A Better Man

by Candis Terry

  Eyes dark and troubled, Ryan looked up. “Only Dad and I had access. Each night Dad locked the files up in the safe.”

  “What about the computer files?”

  “We have a well-­protected system.”

  “Well, there’s nobody on earth more honest than you, Ryan.” No way did his brother have anything to do with the missing money. Jordan knew by the pained look on his face that Ryan was deeply troubled by this discovery. “And since Dad’s not here to speak for himself, I say we hire an investigator.”

  “I’ll second that,” Declan said.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence. Anyone else have an opinion or maybe have a clue where that money might be?” Ryan glanced around the table. “Or where Aunt Pippy ran off to?”

  They all looked around and were surprised to find no sign of her except her nearly full coffee cup abandoned on the table.

  “Looks like she slipped out while we were in deep discussion,” Ethan said.

  Seemed she did that a lot. Jordan frowned before Parker pulled his attention back into the conversation.

  “Maybe we should start looking into the workers,” Parker suggested. “I know they don’t have access to the accounts, but money can be pilfered in many ways.”

  “A hundred and fifty grand worth?” Jordan asked.

  Parker shrugged. “Happens all the time. Someone hires a nanny or an assistant and the next thing you know your hard-­earned cash is gone with the wind. Or the hacker.”

  “Unfortunately, until we have an answer, everyone is suspect.” Ryan scanned the room. “Even me. That’s not all the news I have. But believe me, this isn’t any better.”

  “When it rains, it pours,” Ethan murmured.

  “We finished the fiscal tax year in the red.” Ryan let the other shoe drop. “Not deep, but in the red nonetheless.”

  “Fuck.” Parker scratched his head. “So how do we fix that?”

  “We find ways to make the company more profitable.” Declan got up, poured another cup of coffee, then returned to the table.

  “Such as?” Jordan wanted to help in any way he could but he had no idea what it took to turn around a flagging family winery.

  “At this point we need to consider everything.” Declan shrugged. “All ideas are welcome and necessary.”

  “How about some Sunday wine festivals?” Ethan asked. “Maybe with some local bands. Local restaurants could do the catering with a portion of their profits going to the winery as an operator’s fee.”

  “Or the area’s food trucks,” Parker added, knowing he had one of the best. “Maybe we could create an onsite trattoria in the building next to the event center.”

  “What about a wine club?” Jordan suggested. “With an annual membership fee that would include special wine deals. Maybe they could also receive VIP tickets to the Sunday festivals.”

  “These are all great concepts.” Ryan seemed relieved that everyone had put a positive spin on such a negative situation. “Maybe everyone could make a list of their ideas so when we come back together we can vote on each project.”

  “Just so you know,” Jordan said. “I’m more than willing to financially invest in the business.”

  “Me too,” Dec said.

  “I’ll put up the cash for a trattoria,” Parker amended. “I’ve been saving to open my own restaurant. Might as well put it here.”

  “I’m no millionaire,” Ethan said, “but I’ll gladly invest what I’ve got. And I can put in some sweat equity too.”

  “Yeah, but will you shave that beard before things start growing in there?” Jordan joked.

  “Consider it done.” Ethan chuckled. “Although don’t you hockey players have some superstition thing and start growing Duck Dynasty beards as soon as the playoffs get going?”

  “Not me. The ladies don’t like them.”

  A groan of consensus passed around the table.

  “Maybe this was all part of Mom and Dad’s plan—­bringing us back together,” Ethan said.

  “I don’t know.” Ryan shrugged. “But it sure as hell beats wondering what everyone else is doing when we’re spread throughout the country.”

  Jordan couldn’t agree more.

  When his cell phone vibrated on the table in front of him, he glanced down at the incoming number. Coach Reiner. For the fourth time in less than twenty-­four hours.

  Shit.

  He let the call go to voice mail.

  Again.

  Tomorrow he’d deal with the situation.

  Today was all about family.

  And Lucy.

  As everyone got up from the table and clustered around the coffeemaker for refills, Jordan caught Ryan off to the side of the room.

  “Don’t sweat this,” he said. “I can tell by the ready-­to-­keel-­over look on your face that you’ve lost sleep trying to figure it all out.”

  Ryan nodded. “Haven’t really slept much since the call came in about Mom and Dad.”

  “I’m right there with you.” Jordan clamped his hand on his big brother’s shoulder. “Just remember, we’re all in this together. You don’t need to bear the burden alone.”

  “I appreciate that. I haven’t been able to spend much time with Riley lately. It’s starting to feel more like she’s the parent and I’m the kid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s lost so much. Yet she constantly worries about me. She’s always trying to take care of me. Make sure I eat right. Hell, because of the circumstances she’s been thrown into, she’s growing up too fast. It’s not fair. I want her to be a little girl for as long as she can.”

  “Sometimes life just hands a kid a tough road. But she’ll come out of it okay. Because she has you. Never fear that.”

  “I do. I just wish her mom wasn’t so . . .”

  “Wrapped up in toilet paper?”

  Ryan groaned. “I can’t begin to tell you what it does to a man’s ego when he knows he can’t compete with something you flush down the shitter.”

  “I’m sure there are women lined up to take her place.”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t dated since she left.”

  “Dated.” Jordan’s eyebrows jacked up his forehead. “As in you haven’t—­”

  “Nope. Haven’t done that either.”

  “Jesus. You and Dec are giving the Kincade men a bad name.”

  “Pretty sure I don’t want to know what’s going on—­or not going on—­with him.”

  “Let’s just say the two of you could start a celibacy club.”

  “Not the kind of club I’m interested in.”

  “I would imagine not.” Jordan patted his brother’s broad shoulder. “So, change of subject?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Thank God.” Jordan sipped his coffee. “I thought I’d give you an update on Nicki.”

  “I appreciate that you’re really taking this situation to heart,” Ryan said. “I’ve got—­”

  “Your hands are full.” Jordan acknowledged the cold, hard facts. “I totally get that. And while I don’t have all the answers yet, I am making progress with the help of her creative writing teacher.”

  His brother smiled. “Lucy’s a nice woman.”

  Nice. Complicated. Smart. Sexy. And Jordan knew there was a whole lot more he’d yet to discover.

  “Yeah. She’s great,” he said. “She plans to talk to the school counselor to make sure we’re taking the proper steps to help Nicki.”

  “What?” Ryan’s head went back. “Wait a minute. You? Following rules?”

  “I don’t break them all, you know.”

  “Well, I appreciate the extra effort,” Ryan said. “And especially for your patience with our sister. I know she’s not always the easiest firecracker in the box to handle.”

  “The ba
by dragon?” Jordan chuckled. “She’s not as tough as she thinks she is. Besides, I’m wearing her down.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. I’m sticking around. She swears I’m going to run out on her. I have to prove I’m not.”

  “That’s a big order to fill, little brother. What about your career? The team? The playoffs?”

  Jordan shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Famous last words.

  “Well, whatever you do . . .” Ryan clamped his hand over Jordan’s shoulder. “It’s really good to have you around for a change.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to be here. Does that mean I can borrow the keys to the event center tonight?”

  “What have you got planned?”

  “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Sounds serious.” Ryan’s brows came together over a piercing glare.

  “Just the opposite.”

  “Then yes, you may have the keys.” Ryan grinned. “Just make sure you don’t break anything.”

  “No worries.” The last thing he had in mind was a brawl. Then again, he wasn’t exactly sure how much Lucy liked surprises.

  A t eleven minutes to seven Lucy felt like she was about to break down. Or throw up. She paced across her bedroom floor, holding this skirt or that blouse up to her body so she could inspect her clothing choices. She realized too late that she didn’t have the appropriate clothes to wear on a date and it was too late to go shopping.

  Not that she had a clue where they were going.

  She had work clothes, casual clothes, workout clothes, and sleeping clothes. Everything in her closet consisted of black, white, or blue, if you counted the jeans she owned that were not going-­out-­appropriate attire. Nothing she had sparkled, shimmered, or glowed. She didn’t own pearls or even fun costume jewelry like her friend Claudia wore, so she couldn’t even dress up a boring outfit.

  Not for the first time in her life did she regret her nonexistent fashion sense.

  In eleven minutes, Jordan Kincade would arrive at her door, expecting her to be ready to go out.

  With him.

  Mr. Hotness.

  Whatever possessed the man was beyond her. And even though she’d never really agreed to let him pick her up, he’d be on her doorstep in exactly . . . ten minutes and thirty seconds.

  Holy cow.

  From the foot of her bed Ziggy watched as she fluttered by, cursed under her breath, and attempted to find a good excuse not to go when he showed up. Maybe . . .

  That was it!

  Like a red light had suddenly appeared in the middle of her room, she stopped.

  She’d feign illness.

  No one would be the wiser if she answered her front door dressed in her robe with her hair a mess and a blotchy face that proved sometime in the past twenty-­four hours she’d developed a deadly disease that made it impossible for her to go anywhere.

  She was contagious.

  Yes!

  And it would be cruel to subject him to something that would obviously make him feel as horrible as she looked.

  Brilliant!

  Trying not to cackle with devious laughter, she reached for her robe. In that moment conscience caught up with genius and pounded the idea down with a hammer. A wave of regret poured over her.

  At the sound of her overly dramatic moan, Ziggy cocked his head, lifted his little doggy brows, and tooted.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not crazy. And I’m not going to get you a treat just because you’re cute either. Especially when you smell like that.” Accustomed to her dog’s stinky winds, Lucy patted him on the head, then shoved her arms into the robe. Anxiety tumbled through her stomach. “I’m just . . . disappointed in myself. No need to go into an explanation, I’m sure. You’ve seen the routine before.”

  Ziggy whined, then put his head down between his paws. His big brown eyes continued to watch her every move.

  “Good thing you don’t judge me or we’d be in a heap of trouble.”

  With no other option than to go through with the ruse, she grabbed her hair up into the messiest knot she could assemble. When the doorbell rang, she pinched her nose and her cheeks hard, shoved her feet into her house slippers, then shuffled off to answer the door. Hand on the knob, she did a few extra pinches, took a steadying breath, gave an Oscar-­worthy cough, and opened the door.

  “Cinderella?”

  Lucy stared at the trio of strangers on her doorstep. Tightly put together in a deep purple suit with a black and white striped shirt and a hot pink tie, the small-­statured man smiled and his head wobbled as if he was tipsy. The two women beside him appeared a little less dramatic in spring dresses and high heels that had to be at least five painful inches tall.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said, clutching the neck of her robe with one hand while she prepared to close the door with the other. “You must have the wrong house.”

  The man leaned back to check out the metal address numbers beside her mailbox near the door. “This is 173 Daffodil Lane, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re Lucy Diamond, correct?”

  “Yes. But who are you?”

  “Why . . . we’re you’re fairy godmothers, sweetie.” The man waved his hand like a wand. “Bibbidi-­bobbidi . . . oh, fussbudget. Step aside, my darling, we’re on a mission.”

  Panic reared its head as he pushed past her.

  “Stop.” Lucy tried to restrain her alarm. “You can’t just barge in here. I don’t know you. And you could be . . . a mass murderer for all I know.”

  “Sweetie. Do I look like Charlie Manson?” He waved a hand over his loud outfit. “No. I do not. The closest I come to a Charlie is via the Chocolate Factory because Johnny Depp is so delicious in that movie I can barely control myself. But I digress.”

  Not buying it, Lucy dug her cell out of the robe pocket to dial 911.

  At that moment Ziggy rushed down the stairs barking. When he hit the landing he did a doggy dance as if he wanted to be a part of the party too.

  “Put away your phone, my darling. We aren’t here to rob you or steal your life. We’re here to make you beautiful.” The man stepped back and gave her a good once-­over. “And I must say, not a minute too soon.”

  The two women held up black carrying cases as proof, then they shrugged as if this was routine.

  It wasn’t.

  More confused than ever, Lucy had to admit that the man seemed a lot more the type to flitter and fuss than stab or maim.

  “This is the last time I’m asking before I call the cops. Who. Are. You?”

  “I am Rashard. These lovely ladies are Gloria and Beatrice. They work with me at Stardust Creations in Vancouver. We’re here to make you presentable for your date.”

  “You’re what?” She blinked.

  “Are you sick?” Rashard leaned in for a better look. “Your nose is quite red and though I always enjoy a good robe for relaxing, yours looks a bit like . . . well, frankly, it’s seen better days.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “Ah. I see. Faking it then? Was that your plan to get out of the date? Believe me, faking anything simply isn’t worth the time.” The man turned to Gloria and flicked his wrist. Gloria set down her black case, then slipped out the front door. Moments later she came back with an armful of beautiful, sparkly, lavish gowns.

  “Have no fear. We’ll have you looking marvelous and feeling like a beauty queen in just a short time.” Rashard clapped his hands and the two women sprang into action. “Now, my darling, let’s get you somewhere a little more private so we can begin the transformation.”

  “Transformation?” Overwhelmed, Lucy stood there, gaping like a fish. “Wait. I’m . . . confused. Exactly who asked you to come here?”

  “Hired us, my darling. Rashard does n
othing for free.”

  “Who hired you to do this?”

  “I’m not quite certain,” he answered as he hooked his manicured hand around her forearm and began to lead her up the stairs. “The request came from several different directions. And while we were already booked for another special occasion and usually only work on bridal parties, we were offered a handsome sum to make sure you looked like a princess.”

  “I don’t need to look like a princess.”

  Ignoring her, Rashard said, “Quite a beauty you are too, hiding behind those pinched cheeks and the paranoid look in your eye.” When they reached the top step he turned to look at her. “Why don’t you just relax a little? Because we can’t wait to work our magic on you. Am I right, girls?”

  Gloria and Beatrice uh-­huh’d as they came up the stairs, lugging the black cases and beautiful dresses with them. Barking and bringing up the rear was Ziggy, who was still in tail-­wagging party mode.

  “You don’t happen to have a vanity, do you?” Rashard asked.

  Lucy wrinkled her nose. “A vanity?”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  When they reached her bedroom, a flurry of activity took place that told Lucy two things. One: Rashard, Gloria, and Beatrice knew what they were doing. And two: she had no clue. Her paranoia, however, was sliding into the amused category as she watched the trio buzz around her room.

  “Quickly.” Rashard clapped his hands again. “Let’s take off the robe so we can decide which dress you’ll wear. It matters, you know, to choose the dress first so we can apply the proper makeup and nail polish.”

  Lucy clutched the robe tighter. “Ummm . . . I’m not wearing anything under here.”

  “Well then, by all means put on your prettiest underthings. I’m sure your handsome prince will appreciate it. In the meantime, we promise not to peek.”

  All three of them turned their backs.

  What. Like she was going to strip down to her birthday suit right here with perfect strangers in the room?

  “Make it snappy, Cindy.”

  “Lucy.”

  “Whatever. We haven’t got all day.”

  Lucy opened the top drawer of her shabby chic dresser. She might not have spiffy outerwear, but she did have nice bras and panties. Splurging on something that made her feel a little prettier even though no one else could see was the one thing she did for herself that she refused to feel guilty about.