The Man She'll Marry

by Ann Roth

  The flush he liked rose to her cheeks. “I’m much better, thanks.”

  He saw no sign of tears. That was a relief.

  “I don’t usually break down like that,” she went on, clutching a cell-phone-size gadget as if she needed to hold on to something. “I’d appreciate it if you forgot the whole thing.”

  “I’d forget my own name if that kept you from crying.”

  “I was that bad, huh?”

  Her lips twitched, but he wanted a full grin. “I don’t know,” he teased, “since I can’t remember what we’re talking about.”

  Her mouth curved and widened as the smile he sought bloomed on her face. Beautiful. At last she looked straight at him.

  “Me neither. Thanks.”

  Sunlight from the window lit up her eyes. They were an unusual rust brown. He hadn’t noticed last night. “Is that how you got your name? From your cinnamon-color eyes?”

  They widened in surprise, and she nodded. “Thea—that’s my mother—couldn’t decide what to name me. I was ‘Baby Girl’ until my eyes turned this color when I was around six months old.”

  “No kidding.” Nick shook his head. “I’ve always been Nick, the same as my old man.”

  “I never knew my father,” Cinnamon said. “According to Thea he could have been any of several.”

  Her fingers fidgeted with the gadget, and he knew she was uncomfortable again. He understood and didn’t like sharing his personal life, either.

  Yet he sought to reassure her by sharing a part of his past. “I didn’t have much of one, myself. My old man split when I was ten, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Now Mom’s gone, too. Bad heart.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Sympathy flashed across her face.

  “Thanks.”

  He turned toward the kitchen, brushing past her. At least, that was the plan.

  His arm grazed hers. Though they both wore long sleeves, the touch jolted him. She must have felt the strong current, too, for awareness darkened her eyes. He jerked away and started again for the kitchen.

  “Did you want something?”

  Oh, yeah, but nothing he cared to voice. He stopped and turned toward her, hooking his thumbs on his tool belt. “That depends…”

  She glanced at his belt, then lower. Her gaze flew upward, as if she hadn’t meant to look there. “In the kitchen, I mean,” she added, slightly breathless.

  “Just gettin’ my coffee.”

  “Great. Fine.” Clutching the gadget in both hands, she gave her head a vigorous nod.

  Frowning, Nick eyed her. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not.” Now she clasped the gadget to her chest.

  “What is that thing?” he asked.

  “A Palm Pilot. I keep my whole life in it—address book, appointments, goals and my daily to-do list. Everything.”

  She smoothed her fingers lovingly over the burgundy cover. One-track mind that he had, he wished he were that gadget.

  “You have a to-do list while you’re here?” He puzzled over that. “I thought you were on vacation.”

  “You sound just like Fran,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told her. I am on vacation. As you know, I’m also unemployed.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I can’t very well find a new job without looking for one, can I?”

  “I guess not. But can’t you remember that in your brain?”

  Up went her head, queenlike. “Of course I can, but I have more than a few daily goals.” She shot him a “doesn’t everybody” look. “Why not let the Palm Pilot do my remembering for me? That way I can free up my mind for other things. Since I’m a planner by nature, every night before bed I make a list and rank-order it. In the morning I look it over, adding or changing the items—same as I’ve been doing for years.”

  “Years, huh.” Nick kept his schedule in his head. She was way too organized and structured for him. What was the word for that? Anal. Still, she was a whole lot smarter than he’d ever be, with a high-level job—she’d probably have a new one in no time—to boot. Who was he to criticize her way of keeping track?

  “If I put it on the list, it gets done,” she continued. “If a task isn’t in here, it could get pushed to another day, or forgotten altogether.”

  That made sense for a busy corporate executive. Speaking of busy, it was time to get that coffee and start work. “What’s on that list for today?” he asked instead. He nodded at the brochures on the table. “Lined up any tours?”

  She nodded. “Tate’s Cranberry Factory at—” her attention dipped to the pint-size screen “—one-thirty.”

  “Interesting place. My sister and most of my friends work there. What else?”

  “A beach walk this morning.”

  Nobody needed to write that down, but Nick wisely kept that opinion to himself. “That Palm Pilot is real important to you.”

  “I depend on it.”

  “So if it got lost or broken, you’d be stuck.”

  “I suppose I could switch to pen and paper if I had to.” She flipped the gadget shut. “How do you keep track of your life?”

  He never relied on written lists, not even if he wrote them out himself. Too much chance of misreading and screwing up. He pointed to his head. “It’s all in here.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll forget something?”

  “Nope.”

  Her mouth opened and she looked ready to pry more into his life. She’d already skated way too close to his reading problems. He glanced meaningfully at the coffeepot. “Look, if I don’t get my coffee and start work I’ll be here till midnight.”

  He headed into the kitchen. Stopped and pivoted toward her. “What happens if something unexpected throws off your plans and keeps you from finishing that to-do list?”

  “I’m a very organized person, Nick. If something unplanned pops up, I work around it.”

  She sounded like a vice president, capable and logical. Given the slight upward thrust of her chin, the light of self-assurance in her eyes and the slight I’min-control press of her full lips, she looked the part, too. Even her perfect neck seemed corporate.

  Smart, cool, beautiful and way out of his league. How many times had he reminded himself of this, and why in hell did he want to kiss her more than ever?

  He wanted more than that—her under him, control forgotten, lips pink with passion and eyes dark with need. His body stirred dangerously. He stifled a groan, or meant to. A soft, strangled sound wrenched from his throat.

  Cinnamon’s eyes widened. Her fingers gripped the Palm Pilot. For the second time, awareness colored and softened her features, opening her expression. He studied her face, let her see his interest.

  This time she didn’t look away. Her lips parted a fraction, and a rush of breath shot from between them. Nick recognized those signals, knew if he moved closer, leaned down and kissed her, she wouldn’t stop him. She’d kiss him back, maybe more.

  That scared him spitless. Getting involved with Cinnamon Smith was dangerous. Crazy, even. Not an option. Period.

  Clearing his throat, he backed away. “I’ll get my coffee now. And you ought to take that beach walk.”

  “Right. I’ll go upstairs and grab my jacket.” Cheeks flaming, she rushed toward the stairs.

  As soon as she disappeared, Nick gave his brow a mental swipe and headed for the kitchen. He’d avoided kissing her. Barely.

  What had come over him? Whatever it was it wouldn’t happen again.

  CINNAMON PICKED HER WAY around scattered drift-wood and brittle sea grass as she returned to the Oceanside. Despite gloves her hands were cold, and her icy fingers sought warmth in the pockets of her parka. The knuckles of one hand brushed against the solid surface of her Palm Pilot, which she’d brought along for no particular reason and hadn’t used. She could barely feel her toes or her nose and, despite a wool cap, her ears ached. But the pale winter sunshine, chilly sea air, whipping wind and brisk ocean waves exhilarated her. That feeling a
lone was worth the physical discomfort.

  Entertained by the frothy ocean, seagulls and other birds, and the beachside cottages standing well back from the ocean, she’d walked longer and farther than planned. Now she barely had time for lunch before the tour at the cranberry factory.

  She thought guiltily of her laptop, which she’d intended to put to use before the tour. No time for an online job search now. Later this afternoon or tonight, she promised herself.

  As she neared the B and B she glanced at the driveway. There was no sign of Nick’s truck. She wouldn’t be seeing him, then. Her spirits plummeted, which irked her no end. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t even like the man.

  Oh, no? Then what was this morning about? Nick had teased and charmed her with his devilish grin, his heavy-lidded, bad-boy eyes warming her wherever they lit. And who could resist a man with a tool belt hanging on his narrow hips and a healthy bulge below….

  He was funny, nice and sexy. No wonder she had the hots for him. And how. She let out a dreamy sigh, then castigated herself with a scowl. No more of that. She was on a much-needed break from men. Besides, Nick wasn’t the career-oriented, upwardly mobile, sophisticated male she wanted to share her life with. How many times must she remind herself?

  Though he was single—a definite step up from Dwight.

  Cinnamon braced for the familiar pain that always accompanied thoughts of her ex. But with the sea at her back, the Oceanside before her and a salty breeze tickling her face, the messy past seemed far away. To her relief, her heart continued to beat without aching, and her stomach remained unknotted. Fran had been wise, indeed, to invite her here.

  Though nearly out of time to change and eat before the tour, she headed past the front door and around the far side of the veranda, unable to stop herself. On the blue tarp stood a worktable holding a large power saw and neatly arranged tools. There was a large gaping hole in the floor where wood planks had been ripped off. Nick wasn’t through, after all. She’d see him later this afternoon, then, a cheery thought that lifted her spirits all too high.

  Stern-faced—she would not think about Nick—Cinnamon spun around and marched to the front door. With fingers made clumsy from the cold, she fumbled the key into the lock, then opened the door and hurried inside.

  The warmth of the house wrapped around her. She peeled off her gloves and glanced at her watch. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late. Better to eat in the car so as not to miss the tour.

  With so much to do and think about, who had time to drool over a man she had no interest in? She shoved Nick Mahoney from her mind.

  “YOU’LL LOVE ROSY’S Diner,” Fran told Cinnamon as they ambled down the quiet sidewalk, past halogen streetlights and several parked cars. “It’s a favorite among the locals. Great food at great prices.” She licked her lips. “Wait’ll you taste Rosy’s home cooking.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Cinnamon’s stomach growled. “Since I pulled into your driveway last night, it seems as if I’m always hungry. I could gain ten pounds without half trying.”

  “I hope you do,” Fran said with her trademark bluntness. “You’re too thin.”

  “Stress-related weight loss.” Her empty stomach growled again. “Leaving the city and coming here was exactly what I needed.” She smiled at Fran.

  “That’s music to my heart.” Fran studied her with a caring eye. “Already I see a difference in you. There’s a healthy glow to your skin.”

  “Really?”

  Only one thing marred Cinnamon’s upbeat mood—the glaring item remaining on her to-do list. Looking for and landing a job. She’d meant to at least start the process, but after spending an afternoon at the factory and then driving around, she’d returned to the Oceanside scant minutes before Fran.

  Of course, by then dusk had fallen, the hole in the veranda floor had been repaired and Nick had gone. She told herself she didn’t care. Out of sight, out of mind. Which was true. She hadn’t thought about him once since she and Fran had driven into town for dinner.

  “Too bad you’re not here during tourist season when the shops stay open at night,” Fran said as they passed one-and two-story dark buildings. “It’d be fun to take you through some of our quirky shops.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” Cinnamon said. After she looked for work.

  The job search was crucial, something she could not afford to put off. Yet she’d done just that. Her guilty conscience dampened her spirits, followed by a jittery twinge. Well, the day wasn’t over. She’d go online tonight before bed.

  “There it is.” Fran pointed to the pink, neon Rosy’s Diner sign at the end of the block. A moment later she swung open the thick glass door and gestured Cinnamon in.

  The typical blue-collar restaurant was noisy and crowded. Cinnamon and Fran hung their coats on the overloaded tree beside the door. As they headed for a vacant booth halfway across the room, waitresses and diners called out greetings to both Fran and Cinnamon.

  Some even used her name, which surprised her. She shot Fran a puzzled look. “How do they know who I am?”

  “We don’t get a lot of visitors this time of year. That makes you big news.”

  “I don’t know if I like that,” she muttered.

  “Nobody here bites, I swear. And they know nothing about your personal life.”

  She doubted she’d get the same warm reception if they did. If the people here were anything like her associates at Sabin and Howe, she’d likely be condemned and skewered for sleeping with her boss, who was still technically a married man.

  They slid into an orange-cushioned booth angled with a view to the door. Cinnamon sniffed appreciatively. “Something sure smells good.”

  “What did I tell you? I highly recommend tonight’s special, whatever it is. Here comes Rosy.”

  A short, wiry fiftyish waitress in support hose, clean white sneakers and a hot-pink uniform that matched the neon sign appeared at the table bearing two water glasses and napkin-wrapped silverware. She winked at Fran. “Hey there, sugarberry.” Then she flashed a smile at Cinnamon. “You must be Cinnamon. Welcome to Cranberry. I’m Rosy.”

  Right off, Cinnamon liked this friendly woman. “It’s good to meet you. I hear this is a great place to eat.”

  “The best in town,” Fran added.

  Without a trace of conceit, the diner owner nodded. “That’s a fact. Course, I use the finest ingredients and old family recipes handed down from my great-great grandmamma, Soldano. I can give you a menu, or you can trust me and order tonight’s special.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Fran said. “What is the special?”

  “Spaghetti with clam sauce, garlic cheese bread and green salad with house dressing. For dessert, cranberry pound cake with hot fudge sauce.”

  Fran smacked her lips. “I’ll have that, with a cup of coffee.”

  “Me, too,” Cinnamon said.

  The restaurant owner winked. “Smart girls. I’ll be back with that coffee.”

  By the time Fran and Cinnamon unwrapped their silverware Rosy was back, steaming pot in hand. Cinnamon sampled her coffee, which was strong and surprisingly good.

  Rosy moved to another table. “How was the factory tour?” Fran asked as she added sugar and milk to her mug.

  “Interesting. I learned all about cranberries and how the juice is processed. The building and equipment are awfully run-down, though. No wonder the company’s struggling.” She shook her head.

  “Don’t get me started,” Fran murmured. “You know that town council meeting that took up my afternoon? We spent a good part of it discussing that mess. We all agree, the downslide started eight years ago, when Randall Tate bought the business. Who knows why, since he lives in Chicago and owns a dozen companies headquartered in the Midwest.”

  She paused to taste her coffee. “When he bought the factory and retail store, both facilities needed upgrades and new equipment. Unfortunately, Tate never sank a dime into either. Today, bringing the place up to snuff would cost a
fortune. Thanks to stiff competition, even if he did modernize, there’s no guarantee of profits.” She sighed. “No wonder nobody wants to buy the business.”

  “And if it doesn’t sell?”

  “The way things are going, the factory could close within six months.” Fran cupped her mug as if the warmth from it could ward off the chilling thought. “Imagine ten percent of the population—207 men and women—searching for jobs in Cranberry, all at once.” Worry darkened her face. “Sure, tourism is strong here, but we can’t absorb that kind of unemployment.”

  With a grave expression Rosy slid the salads onto the table. “My business would suffer, too, especially during the off season. I can’t afford that. We got to do something to save the factory.”

  “I know,” Fran said. “That’s why the mayor and town council have called an emergency meeting next Tuesday at 7:00 p.m. So spread the word.”

  Rosy brightened. “Now, that’s something I can do.”

  As the waitress turned away, Fran frowned thoughtfully at Cinnamon. “You work with struggling businesses. Maybe you can help.”

  “That is my field,” Cinnamon said. “But the companies that hire me pay high fees for my expertise. At least, they did when I worked for Sabin and Howe. Seems to me, if the Tate Corporation wanted to hire a consultant, they would have by now.”

  “I hadn’t thought about the fees.” Fran glanced at her plate. “Suddenly I’ve lost my appetite. You want my salad?”

  “Skipping dinner won’t solve anything,” Cinnamon pointed out. She stabbed a forkful of lettuce, artichoke heart and sunflower seeds. “You don’t want to drop weight, like I did, and get too thin.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Let’s change the subject and talk about something else.” Cinnamon’s friend picked a cherry tomato from her plate and popped it into her mouth, chewing with relish. “How about my newly repaired veranda. Didn’t Nick do a great job?”