Her back was against the kitchen wall, the torn piece of wallpaper scratching at her ear. When she realized she’d pressed both hands to her bump, as if protecting her baby, she let her hands fall away. “No. I didn’t.”
“That changes everything.”
“Not for you. I don’t want to see you again. Is that clear?”
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” he said. His gaze drifted to her middle, then jerked back to her face. “I have responsibilities. Obligations. I understand that now.”
He understood nothing—not the pain he’d inflicted, or the rage that made her want to bloody him. Not the hollow spot he’d carved out of her heart. “You have only the responsibilities and obligations that I allow you to have. That will be precisely none.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing, Sierra.”
“Too late. Way too late. At this point, the right thing is to turn around, walk away and forget about me and this baby.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
She came out from behind the table and pushed his chest, forcing him backward. Toward the front door. “What are you going to do, Nick? Sue me for custody? Raise the baby yourself?”
He tried to control the flinch, but she saw it. “That’s what I thought.” She shoved him again, harder, through the kitchen door and into the dining room. “You need to leave.”
He stepped back before she could touch him again. “I’ll leave, but I’m not going away, Sierra. I’ll talk to you again when you’re more rational.”
She flung open the front door and it bounced against the wall. As soon as he stepped out she shut it behind him.
With her spine pressed against it, she listened for signs that he’d left. He was still there, on the other side of the heavy wood. She could feel him, waiting for her to change her mind and open the door.
She didn’t move until his footsteps retreated down the steps and his car engine roared to life, the tires squealing as he drove away.
Apparently, Nick had misplaced his famous control.
She returned to the kitchen, collected her belongings and let herself out the front door. She didn’t want to face Jen and Walker. She didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes, or the sympathy. Right now, kindness would make her fall apart.
She hadn’t planned on telling anyone that Nick was the father of her baby, although Walker and Jen probably suspected, after he’d driven from Chicago to confront her. Having to face them now would be mortifying. She would be that tired, lame cliché, the woman who’d slept with her boss.
Sierra had run from Chicago to Otter Tail, but she wasn’t going to run again. Standing on the porch, she took a deep, steadying breath, then another. The scent of lilacs followed her down the stairs, and the huge bushes next to the house, heavy with white and purple blossoms, bent in the breeze. Their scent filled the air—the smell of spring. Of hope.
Later this afternoon, she would cut some blossoms and bring them back to her apartment. She needed all the hope she could get right now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK HAD TO GET AWAY. From Sierra. From that lump beneath her shirt.
From the contempt in her expression.
The tires of his Porsche squealed as he turned the corner too fast, and he forced himself to slow down. This was a small town. There would be pedestrians. Maybe dogs and cats running loose. He needed to be careful.
He drove up and down the narrow streets until his heart rate steadied and his breathing slowed, paying no attention to the houses and stores he passed. She’d been so angry. He’d assumed, after having time to think, she would want his help. That she’d be glad he understood that he had responsibilities.
He’d just made her more furious.
More devastated than she’d been the night she’d told him she was pregnant.
What was her problem? He was offering to help.
He didn’t understand why she’d gotten so upset.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
He slid into a parking spot between a battered, dark blue pickup truck and an older SUV, and scrubbed his hands over his still-hot face. She’d shoved him out the door as if the sight of him was unbearable. She’d said she never wanted to see him again, and she’d meant it.
How was he supposed to do the right thing if she wouldn’t let him?
He had the rest of the weekend. They’d talk again.
The sun was beating down on the roof of the car, heating the interior. He got out and locked the door, then began walking.
He was in the business district of town. There were a couple of long streets, a couple of shorter, intersecting ones, and that was about it. The buildings were older, stretches of glass-fronted stores with decorative wood trim, and offices or apartments above them. About half were businesses he’d expect to see in a small town in northern Wisconsin—an ancient-looking barbershop, including a pole with washed-out colors, a bait and tackle store, a hardware store with faded merchandise behind dusty windows.
But there were newer looking places, as well. One of them, a restaurant called The Summer House, looked as trendy and inviting as anything in Chicago. He tried the door, but it was locked.
He continued walking, automatically cataloging the shops, assessing the mix of typical, dated architecture and more interesting rehabbed buildings. The town was in the middle of a face-lift.
When he realized he was sizing up the place with his architect’s eyes, thinking about possibilities, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He didn’t give a damn about this town. He was here for one thing only. As soon as he got Sierra to see reason, he was going back to Chicago.
What did he want from her?
He wanted her to take his money so his conscience would be appeased. It was…all he could offer.
She didn’t want his money. She’d said she didn’t want anything from him.
She’d told him to leave. Walk away and forget about her and the baby.
He couldn’t do that. That baby was his responsibility, and he’d make sure Sierra had enough money to take care of it.
Nick had to find a solution. It was like a puzzle, and he was good at them. He knew how to fit pieces together, how to come up with the answer.
Instead of the intricate design of a building, he would concentrate on solving Sierra.
Without noticing, he’d come to the end of the block. On the other side of the street, past an empty lot, he spotted a pub. The Harp and Halo. Maybe he’d have something to eat and regroup.
He stepped out of the shadows of the business district and into blinding sunshine and a gusting wind off the lake. The air held a faint, fishy odor and the smell of vegetation. Seaweed, maybe? He couldn’t remember smelling anything like that at home.
In Chicago, the lake was more distant. It was a slice of beautiful blue from his office window, a curl of beige sand and green waves from his condo balcony. It was part of life in the city, but it wasn’t in your face, the way it was in this town. Chicago was famous for its lakefront, but you could choose not to interact with it.
Not here. The smell of water permeated the air. The sound of it would be a constant companion. Even several blocks away from the shoreline, he’d heard the steady roll of waves hitting the beach.
It was a reminder that not everything could be controlled. That the lake would do what it liked, when it liked.
He hated it.
Yanking open the door to the pub, he stepped inside to a cool dimness and the faint smell of beer. There was no one else in the place, but a man stood behind the bar, polishing pint glasses. Nick slid onto one of the stools.
“Hi,” he said to the bartender. “I’d like a beer, please.”
The man put down the glass and towel. “Sorry, but we don’t open until four.” The dark-haired guy studied him for a moment, then lifted a pot of coffee out of the machine. “You look like you can use a cup of this, though.”
Nick had rushed out of the tiny motel room this morning, det
ermined to find Sierra and get the chore over with. He hadn’t bothered to have breakfast before going to Walker Barnes’s house. Maybe some caffeine would help unravel the tangle in his brain. He didn’t like confusion. He wanted to see a clear path in front of him. He wanted a plan. “I could. Thanks.”
The bartender poured a mug and set it on the green marble surface. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. “Great coffee.”
“My wife is in charge of it. I’ll pass the compliment along.”
The bartender was tall and muscular, with dark hair that was a little too long. He would have been intimidating if his T-shirt hadn’t read The Road to Hell is Paved with Adverbs.
Nick nodded at the shirt. “I like that. Are you a writer?”
He smiled, and Nick wondered why he’d thought the guy was intimidating. “My wife is a reporter.” He held out his hand. “Quinn Murphy. Welcome to the Harp.”
“Nick Boone,” he replied, shaking hands. “Do you always serve coffee to people who wander in before you’re open?” It was so different from Chicago that he might have stumbled into an alternate universe.
Murphy shrugged. “Why not? I’m here. I don’t mind the company.” He picked up the towel and another glass and began polishing again. “You visiting someone in town?”
Nick took a gulp of the coffee and it burned all the way to his stomach. “Trying to.”
Murphy raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like a story there.”
When Nick found himself on the verge of telling this stranger what had happened this morning, he set the coffee down carefully. “A boring one. Thanks for the coffee. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Come back tonight, if you like. Our most popular band is playing.”
Nick remembered all the pickup trucks he’d seen in town. “Thanks, but I’m not a big country music fan.”
Murphy laughed. “What city are you from?” he asked.
“Chicago. Why?”
“Come back tonight. You need to have your preconceptions about small towns adjusted.”
What the hell. Nick didn’t have anything better to do. “Maybe I will.”
SIERRA CLENCHED HER JAW as she left the lumberyard a half hour later. The foreman had insisted he’d delivered exactly what the specs had called for. She knew they hadn’t—the plywood they’d ripped off this morning was a half inch thinner than it was supposed to be. Mark better be in his office—and he’d better have an explanation.
The drive-through line at the fast-food restaurant she passed was out into the street, so instead of pulling in, she kept going. She wanted answers more than she wanted to eat. Mark’s office was several miles out of town, and she drove a little too fast on her way there.
As she pulled up to the log cabin that held his office, her back was sticky with sweat and her stomach churned. Not stopping to eat was a mistake—she was so hungry that she was afraid her stomach would growl during their meeting. She ate the crackers she kept in her purse, then hurried into the office.
After the cramped trailer on the construction site, she appreciated the simplicity and openness of Mark’s office. A large chart that looked like a topographic map of Door County filled one wall. Metal filing cases stood beneath it, and three bare-bones metal desks were arranged against the other walls. Kyle, Mark’s younger brother, who was one of the carpenters on her project, sat at the desk in the far corner. Mark was at the desk closest to the door.
“Hey, Sierra,” he said. He was younger than she’d originally expected him to be, probably only in his early thirties, but he’d seemed knowledgeable. He’d had great recommendations.
His short, dark hair was messy, as if he’d run his fingers through it more than once. A tiny bit of mud clung to his boots, and his worn jeans were powdered with sawdust.
Six months ago, she probably would have felt a spark of interest in Mark. Today, she hoped she didn’t embarrass herself during their meeting by needing to run to the bathroom.
“So what’s up, Mark? How did this happen?” She dropped into a chair next to his desk.
He sighed. “After we pulled up all the plywood, I looked at every piece. Some of them were the right size, but the majority were quarter inch. Someone at the lumberyard must have accidentally mixed them together when they made up the order.”
“Accidentally?” She raised her eyebrows.
Mark shook his head. “I’ve known the foreman for years and worked with him on dozens of projects. Vern wouldn’t do this deliberately.”
She’d reserve judgment on that. Vern had promised to talk to everyone involved in putting the order together, and she would see what he came up with. “This is a big problem.”
“Not that big. Our insurance and the lumberyard’s will cover the replacement of the wood. Vern promised he’d deliver it tomorrow.”
“It’s a problem because I had to tell Walker and Jen that I screwed up. I’m on shaky ground, anyway.”
Mark glanced at her abdomen. “They can’t blame your, ah, condition for this.”
“They can say I was distracted,” she retorted. “That I’m not giving the job my complete attention. Everything about that project is my responsibility. They’re paying me to make sure stuff like this doesn’t happen.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Mark said wearily. He glanced at his brother. “Kyle and I are both working on it.”
“Walker wants an explanation. And so do I.”
“God,” Mark muttered. “You look so nice. So normal. I never would have guessed you’d be a ball buster.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Take Nick—he looked like a pillar of responsibility. “We can’t have any more screw-ups,” she said, slumping back in the chair. “Jen is in a hurry to get into this house.”
“We won’t have any. I’ll pay more attention.”
She nodded. “I will, too.” As she stood up, hunger became queasiness. The morning sickness had faded in the last few weeks, but her friend Callie, as well as the OB-GYN she’d seen in Chicago, had warned her that she needed to eat regularly. Suddenly desperate to get back to her apartment, Sierra said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the job site.”
“I’ll be there.”
As she reached the end of the driveway, she hesitated. The site was closer than the apartment. And she had a stash of Luna nutrition bars in her desk drawer. She could save time and get back to work more quickly by going to the site instead of home. A caramel chocolate brownie bar would hold her for a few hours.
Pleased with her efficient plan, she turned left instead of right. But after driving only a few minutes on the deserted country road, she had to pull over to the shoulder. Afraid to open the door into traffic, she barely managed to scramble over the console and open the door on the passenger side before she was sick.
She rinsed her mouth with the bottle of now-tepid water she’d left in the car, then leaned against the back of the seat. The scent of leather upholstery soothed her, and her eyes fluttered closed. She would drive to the site—and her stash of nutrition bars—in a minute. But she’d wait until her head stopped pounding and her stomach settled.
The sun warmed the interior of the car, and birds chirped in the trees alongside the road. The apple trees were finished blooming, but some blossoms still clung to a few branches, and their scent drifted in through the open door. She was so tired….
The sound of her name woke her from a deep sleep and became part of her dream. She was hiding in her office at Boone and Associates. She couldn’t let Nick find her. She crawled under the desk, but heard her name again.
“Sierra. Sierra! Are you all right? What happened?”
Someone touched her shoulder and she startled awake. When she opened her eyes, Nick was leaning over her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“NICK.” HE WAS TOO close. The vestiges of her dream echoed in her head, and she scrambled to sit up. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here, sl
eeping in your car on the side of the road? With the passenger door wide open.” He frowned down at her, his face inches from hers.
The dream retreated, leaving her feeling vulnerable and horribly off balance. Needing to get away from him. “You should watch where you stand,” she said. “I was sick.”
He stepped back, and when he was clear of the door, she pulled it closed, then lifted herself over the console and into the driver’s seat. But before she could drive away, he yanked open the passenger door again and slid into the vehicle.
In the small front seat, his shoulders looked very broad, his chest heavily muscled. He’d exchanged his slacks and dress shirt for jeans and a red polo. He smelled of the outdoors, and heat rolled off him in waves. “Get out of my car, Nick.”
“You say you’re sick and you think I’m going to walk away?”
“That’s exactly what I think. I’m fine now.”
His arms were lean, with fine dark hairs, and his skin gleamed with sweat. She hadn’t seen him in short sleeves very often—he always wore dress shirts to work. When she found herself staring at them, remembering the feel of his arms around her, she jerked her gaze away and focused on a small bird sitting on the barbed wire fence in front of her.
Foolish to think about Nick that way. Stupid. He had startled her, that was all. When she was wide awake, she wanted nothing to do with him.
“Sierra, I’m worried about you. What’s going on?”
He clearly wasn’t going to leave until she told him what had happened, and it was too hot in the car to argue about it. She rolled the window down. “I was queasy. I pulled over and got sick, then closed my eyes for a moment. I guess I fell asleep.” She turned the key in the ignition and the SUV rumbled beneath her as she shifted into Drive. “Get out of my car, Nick.”
“Do you have the flu? Food poisoning?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She shoved the gearshift back into Park. “You can’t be that ignorant about pregnancy. It’s called morning sickness. Pregnant women get it. Or haven’t you ever seen any movies or read any books?”
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