by Ann Roth
She would have to mention him. Cinnamon wanted to groan. Instead she focused on her salad. “Since I don’t know anything about carpentry, I don’t have a clue whether he did a good job.”
“He did. Believe me, the man is a genius. That veranda is fifty years old, with a tongue-and-groove floor. Replacing the rotted wood with boards that match the original takes skill and a ton of hard work. Nick even fashioned a special saw blade to do the job right. He’s also fast and thorough. I’m lucky to have him.” Fran paused to spear more salad. “He doesn’t mind doing nonskilled labor, either. He’s agreed to wash all the windows, and then prune the trees.”
“Oh?” The news lifted Cinnamon’s heart shamelessly, which bothered her no end. She didn’t want to look forward to seeing Nick. “When will that be?”
“Tomorrow. There’s a ton to do before Valentine’s Day, so he’ll be at the B and B every day for the next few weeks. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.” But every day? She wasn’t sure she could handle seeing the man so often.
“Why the unhappy face?” Fran asked.
Because being around Nick is dangerous. He made her feel and want things she shouldn’t, but Cinnamon wasn’t about to voice her thoughts, not even to her best friend. “I’m curious. Besides working for you, what else does Nick do to earn his living?”
“Well,” Fran began, tapping her fork thoughtfully against her lips, “he’s good at fixing just about anything, and people hire him to do whatever they need. You know, repair broken toasters and washing machines, clean gutters, patch roofs. He’s real good at making parts for old machines. He even patched up a machine or two at the cranberry factory, or so I hear.”
“If he’s that good, surely he could find full-time work.”
“Oh, he’s had offers. I don’t think he wants to be tied down.”
The very excuse Cinnamon’s mother had voiced dozens of times to avoid working a regular job. Down that road lay poverty, a place Cinnamon refused ever again to visit. Further reason to avoid Nick, no matter how attractive he was. “I couldn’t live like that,” she said.
Fran shrugged. “He seems to have everything he needs.”
The door opened, ushering in a blast of cold air Cinnamon felt halfway across the room. She glanced at the newcomers. A young girl in a turquoise parka and cream-colored scarf entered, followed by a woman in her mid-thirties, whom she recognized from the factory. The third person was Nick.
For once he wore a coat—a lined denim jacket that hugged his shoulders. His face was ruddy from the cold.
Her heart gave a joyful kick before she reined in her feelings. He’s not what I want, she firmly reminded herself.
Fran aimed a canny stare her way. “Did you see who just walked in?”
“Yes, and don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Fran’s tone was pure innocence.
Suddenly Nick noticed her. His eyes widened a fraction and his expression was cool and unsmiling, as if he didn’t want to see her, either. He glanced at her lips, which she realized had parted. She quickly compressed them. His eyes, now dark and hot, met hers, not in flirtation, but something deeper.
Fran and the noise in the room seemed to dim. Swallowing, Cinnamon reminded herself she didn’t want Nick. Her body refused to listen. Her insides went haywire, melting and hungry, far worse than this morning. Lowering her gaze, barely conscious of her actions, she stabbed aimlessly at the last of her salad.
“They’re coming this way,” Fran murmured.
“Are they?”
Attention on her plate and every cell in her body alert, she waited.
Chapter Four
Cinnamon Smith was the last woman Nick wanted to see, especially after thinking about her the whole damn day. Thinking? Try fantasizing. About the way her eyes would light up when she saw him. Then, as he strode eagerly toward her, they would go dark with desire. Her soft body would mold to his. He’d take her mouth, cup her hips and…
And what was the point of wanting what never would be?
Yet the flare of pleasure in her eyes just now was real enough. His body jumped to attention just as it had in his fantasies, and he knew his eyes returned the same hungry expression. Suddenly her gaze jerked to her plate as if she’d dismissed him, making him wonder whether he’d imagined her interest out of wishful thinking.
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and cursed himself for bringing Sharon and Abby here to eat instead of some other place.
“There’s Fran,” Abby exclaimed, pushing her hair behind her ears in a pint-size but feminine gesture much like her mother’s. “I can’t wait to tell her about winning the practice math bee!”
She tried to walk but instead rushed forward, coltish legs skipping over the black-and-white linoleum.
Sharon, who was flushed with happiness over her daughter’s unusually exuberant mood, laughed as she and Nick moved at a more leisurely pace. Since they knew everybody here, their progress slowed as they stopped to exchange greetings. Nick didn’t mind—he needed the time to corral his randy feelings.
All too soon they neared Fran and Cinnamon’s booth. He wanted to nod from a distance and leave things at that, but unfortunately the only empty booth was behind theirs, and the only way to reach it was to pass right by them. And with Abby already stationed there yammering away, he guessed he’d have to stop, too.
Nick glued a neutral expression on his face and stood between Sharon and his niece. Both Cinnamon and Fran were focused intently on the girl, which took some of the stress off the moment and allowed him to study Cinnamon without her knowing. Her cheeks were a good deal rosier than they were this morning. Sun or windburn, he figured, liking the color.
By the amused gleam in her eyes, she enjoyed listening to Abby, whose excitement seemed to bubble out of her.
“It was just the practice bee,” she was saying. “But I won!”
As she paused for breath, Nick nodded at Fran and Cinnamon. “Is Abby bothering you?”
“Are you kidding?” Fran grinned fondly at her. “I love this girl, and I am so proud of her.”
Abby beamed, and Nick’s heart seemed to swell in his chest. He was proud of her, too, and it felt good, seeing her happy.
“You must be great at math,” Cinnamon said, lips curling and eyes crinkling at the corners. “That talent will take you far in life.”
Nick had never seen that warm, carefree grin before. Apparently, a full day in Cranberry had worked wonders of her mood. Without the worry lines and shadows in her eyes, she looked younger and prettier than ever. Beautiful, even. Forgetting himself, he drank her in, feeling as though he could watch her all night.
He stared until Sharon nudged him and he remembered his manners. Clearing his throat, he made the introductions. “This is Abby’s mom, my sister, Sharon. Meet Cinnamon Smith, a friend of Fran’s.”
Cinnamon extended her hand the way she probably did all the time in the corporate world. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, sounding sincere.
Nick’s sister looked startled—people didn’t often shake hands with her. The handshake went off without a hitch—a small thing, yet, judging by Sharon’s newly confident expression, important.
“I saw you at the factory this afternoon,” his sister said. “I was the one in the shower cap, tending the sorter.” She self-consciously fingered the clip that held her shoulder-length hair back at the nape.
Cinnamon nodded. “I remember. I was impressed by how seriously you took your job.”
“Thanks for noticing.” For an instant Sharon stood taller. Then her shoulders sagged. “Though the way things are going lately, I don’t think it matters much what I do there.”
Had she forgotten their decision to keep the factory troubles from Abby? Nick sent his sister a warning frown and cocked his chin his niece’s way. Sharon closed her mouth.
Oblivious to the exchange, Abby remained focused on Cinnamon, taking in her expensive, dark green turtleneck sweate
r, the classy pearl studs in her ears and her tastefully painted lips with admiring eyes and an open mouth. In a word, she looked starstruck. Sharon seemed equally impressed.
Why that irked Nick was beyond him. Then again, like it or not, he was just as intrigued.
“Tomorrow night, my Mom, Uncle Nick and I are driving to Portland,” Abby announced. “We’re staying at a motel and everything! Then Friday morning I compete in the real math bee.” Her excitement dimmed. “I hope I win.”
Nick cupped her thin shoulder and gently squeezed. “You will, kid.”
“I’ll bet your Uncle Nick is right on the money,” Cinnamon encouraged.
Briefly her eyes locked with his, and he saw that she truly wanted his niece to succeed. That made him like her all the more.
He didn’t want to care the way he did, and they’d said their hellos. Time to head to their own table. “You get all the stuff on your list done?” he asked instead.
“Except for the job search.”
The pinched, tense expression returned to Cinnamon’s face, making him wished he hadn’t said anything.
“You’re out of work?” Sharon sighed with the sympathy of a woman soon to be in the same boat. “I didn’t realize.”
“Cinnamon is a talented woman,” Fran said. “She’ll find something soon.”
“Of course I will,” Cinnamon stated, but her assured tone and raised chin and didn’t quite mask her underlying anxiety.
Any fool could see how worried she was, including Abby. Her own face sobered. “Miss Smith?”
“That sounds so formal. Please, call me Cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon. My uncle Nick taught me how to relax so my mind can work and do what it needs to.” Abby glanced up at him, her eyes shining. “That’s how I won the practice math bee. You could try that when you look for a job.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Cinnamon’s mouth twitched, but as she glanced at Nick her eyebrows arched in curiosity and something more. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she admired him for his advice to the kid.
Damned if his cheeks didn’t burn. He shifted his weight and offered an aw-shucks shrug.
“Uncle Nick can teach you how to relax,” Abby said. “It’s not hard at all, you just breathe and tell yourself to stop worrying. It really works, too.” Every part of her bounced up and down, even her hair. She turned to Nick. “You can teach her right now!”
Him, a man who could barely read, teach anything to Cinnamon, an educated executive? Unless she wanted to know how to make a machine part out of scrap, not likely. Now, with her, Fran, Abby and Sharon all staring at him, he felt awkward and out-of-place. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering how to get out of this.
Luckily, just then Rosy showed up balancing two steaming plates. “Whatever Nick was going to teach you will have to wait, because dinner has arrived,” she announced as she deftly placed the plates in front of Cinnamon and Fran. “And we all know my food tastes best while it’s hot. Enjoy, girls.”
Nick released a relieved breath. “Come on, let’s let them eat in peace,” he said, gesturing Sharon and Abby to the empty booth.
“Nice meeting you, Abby, and good luck Friday,” Cinnamon said. “Good to meet you, too, Sharon.”
His sister brightened with pleasure. “You’re here for two weeks, right? I hope to see you again.”
“I’d like that.”
Puzzled, Nick frowned. His single-mom, high-school-grad sister and the college-educated Cinnamon were as different as plastic and copper tubing, yet they seemed to like each other.
“See you tomorrow, Nick,” Fran said. “Even if it ra—”
Rosy silenced her with a no-nonsense look. “What’d I say about eating your food while it’s hot?” She glanced meaningfully at Nick and Sharon. “I may as well take your orders now, but you gotta sit down first.”
Nick could have hugged the restaurant owner for putting an end to the conversation. Sliding into the booth, his back to the two women to better push Cinnamon from his mind, he focused on Rosy.
“What’s the special tonight?”
HUNCHED AGAINST THE DRIVING rain, toolbox tucked protectively under his arm, Nick took the Oceanside steps two at a time. No surprise that yesterday’s sunshine had given way to the usual January rain. He wouldn’t be tree pruning or washing windows today. Everybody knew he was driving Sharon and Abby to Portland later. He could have taken the morning off and stayed home, but Fran expected him, and he needed the work.
Icy breath huffed from his lips and, despite dashing from the truck to the stairs, his hands were wet and cold. Under the shelter of the veranda, he swiped his palms on the thighs of his jeans, then clomped across the veranda to check his work from yesterday. Though the entire floor needed a power wash and a coat of sealer, for now it would do.
Yesterday morning Cinnamon was sitting at the table, sipping coffee, and as he pivoted toward the sliding doors, expectation made his heart thud from more than taking the stairs two at a time.
She wasn’t there. Disappointment sluiced through him, as unwelcome as the icy water trickling down the back of his collar. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t push her out of his thoughts. Sternly he scraped his boots on the mat. Well, she’d never know. Nobody would.
The slider was unlocked. He stepped inside.
“Good morning, Nick,” Fran called from the kitchen. Scooping up two steaming mugs, she carried them into the dining room, indicating she wanted to start his day with friendly chitchat. That was her way, and he was okay with it.
“This is fresh-brewed and extra-strong, the way you like it,” she said.
He set his toolbox on the floor, then accepted a mug. “Thanks.” Heat from the drink seeped into his fingers, and the fragrant steam warmed his nose. “It’s a nasty one today.”
“So I see.” She gestured him into a seat at the table, then sat down across from him. “I told Cinnamon to skip her morning run, but she insisted.”
So that’s where she was. Nick scoffed. “What is she, nuts?”
“Disciplined and stubborn. Since college, every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, rain, snow or shine, she does her three miles.” Frowning, Fran glanced at her watch. “She left about ten minutes ago, heading for the road. I’m surprised you didn’t see her.”
Other than a few vehicles cautiously picking their way through the driving rain, Nick had seen no one. “This is flu season, and with the cold and rain…What was she thinking?”
“Believe me, I tried to talk her out of this.” Fran shrugged. “Keeping to a schedule is as important to her as your toolbox is to you.” Leaning forward as if sharing a secret, she added, “She had a chaotic childhood, and I think the order that comes from a schedule makes her feel in control.”
“Huh.” Nick wasn’t sure he understood, not when sticking to a schedule meant jogging in the freezing rain.
“That’s one reason why resigning from Sabin and Howe has been so difficult for her,” Fran continued. “The schedule she relied on for years no longer works.”
“I thought she was laid off,” he said, frowning. “Why would she resign? Was the company doing something illegal?”
“No. Dwight Sabin—” She cut herself off. “I promised Cinnamon I wouldn’t tell.”
Nick wanted to know, but what had happened was none of his business. He turned his attention to his coffee, and for a moment the only sound was the battering rain.
“You heard about the emergency town council meeting a week from tonight?” Fran asked seconds later.
He nodded. “Sharon and I’ll be there.” He met her gaze, letting his worry show. “Do you think we’ll be able to keep the factory from closing?”
“Not without help,” she said, her face as bleak as the gray day. “You know, Cinnamon works with companies in trouble. She’s saved more than a few from going under.”
“No kidding.” Hope stirred in Nick’s chest. “Think she can help us?”
“I don’t know. She doesn
’t come cheap, and I doubt the Tate company will pay.”
Given their skinflintish behavior so far, that was likely true. His spirits fell.
“Think I’ll bring her to the meeting, though. You never know.”
“You never do,” he agreed, but he didn’t expect anything.
Neither of them spoke, each lost in dismal thoughts. Though Nick never wanted to work at the factory—he didn’t want to work for anybody but himself—he couldn’t imagine Cranberry without it. Where would all the laid-off workers, Sharon and friends among them, find work? His sister might be forced to move away, taking Abby with her.
Nick hated the thought, and wasn’t sure he could handle that. But Cranberry was his home and he’d never leave. He felt comfortable in the small town, liked knowing his neighbors well enough that if they got too close, he could tell them to shove off and know that if he needed them they’d still be around. But without Sharon and Abby…
Tired of thinking about what might happen, and suddenly antsy, he glanced at the clock over the stove. “I’m leaving early today, so I should get started. What do you want me to do?”
Fran’s eyes widened as she, too, noted the time. “Heavens, it’s late, and I’ve got a bajillion errands to run. Since you can’t wash the outside windows, how about the inside? I took down the curtains and loaded them into the car for dry-cleaning. Also, the upstairs hallway and bedrooms need paint touch-ups. You’ll find leftover paint in the garage.”
Nick shook his head. “Wall color changes as it ages. I’ll chip off paint from each room and ask the hardware store to match it.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Fran mused. She smiled. “Smart thinking, Nick.”
He shrugged off the words. He’d learned through experience, was all. “Anything else?”
“The garage door squeaks when it opens and closes. And the ceiling fan in the Orca suite isn’t working, but since it won’t be used till summer, there’s no hurry on that.”
“May as well do it today, if Cinnamon doesn’t mind me in her room.”