her question about the magazine article she assumed he’d read had cut too close for comfort. Nobody knew reading was hard for him. Shame burned like acid in his gut, but he didn’t let on.

  “Oh, no? Then why did you bite my head off and then refuse to talk? If you don’t want to build your business, just say so.”

  The disapproval on her face rankled. Nick hung his thumbs from his belt loops. “I’m comfortable, and the work is mostly steady. Hell, I own my own house. That ought to tell you something.”

  All right, a three-room cabin and a small, detached workshop, but it was paid for. Though he did need a bundle of cash for Abby’s math camp, and Sharon could use some financial help…None of that was Cinnamon’s concern. Nick narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “Just why are you so interested my life?”

  “I’m not,” she said, slapping shut the laptop. “I’m simply finishing this morning’s conversation.”

  “Well, it was too damned nosy for me. I’m not one of your clients, and I don’t need your help.” His temper was climbing again, and with effort he reined it in. Cinnamon’s mouth opened, but he cut her off. “Why’d you let me think you were fired from your job, when you quit?”

  Her turn to tense up. “Resigned,” she corrected. Though her expression remained calm, her back went soldier straight. “What exactly did Fran tell you?”

  “Nothing. That’s why I’m asking. Isn’t it better to quit than get fired?”

  Her hands started their fidgety routine, rubbing circles over the closed laptop. “That depends.”

  “On what?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know.

  “The problem was…personal.”

  “What’d you do, tell the boss to shove it?”

  She laughed without humor. “Not exactly. I…well, it’s not a story I want to share. It’s private.”

  “And my business isn’t?”

  Comprehension dawned, and she almost smiled. “Touché.” She settled into her chair again, looking far more relaxed.

  Relieved that the tension between them had eased, Nick turned to go.

  “Nick? Don’t forget to wish Abby good luck from me.”

  This was the second time she’d offered good wishes and the first time Nick had smiled. “Thanks. I will.”

  Whistling, he left.

  It was only on the drive home that he realized he’d forgotten to get a paint chip from Cinnamon’s suite. He shook his head, wondering at his forgetfulness and not pleased that she affected him so strongly.

  In so many ways they were wrong for each other. He knew that in his head, yet when he was near her, reason and logic seemed to fade.

  Good thing he was headed out of town for a few days, because he needed to get his mind off the woman. He wouldn’t think about her all weekend, he pledged.

  Surely by Monday, she’d be out of his system.

  Chapter Seven

  Whistling softly to the Dixie Chicks song Sharon had inserted in the tape player, Nick drove down the winding, two-lane road that would eventually lead to the freeway and Portland. Though it was nearly five o’clock and rush hour, traffic was light. But then in the off season in rural Oregon, it generally was.

  He could have made better time, but Sharon’s old wagon didn’t have the pep of his truck. What it did have was a back seat with seat belts. After a long, hard week, Nick’s sister had readily agreed that he should drive the four hours to Portland and that Abby should sit up front. Now, head cushioned by a pillow, Sharon slept soundly in the back. While in the passenger seat up front, his niece was as quiet and still as her mother, but not asleep. Nervous, Nick guessed, but in the early darkness of winter he couldn’t quite make out her expression.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked softly so as not to disturb Sharon.

  “Why didn’t you and Mom tell me?” Voice low, Abby sent him a withering look he felt more than saw.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That the Cranberry Factory might close. You should have told me!”

  Her voice was loud now. And here he’d thought her solemn air had been due to tomorrow’s math bee. Praying Sharon was awake now, because he sure as hell didn’t want to deal with the scary subject alone, Nick shot a hopeful glance in the rearview mirror. Still out cold. He was on his own.

  “Where’d you hear that?” he asked, buying time so he could figure out what to say.

  “Everybody at school’s talking about it.”

  “Well, at this point, it’s only a rumor,” he assured her. Which was mostly true.

  “I don’t care,” Abby accused. “I have the right to know.”

  “You’ve been working so hard to prepare for the math bee, and we didn’t want you to lose your focus. Face it, kid, you’re a worrier.”

  “That’s a lame reason! I’m not a baby anymore, so quit treating me like one!”

  Her dramatic tone was almost comical, but her hurt feelings and the possible factory closure were nothing to joke about. “Think we don’t know you’re growing up? I swear we’d have told yo
u if there was anything to tell.”

  By her arms crossed over her chest and her loud, angry huff, he could see the kid wasn’t buying what he said.

  “There’s a town meeting about the situation next Tuesday night, and—”

  “What’s going on up there?” Sharon called sleepily from the back.

  “We’re talking about the factory,” Nick said, shooting a help-me look at the rearview mirror.

  “And that you hid your problems from me. I’m coming with you to that town meeting,” Abby insisted. “That way, I’ll know the same stuff you know.”

  Sometimes his niece was too damn smart for her own good. “Brother,” Nick muttered.

  “Now that she knows, she should come,” Sharon said. “Don’t you think, Nick?”

  Why not? Abby was dead-on—she had the right to know. He shrugged his agreement.

  Satisfied, the girl nodded and uncrossed her arms.

  A sign pointed to the upcoming freeway entrance. Nick glanced at her again. “You hungry, kid? ’Cause once we get on the freeway it’s another two hours to Portland. This is a good time to stop for dinner, get gas and stretch your legs.”

  “I’m not eating tonight,” she announced.

  Since she was at the age when she was always hungry, this surprised him. “What?”

  “Well, I am,” Sharon said. “I’m starved.”

  Abby glanced over her shoulder at her mother. “We should have brought sandwiches to save money.”

  So that was the deal. He sighed. “This is exactly why we didn’t tell you about the factory.”

  Leaning forward, Sharon nodded. “Stewing over what hasn’t even happened yet won’t do any good, and certainly won’t help you win the math bee.”

  “Your brain needs nourishment, both tonight and in the morning,” Nick added, because that kind of logic usually worked on Abby.

  “I’m not sure I want to win anymore,” she mumbled in a voice so low he was sure he’d misunderstood.

  He frowned. “Say what?”

  “If Mom loses her job, how will we pay for my room and board at math camp?”

  Sharon didn’t offer any answers, and Nick knew she was fretting about the same thing. Not that she could pay those costs even if she kept her job. The bulk of that expense weighed on his shoulders.

  “You leave that to us, okay? We’ll get you there,” he assured her, hoping he was right.

  Maybe Cinnamon was on to something—he needed to boost his business, and fast. He thought about asking her for advice, but his pride wouldn’t let him. Besides, she might expect him to read that article, a chore that could take decades. He’d always managed on his own. He’d figure this out for himself. And he wasn’t going to think about Cinnamon this weekend.

  Yet he couldn’t help wondering about the so-called friends who couldn’t or wouldn’t help her find a job. And why in the world had she resigned from what had to be a high-salary position?

  Not his business, and he had enough problems without worrying about her. But here he was, doing it anyway, wishing he could hold her and ease her troubles with kisses and more….

  As his body stirred to life, Abby released a heavy sigh.

  “Okay, I’ll eat, but only if we go someplace cheap.”

  “You got it, kid.” Crisis averted.

  “I see a fast-food place on the left ahead,” Sharon said. “And a gas station on the same side of the street.”

  “How lucky can you get?” Slowing, Nick signaled and pushed Cinnamon from his thoughts.

  JUST BEFORE NOON ON Friday, Rosy set a throw pillow on a café chair and frowned as Cinnamon gingerly propped up her leg. “How does that feel, hon?”

  “The pillow helps,” Cinnamon replied, touched by the restaurant owner’s attention and concern. “Thanks.”

  “Because if it still hurts, I could bring you a glass of whiskey….” Rosy’s eyes widened comically.

  Cinnamon laughed and shook her head. “No thanks.”

  “At last, she smiles,” Rosy quipped to Fran, who sat beside Cinnamon. “That’s what I wanted to see. I’ll be back with coffee—unspiked.” She winked. “Sorry, Cinnamon, you had your chance.”

  The gentle teasing made Cinnamon feel liked, a welcome change from the rejection by her business “friends.” Between their hurtful snubbing and her sore shin she hadn’t slept well. Stretching her arms overhead, she yawned.

  Earning her a concerned frown from Fran. “Sure you’re up to meeting the Friday Girls?” She glanced at the five empty chairs around the table, soon to be filled with the women she lunched with every Friday from late October through early May. “Of course, we did reserve this table. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Rosy.”

  Judging by the sparse number of diners, that was likely true. Friday lunch business was slow, which was to be expected in early February.

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Rosy,” Cinnamon echoed. “Besides, I can’t wait to meet the friends I’ve heard about forever. And you made a special trip back to the Oceanside to pick me up for this.” She glanced at her shin. “Since you won’t let me drive.”

  “It won’t hurt you to rely on other people for transportation for a day or two.”

  “Except that after lunch, you’re stuck driving me back again.”

  “Happy to do it. I just wish I could spend the rest of the afternoon with you,” Fran admitted guiltily. “But with the Valentine’s Day dance in two weeks and the Love on Main Street outdoor art show coinciding…” She shook her head. “Since I’m heading up the entertainment committee, I’m stuck.”

  “Hey, I’m a big girl,” Cinnamon said. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

  Though without Fran, the Oceanside seemed awfully big and way too quiet. Too bad Nick was in Portland….

  The moment she thought of him, she frowned. Hadn’t she already wasted far too much time fixated on the man? During brief snatches of sleep last night she’d even dreamed about him. Vivid, erotic stuff of them in bed, doing all sorts of fun and deliciously naughty things, unfortunately without any sexual release…. The private places in her body clenched in frustration, and heat rushed to her face.

  “Are you too warm?” Fran asked.

  Rather than answer that, Cinnamon changed the subject. “What exactly is the Love on Main Street outdoor art show, and isn’t this a risky time of year to display art outside?”

  “Actually, we put up a giant, open-sided tent in the town hall parking lot, with heaters inside,” Fran explained. “The carvings, sculptures, drawings and paintings are done by locals and must depict love in some way—of the sea, the beach, Cranberry, lovers, pets and so forth. We all have a great time. Too bad you’ll be gone by then.”

  Not only gone, but hopefully about to start a new job. Cinnamon truly wanted that. And yet… “I’m sorry I’ll miss that,” she replied wistfully.

  “Some other time. Did you have better luck with this morning’s job search?”

  Cinnamon shook her head. “I called a few more colleagues who hadn’t replied to my e-mails, but they brushed me off the same as everyone else. ‘You know how conservative consulting companies are.’” She mimicked in a sarcastic tone the rationale she’d heard over and over. Which was absolutely true. And the consulting world was a tight-knit community, making it tough to break into and, if you got into trouble, rough to change jobs.

  “Not one of them cared about Dwight’s promises to me or what really happened between us.” In their view she was a home wrecker and a woman willing to do anything, including seduce the boss, to climb the corporate ladder. Not that any of them was brave enough to say so. To a person, they mouthed polite excuses and hung up as quickly as possible.

  For a moment anger and disappointment threatened to ruin her appetite, but Cinnamon refused to let her negative feelings get the best of her or ruin today’s lunch. “Their loss,” she said in what she hoped was a confident voice.

  “Absolutely,” Fran seconded. “If you ask me, your colleagues are a bunch of
lame-brains.” Her eyes flashed indignation. “It isn’t right to discount your considerable skills and experience simply because your relationship with the boss went sour. Especially when you’ve proved yourself over and over again.”

  “We’re on the same page there. Though, looking back, I could have used better judgment.” Cinnamon shook her head. “I was a naive fool.”

  “If you learned something from the experience,” her friend said, “it wasn’t all for naught.”

  “I guess not,” Cinnamon said, though she wasn’t certain just what she had learned. Fran looked worried, so Cinnamon gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll find my way. I always have.”

  I just hope I find work before my savings run out. Her insides trembled at the thought.

  “Tough, feisty and determined.” Her friend nodded approvingly. “There’s the Cinnamon I know and love.”

  “That’s me, all right.” Cinnamon straightened her shoulders and shifted in her seat, which jostled her leg. She winced.

  “On top of your job worries, you go and get hurt.” Fran squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry about the accident.”

  “It’s not your fault I fell.”

  “Since you slipped on my wet steps, I’m afraid it’s very much my responsibility. If you sue me…well, I’ll understand.”

  Cinnamon’s jaw dropped. “You know darn well I’d never do that. I’m better today than yesterday, and in a day or two I’ll be good as new. Be glad it was me who fell, and not someone else.”

  “I’d rather no one get hurt. Good thing Nick can fix the problem. He promised to pick up some of that nonstick tape first thing Monday morning and put a strip on every step—provided the weather cooperates.” Fran glanced out the large picture window fronting the street, where a sleeting rain much like yesterday’s pummeled the glass. “For safety’s sake, let’s hope for a sunny Monday.”

  There she went, mentioning Nick, and just when Cinnamon had managed to get him out of her brain.

  Steaming coffeepot in hand, Rosy hastened over and deftly filled two mugs. “Speaking of Nick,” she said, picking up the conversation as if she’d been at the table all along, “any word on how Abby did at that math bee this morning?”