For Another Day (One Strike Away Book 2)

by Mary J. Williams

  In each hand, Marsha carried a cup of steaming coffee. Grateful, Rowan removed her gloves, wrapping her hands around the hot ceramic.

  "Looks like the weather is going to cooperate," Marsha said, scanning her almost completed backyard.

  "I can't tell. Are you happy or disappointed?"

  "What a silly question. I hired you to finish by the middle of November."

  "But if for any reason we don't. Hard-freeze. Blizzard. You will still have your redesigned backyard. Admittedly, a few months late. But you won't have to pay the bonus."

  "I do love saving money." The idea brought a smile to Marsha's lips. She may have inherited her millions from her father. But she held onto the fortune—expanding her wealth ten-fold—by using her brains and innate frugality.

  "That said, I want you to succeed. Every other landscaper told me they couldn't possibly finish before next spring. Most refused to begin until late April. But not you."

  "I hesitated," Rowan shrugged.

  "For about ten seconds. I knew you wouldn't turn away from a challenge. Especially one your male counterparts said couldn't be done."

  Rowan had wondered if this job—and hiring her—was Marsha's way of thumbing her nose at the old-boys club that still existed in Jasper. Women weren't held back by a glass ceiling. The barrier was made of thick, galvanized steel. Money gave Marsha an advantage. Her acid tongue had taken care of the rest.

  When possible—and earned—Marsha pulled other women through the crack she had created.

  "You gave me my first job when nobody else would."

  "Including your father?"

  Rowan shrugged. Complicated didn't begin to describe her relationship with Leonard Cartwright. He wasn't easy to know—or love. But the respect she felt prevented her from speaking ill of the man who had married her mother and provided a home for Rowan and her brother.

  Marsha shivered, letting the well-worn subject slide. "Come in the house. We can turn this coffee Irish."

  "Not me." Rowan closed the door behind her. "I still have three hours of work on site. There's a smaller job I need to check in on. Plus another hour of paperwork."

  "Will that give you time to pretty up for your date? Not that you need much help in that category." Marsha sighed as she poured a generous dollop of whiskey into her cup. "You work in the sun and wind day after day. How do you keep your skin so clear and smooth?"

  "Diligence and good genes." Rowan's mother just celebrated her fiftieth birthday yet barely looked thirty. She frowned. "How do you know about my date?"

  "Then Delta was right." Marsha looked delighted. "The hunk asked you out."

  "Maybe I did the asking."

  "Did you?" the older woman asked, raising a cosmetically darkened brow.

  "No. But if he hadn't, I would have."

  "Really?"

  Marsha's surprise was understandable. There wasn't a resident of Jasper who didn't know the circumstances that led to Rowan's broken engagement.

  She caught her fiancé cheating with his secretary. On the couch in his office. In the middle of the day.

  Locks were put on doors for a reason. In his arrogance, Wilton Jacobs believed he was above such precautions. Who would dare enter his domain without warning?

  The woman he was set to marry in less than a week. That's who.

  Juicy didn't begin to describe the gossip that dominated Jasper for the next few months. A scandal concerning two of the most prominent families—not just in the town but in the state—was bound to have legs.

  Two years later, Rowan still heard the whispers.

  What the gossips didn't understand—what Rowan had only shared with her best friend—was that Wilton hadn't broken her heart. He did her a favor. The only emotion she felt, other than a bit of embarrassment, was relief.

  Rowan had dodged a very big bullet.

  Since then, she had concentrated on building a successful business, dating rarely. By choice. However, word at the daily coffee klatches was that Rowan Cartwright was still hung up on her ex.

  "Good for you." One of the best things about Martha. She never let a question dangle uncomfortably for long. "Nick? Is that his name? Delta claims he's quite the dish."

  "He's the best-looking man I've ever seen."

  "In person?" Martha asked.

  "In person. On the cover of a magazine. In a movie. Nick Sanders is gorgeous. Period."

  "Wow." Grinning, Martha fanned herself with her hand.

  Wow, indeed. Frazzled, Rowan had grabbed Nick off the street. He should have told her to go to hell. Instead, he took pity on the mad woman and fixed her sink.

  What a sweetheart! Well before she had paused long enough to take a close look at his face, Nick had already built up a surplus of brownie points.

  In the middle of brushing an egg wash onto the scones, she glanced Nick's way. Boom! Something happened she hadn't thought possible even before her fiancé disaster.

  A man took Rowan's breath away.

  "Earth to Rowan." Laughing, Martha snapped her fingers in front of Rowan's eyes.

  "Thanks for the coffee. I better get back to work," Rowan said as she grabbed her gloves and headed outside.

  "I need to get a look at the man who put the bloom in Rowan Cartwright's cheeks," Martha called out, laughing with delight.

  Rowan stood on the patio, giving herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her? She never let a man muddle her brain. Work came first.

  Maybe that was her problem. Whittling her social life down to almost nothing was great for the bottom line. But Rowan had become a dull girl.

  Nick Sanders couldn't be as good looking as she remembered. Could he? Chances were good that she had let her hormones cloud her judgment. He would arrive for their date and turn out to be an attractive, leaning toward average, man.

  Average was good. In the long run, Rowan would be better off with average. What would she do with a drop-dead gorgeous man? Other than enjoy a mindless, no strings attached, one-night stand.

  Rowan jogged down the path they had recently lined with cobalt blue pavers. She wasn't the one-night stand type. But she had to admit, the idea intrigued her. A step out of her comfort zone.

  Laughing at herself, Rowan hefted a bag of mulch over her shoulder. If—and she had her doubts—Nick turned out half as good looking as she built him up to be, she might consider a lusty good night kiss. But sex on the first date? With a virtual stranger? With no plans on ever going out with him again?

  "Sorry, Nick. No man has that much sex appeal."

  "MAYBE I WAS wrong."

  "Wrong about what?" Nick asked as he helped Rowan into the SUV.

  "I wondered if I had imagined how good looking you were." Clear-blue, guileless eyes looked into his. "The truth? You aren't a figment of my imagination."

  "Thank you?" Nick answered, not sure if Rowan meant her words as a compliment or not.

  Rowan shrugged. "I don't know how I feel."

  Join the club, Nick thought as he walked to the driver's side.

  The woman smelled good. And looked even better. Rowan had left her long, blond hair loose, flowing well below her shoulders. The moon caught the silky strands turning them a glowing silver that—

  Whoa, fella. Nick never waxed poetic. Never. Yet here he was, thinking about Rowan's hair in the moonlight when only a few hours go, he thought she was his sister.

  Thank the Lord for the internet. After checking into his hotel room, Nick had cleared the question of their mutual paternity with surprising ease. With a few clicks on his laptop, he discovered Leonard Cartwright wasn't Rowan's biological father. He became her stepfather when she was four years old.

  Though nothing had happened, Nick was relieved to know he hadn't lusted after his sister.

  However, Rowan thought of Cartwright as her father. If Nick kissed her—which at this point seemed like a foregone conclusion. If the kiss led to more? In good conscience, he had to make a confession
first.

  Nick had come to Jasper for one reason. To find out if Leonard Cartwright was his father. Not because he wanted some big, emotional reunion. He wanted to know why a man would abandon the mother of his child. Forcing her to live in abject poverty

  Nick could do the math. Annie Sanders was fifteen when she found out she was pregnant. Leonard Cartwright was in his mid-twenties. And married to his first wife. That bit of information alone made Nick want to punch the bastard's lights out.

  Clutching the steering wheel, Nick stared straight ahead, his mind racing. He jumped when Rowan laid a hand on his arm.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I need to tell you something."

  "As I recall, you promised to tell me several things."

  Rowan's touch—the way she gently rubbed his arm—soothed Nick. At the same time, she stirred something in him. A primal need to satisfy his desires.

  The feelings she evoked were surprisingly intense considering their short acquaintance. But the truth couldn't be denied. Nick wanted Rowan more than he had wanted any woman in a very long time.

  "Leonard Cartwright is my father. Maybe. Probably."

  "Okay. Not exactly what I expected." Rowan dropped her hand, her warm gaze turning cool. "So, we aren't on a regular date. You want what? Information? An introduction? Do you want me to make your path easier?"

  "When I asked you to dinner, I didn't know who you were."

  "Right. Our meeting was a coincidence."

  Rowan sounded skeptical, and Nick couldn't blame her. But he resented the need to defend himself.

  "You grabbed me, remember?"

  "Yet, you were waiting right outside the shop." Rowan's quick brain saw the flaw in her argument before Nick could correct her. "I wasn't supposed to be there. Which means you weren't looking for me."

  "I didn't know you existed. Coming to Jasper was a spur of the moment decision. I googled Leonard Cartwright, but only to find out if he was still alive and living in the same place."

  "Then hopped on a plane—or were you close enough to drive?" Rowan sighed. "I'm confused. Your story didn't begin this morning."

  "No. But it did begin here in Jasper. Almost twenty-nine years ago. I can only tell you what I know. Which isn't much."

  "Why not ask your mother?"

  "She died. I found a letter when I was cleaning out her house. The letter led me here."

  "I'm so sorry, Nick."

  "Mom was sick for some time. But knowing the end was coming and the reality were two different things."

  "Why are we having this conversation here?" Rowan shivered.

  "What was I thinking? Let me start the engine."

  "Let's go inside." Rowan took her keys from her purse. "I have a very good bottle of wine. Unless…"

  "Unless what?"

  "I know for a fact my…? Your…? I don't know what to call him. Our father?"

  "Jesus. Don't." Nick shuddered, his face showing his disgust. "I thought you were my sister for less than an hour. Too long in my book. We aren't related."

  "By marriage—"

  "By nothing. If we were, I couldn't do this."

  Nick wrapped his hand around Rowan's neck. He didn't pull, he coaxed her closer. He wanted her to understand what was about to happen. A kiss. State your objections now or forever hold your peace.

  "What are you waiting for?" Rowan taunted lightly.

  "That smart mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble."

  Rowan smiled, showing him she wasn't the least concerned. Winding her arms around his waist, she asked, "Are you trouble, Nick?"

  "I guess we're going to find out."

  Nick didn't waste any time. He took Rowan's mouth, eager to discover her taste. Her sigh brushed against his lips. Sweet. Hot. Running his tongue along hers, he threaded his fingers through her hair. Soft. Intoxicating. He couldn't stop.

  Changing angles, Nick deepened the kiss. The windows carried a fine layer of steam, the heat they generated making the cold a distant memory.

  "We should go inside," Rowan gasped as Nick's teeth bit into the side of her neck.

  "Lead the way."

  "To talk," she clarified.

  Breathing deeply, Nick looked into Rowan's eyes. What he saw made him smile. She wanted him. As much as he wanted her.

  "I could persuade you to change your mind.

  "Probably. But please don't."

  Honesty was high on Nick's list of prized qualities. Rowan could have shrugged off his claim, denying the overwhelming attraction between them. Instead, she told him the truth.

  Rowan's willingness to show a touch of vulnerability only made him want her more. And guaranteed Nick would keep his hands to himself. For the time being.

  The walkway to the house was lit by twin lampposts casting a warm glow over the dark cobblestones. The front yard wound around the house, the grass neatly trimmed. Manicured shrubs provided a nice border, lending some privacy from the street and sidewalk.

  "This is nice," Nick said as they walked up the front steps. "The upkeep must take some time."

  "I enjoy the work."

  Nick heard Rowan's chuckle as she unlocked the door.

  "Did I miss the joke?"

  "I make my living prettying up other people's yards. Wouldn't it be ironic if my place was a mess?"

  "From what I can see, you must be good at your job. I'd hire you."

  "Would you?" Rowan seemed pleased. She turned on the hall light.

  "If I didn't live on the other side of the country.."

  "Finally. A of piece to the Nick Sanders puzzle." She hung his jacket in the closet next to her own. "Where across the country?"

  "Seattle. And I already told you about my possible paternity. Seems like a pretty big puzzle piece to me."

  "But the small pieces are the ones that make you who you are. Where you live. What you do." She raised an eyebrow. "We've established that you aren't a plumber. What do you do for a living?"

  "Baseball."

  "You manufacture them?"

  Nick laughed. "No. I play the game. Second base."

  "Huh." Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, Rowan continued, not missing a beat. "A professional athlete. The Seattle…? Sorry, I'm not up on team names.""

  "Cyclones."

  "There you go." Rowan slipped off her shoes. Barefoot, she padded down the hall, stopping in the kitchen. "Wine?"

  "I'd prefer beer. If you have some."

  "Another piece falls into place."

  "Beer over wine." Nick took the bottle from her, twisting off the cap. "What does that say about me?"

  "Nothing. But when I add the things I already know. You're kind," Rowan sipped her wine. "Thoughtful."

  "How do you know?'

  "You unclogged a sink without question or request for compensation. Though I did tip you." Rowan's eyes sparkled with humor.

  "I didn't keep the twenty."

  "But—"

  "I slipped the bill into your wallet when you were busy counting the till."

  Frowning, Rowan retrieved her purse. "Well, I'll be…" She held up the money. "I wanted you to keep this."

  "I enjoyed playing plumber. When I was a kid, calling for help wasn't an option. Either I fixed the clog, the leak, whatever. Or we lived with a clog, a leak, whatever."

  Nick realized he had just given Rowan another puzzle piece. His childhood wasn't a happy topic.

  "You're easy to talk to," Nick rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know how that makes me feel."

  "While you decide, I'll order a pizza. Or would you prefer something else?"

  "Pizza is fine. Any topping but anchovies or pineapple."

  Nodding, Rowan made the call.

  Keeping his beer, Nick moved around the open space. The kitchen flowed seamlessly into the living room. Hardwood floors. Tall windows. The furniture was minimal, the surfaces free of the little doodads some people found charming. Nick found them
annoying. What purpose did they serve except to gather dust?

  Rowan kept a few pictures in silver frames along the fireplace mantle. Family and friends, he supposed. Curious, he picked the photo featuring a man and woman.

  "That's my mother. And Leonard Cartwright."

  Nick had seen Cartwright's picture during his research. He was handsome. In good shape and aging well. However, he never smiled. Not in one single picture—including this one—did the man look as though he wanted to be there. Impatient was the word that seemed to fit.

  "Are they happy?"

  "They suit," Rowan said, her arm brushing Nick's. "They entertain a lot for business. Mom loves playing hostess. When she's organizing, she's in her element."

  "And Cartwright?"

  "Wheeling and dealing. He's been good to us, Nick." Rowan frowned. "I don't know why I feel the need to defend him. Leo is—"

  "You say he's your father yet, you don't call him Dad?"

  "He's Leo." Rowan shrugged. She moved to the sofa. Sitting, she tucked her feet under her legs. "He never asked me to call him anything else. But my brother Geoff and I took his last name. He's the only father I remember. So…"

  Nick took the seat opposite Rowan. A comfortable overstuffed chair, he sank in, his expression thoughtful.

  "I didn't spend a lot of time wondering about who my father was." Absently, Nick used his thumb to pick at the edge of the bottle's label. "My questions made my mother sad. She had enough weighing her down without me adding to her problems."

  "You took care of her."

  "We took care of each other."

  Nick didn't elaborate, his thoughts turning dark. While his mother struggled to survive, Leonard Cartwright was enjoying his fat-cat lifestyle. Where was the justice?

  "Tell me about your mother," Rowan urged as if sensing the turmoil inside Nick. "You obviously adored her."

  "You know those stories where a woman finds the superhuman strength to lift a car off her trapped child?"

  "Yes."

  "That was my mother. But not just once. Every day of my childhood. Looking back, I don't know how she managed."

  Once he began, the story flowed from Nick with surprising ease. Few people knew what his life had been like. Travis and Spencer were aware. His best friends were the only people he trusted enough to tell that part of his life.