For Another Day (One Strike Away Book 2) Page 2

  "Well?" Hands on hips, the blonde waited, obviously at the end of her patience. "I can kick you in the ass if that will get you moving."

  Nick had no doubt she would try. The heavy work boots that covered her feet looked as though they had seen plenty of action. Kicking butts and so forth.

  What the hell? Nick used to be quite the handyman. A clogged sink should be a cinch. Twenty bucks and a little time to get to know the interesting blonde? Sounded like a win-win situation.

  The sign above the door read, Murielle's Muffins and Stuff. Nick breathed in the scent of baking bread and cinnamon. He took in the long glass-front case filled with mouthwatering pastries. Much more than muffins, they still made up the majority of choices. The blueberry streusel looked particularly tempting.

  "Back this way." The blonde motioned for Nick to follow.

  Through a swinging door, Nick found the kitchen where all the amazing scents emanated. He knew nothing about baking—or bakers—but the set-up looked professional to his untrained eyes.

  Clean—always a plus. Organized. The only blotch on the otherwise sparkling room were the soggy towels lining the floor by the sink.

  "You didn't bring your tools?"

  Before Blondie could blow a gasket, Nick pointed to the wrench on the counter.

  "That's all I need."

  At least Nick hoped, taking off his jacket. If the job proved bigger than his limited ability, he would spring for the plumber.

  "Fine." For the first time since she accosted him on the street, her face relaxed. "If you need anything, holler. I have to get some scones into the oven before the lunch rush."

  The clog turned out to be a one, two, three fix.

  One, unscrew the pipes.

  Two, remove the disgusting buildup of gunk that consisted of slime, a spoon, three pennies, a long, dangerous-looking needle, and a ring. The diamond wasn't big, but Nick wondered how it could go missing without somebody noticing.

  Three, reattach the pipes. Some minor clean-up, and voila, job done.

  Turning the tap on full force, Nick felt a sense of pride as the water disappeared in a steady, even flow.

  "Done? Thank you so much."

  Hands covered in chunky bits of flour, the blonde gave Nick an awkward but enthusiastic hug. She had removed the knit cap and bulky sweater. Her hair was held back by a clip at the base of her neck. And the curves he imagined? Jeans and a plain, light-green t-shirt showed them off very nicely.

  Before Nick could do more than perk up over how the brush of her body felt against his, she broke away. Expertly, she used her elbow, squirting soap from a nearby dispenser into her palms.

  "I usually take care of minor problems. But Murielle had a dental emergency."

  "You aren't Murielle?"

  Over her shoulder, she sent him a surprised look.

  "You must be new in town."

  Not one to share his business with strangers, Nick simply nodded.

  "Mm. That explains the mistake. Everybody knows Murielle. Anyway, I'm on my own this morning because of an owner with a broken crown and an assistant baker/waitress who woke up to three sick kids and a lot of projectile vomiting."

  "Nice image." All of a sudden the gooey buns cooling on a rack didn't look quite as appetizing.

  "I know." With a sigh, she dried her hands. "Sorry about earlier. I probably came off—"

  "Wild-eyed? Crazed? Looney?"

  "All of the above."

  When she laughed, her eyes sparkled, sending a zing of desire through Nick's blood. An interestingly beautiful face, excellent figure, an agile brain, and a sense of humor? She wasn't just a home run. She was a freaking grand slam.

  "Should I pay you now? Or will Erikson send a bill?"

  "Erikson?"

  She opened one of the ovens, removing something flaky and golden brown. Nick recognized the modified biscuit from the trip he took to Dublin three years ago. From the looks of them, these scones could rival Ireland's best.

  "Erikson. You must be new if you can't remember the name of your employer."

  "About that—"

  A bell sounded, drawing her attention.

  "Hold on a second. Customer. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "Sure."

  "Come on." Once they were in the restaurant area, she handed him a mug from under the counter. "Help yourself."

  "Rowan." A woman with big red hair, wrapped in a long, red coat, and sporting bright red lipstick smiled a toothy smile. "This is an unexpected surprise."

  Unexpected? But not in a good way? Nick gave the woman a closer look. Her demeanor seemed pleasant. But her smile didn't reach her eyes. Rowan—nice name—didn't seem to notice the undercurrent of dislike emanating from her customer.

  Or perhaps she simply didn't give a flying leap.

  Nick smiled at the thought. The woman's appeal kept growing. By leaps and bounds.

  "Hello." Her smile turning predatory, the woman's attention landed on Nick. Holding out her hand, red nail polish—what else—glistened on her long, manicured nails. The scent of musk warring—and unfortunately—winning the battle against cinnamon and sugar. "I don't believe we've met. My name is Patrice. Who are you?"

  "He's the plumber," Rowan announced unceremoniously.

  Patrice snatched back her hand as if worried she might catch something. Plumber cooties? The idea amused him. And if her smile was any indication, Rowan felt the same.

  "One dozen croissants." Rowan handed Patrice a white box tied with a red ribbon.

  "Mm." Patrice swiped her credit card. Taking the receipt, she gave Nick a lingering look before exiting the shop.

  "Croissants every morning. The woman has no imagination."

  "She's very…" Nick searched for the right word. "Red."

  Sometimes only the obvious would do.

  Rowan chuckled. "Patrice Dandridge. The town's self-proclaimed fashion plate. Red Thursday. Blue Friday. And so on."

  "You're joking. A different color every day?"

  Who had that kind of time or energy?

  "Except her hair. She settled on that shade of red around our junior year of high school. She was Patty in those days. Funny what marrying money does to some people."

  Rowan and Patrice went to school together? Nick wasn't great at guessing ages, but he never would have pegged the women as contemporaries.

  Fresh and natural, Rowan looked years younger. Twenty-five? Maybe? Patrice, with her heavy makeup and pinched mouth, appeared to be well-preserved and pushing forty.

  Wisely—if he ever ran into the woman again—Nick planned on keeping his opinion to himself.

  "At last. The cavalry has arrived."

  Rowan rushed around the counter as three women walked through the door greeting each as if they were a long lost friend.

  "You should have called sooner." A tall, angular woman with a shock of white hair shook her head. "As usual, you try to take care of everything and everyone."

  "I was fine until the sink backed up. Luckily, Erikson sent—" Rowan frowned. "In the rush, I forgot to ask your name."

  "Nick," he said, stepping forward.

  "Well, hello, tall, dark, and sexy." The second woman, around five feet tall with a well-rounded figure, met Nick halfway, her hand taking his. She batted her false eyelashes. "Handsome goes without saying."

  "For the love of Pete, Mona. The boy is young enough to be your grandson." The angular woman shook her head. "Great goes without saying." She sighed when Mona simply rolled her eyes without taking them from Nick.

  "Ignore my friends. I'm Delta. This is Rae," she said, introducing the third woman. "And Mona, let go of Nick's hand." Grinning, Mona shrugged. But she did as Delta instructed. "The lunch prep won't get done by itself."

  Hello, alpha dog. Nick chuckled to himself at the thought. Rae and Mona didn't question Delta's authority, heading for the kitchen with only a backward glance or two.

  "If any of you lad
ies lost a pretty diamond, it's sitting by the sink."

  Mona gasped, glancing at her empty ring finger.

  "Why didn't I notice?" she asked, hustling through the swinging door.

  "She never does," Delta smiled a mix of exasperation and affection. "Was her ring the clog culprit?"

  "Among other things."

  "She never learns."

  "All part of Mona's charm," Rowan pointed out as she checked the till.

  "Hm." Delta didn't sound convinced. Frowning, she looked at Nick. "There is something very familiar about you. Around the eyes."

  Nick waited as Delta turned her head. Right, then left. He had inherited the dark-brown color of his irises from his mother. Is that what this woman saw? Had Delta known Annie Sanders?

  The question reminded Nick why he came to Maine. To find answers. Not play the plumber or get his flirt on with the local baker. Not that he couldn't do all three. Multitasking was one of his specialties.

  The logical move would be to simply ask. Did you know my mother? Nick wasn't sure why he held back. Some instinct. The need for self-preservation. Against what, he didn't know. But for now—until he had a better lay of the land—his would play his cards close to the vest.

  "I haven't been in Jasper very long."

  "No?" Delta paused as if the answer was just within reach. But whatever she was searching for didn't come. "A plumber? I imagine we'll see more of you now that you're on our radar."

  "I hope so. But I'm not—"

  "You."

  As Delta pointed at Rowan, Nick sighed. He kept trying to tell somebody—anybody—that he wasn't a plumber. Setting the record straight wasn't easy. These women shifted gears faster than a race car driver on a hairpin turn.

  "Me?" Rowan asked, shutting the till with a resounding snap.

  "Rae can handle the food. Mona and I are more than capable of waitressing." Delta pointed to the door. "Go."

  "You don't work here?" Nick asked.

  "I used to. After school. Now, I help out in a pinch."

  "Well, the pinch is over," Delta said. "Murielle should be back this afternoon before closing time. We'll be fine. And take this one with you. Maybe buy him a cup of coffee."

  Rowan met Nick's gaze, her lips twitching at Delta's attempt at matchmaking.

  "Murielle's serves the best coffee in town."

  "Then buy him a drink." Delta raised an eyebrow at Nick. "You like beer?"

  "I've been known to throw one back now and then. But not at," Nick glanced at his watch. "Ten forty-five in the morning."

  Delta rolled her eyes. "Subtlety is lost on the young. Rowan is a single, attractive woman. Are you?"

  "An attractive young woman?"

  So, shoot him. Delta had lobbed one right over the plate. Nick couldn't resist taking a swing.

  "Smart ass." In spite of herself, Delta chuckled. "Are you single? Unattached? Fiancée? Girlfriend?"

  "No to all of the above."

  "Boyfriend?"

  The last question came from Rowan. Smart woman. Never take anything for granted.

  "I'm straight," he told her.

  With a satisfied nod, Delta left them alone.

  "Good to know." Rowan took her sweater and hat from behind the counter. "I'll pass the word along to the single—equally straight—women of Jasper. A man with your skills isn't easy to come by."

  "My skills?" Nick waggled his eyebrows.

  "As a plumber." Rowan shoved Nick's jacket at him. "Why does a man's brain automatically land on sex?"

  "Because we're men." Nick held the door for Rowan.

  "So simple. So sad." Rowan took a deep breath of the brisk fall air. "And so true."

  "In our defense, men have certain hormones that—"

  "Rule a certain appendage?"

  Nick chuckled. "Like most men, I have a certain fondness for my… appendage."

  "Stop." Rowan held up her glove-covered hands. "This conversation turned weird—fast. Thank you for helping in my hour of need. I'll make sure Murielle sends the bill to your employer. Along with a stellar job evaluation."

  "I'm not a plumber," Nick blurted out the truth. He couldn't take another round of hemming and hawing.

  "Excuse me?"

  Under Rowan's sharp, blue gaze, Nick suddenly felt like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Resentment shot through him. Damn it, he hadn't done anything wrong.

  "You grabbed me," Nick reminded her. "FYI? When you're wound up, getting a word in edgewise is impossible."

  "How hard are four words?" Rowan paced. Not back and forth, but in a circle. Nick judiciously refrained from pointing out that she was, quite literally, winding herself up. "You just said them with little trouble. I'm not a plumber. End of story. Instead, you fixed Murielle's sink under false pretenses?"

  "I unclogged a pipe. Now, if I had attempted to unclog an artery, I wouldn't blame you for chewing me out."

  "Clever. That tongue of yours is very glib." Rowan crossed her arms. "Are you a lawyer?"

  "Are you asking, or accusing? And why are we having this conversation in the middle of the sidewalk?"

  "Answering a question with another question. Typical lawyer maneuver," Rowan muttered. "Where do you suggest we talk?"

  "Dinner. Tonight." That shut her up. "Since you know the town, I'll leave the choice of restaurant up to you."

  Judging by the stormy expression on Rowan's face, Nick expected a resounding no. Happily, she surprised him.

  "Will you tell me who you are? What you do? And why you spent your morning masquerading as a plumber?"

  "Will you admit that a good chunk of the guilt falls on you?"

  "Deal." Rowan shook Nick's hand. "But first. I need a name. Nick…?"

  "Sanders." Turnabout was fair play. "Rowan…?"

  "Cartwright."

  Nick felt a chill race up his spine, thinking of the letter in his pocket.

  "Cartwright?" he asked, his mouth suddenly dry. "Are you any relation to Leonard Cartwright?"

  "Do you know my father?"

  Nick shook his head trying to process this new information.

  "He's a friend of a friend."

  Close enough. And all Rowan needed to know at the moment.

  Rowan accepted Nick's explanation with a nod.

  "Pie in the Sky is the best place in town for a quiet, leisurely meal," she said. "May I have your phone?"

  On autopilot, Nick did as Rowan asked, using his password to give her access.

  "There," she said, typing quickly. "My number and address. Pick me up at seven thirty?"

  Nick nodded, watching as Rowan disappeared around the corner. Climbing into his SUV, he thought about his next move. He wanted to talk to somebody. Spencer or Travis. But what would he say that wouldn't sound crazy? And really, really twisted.

  If Nick could believe what he'd gleaned from the letter? The one he found in his mother's belongings? He had just made a date with his sister.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  "MOVE THE BIG shrub to the end of the driveway, Josie. Get Maris to give you a hand. I marked where to dig the hole. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask."

  Rowan double checked her color-coded chart—just to be safe. On big jobs like the Frederick's remodel, she made extra-certain the right plants went in the right place. Mistakes could be fixed, but she and her crew were working a tight timeframe.

  If they maintained their current pace, they would finish two days ahead of schedule. Which meant a bonus to be split evenly between her employees. And for Rowan, the satisfaction of silencing the doubters who hadn't believed an all-woman crew could do the job.

  From day one, RTC Landscaping had plenty of skeptics. Rowan had worked hard learning the craft. She started small with only a dream. Hiring nothing but women hadn't been part of the plan, just something that happened organically over time.

  How many times had she hear
d the refrain that women didn't have the muscles or stamina to work long hours in the sun. Lifting. Digging. Planting pretty posies in a row was one thing. But what about building walls? Or clearing out overgrown backyards?

  Big landscaping jobs should be left to men because women—according to Rowan's male detractors—weren't built to handle the wear and tear.

  Three years later, Rowan had proven them wrong time and time again.

  "Rowan?" Josie hesitated. "What's the name of the shrub we're putting in? The kind of plant?"

  Rowan lowered her clipboard. Through the lenses of her dark sunglasses, she observed the eager expression on the young woman's face. Most of the time, she didn't bother with specific names. Most of the time, her crew didn't care. They were plants. Flowers. Trees.

  However, every so often, when somebody expressed interest, Rowan gladly took the time to pass on what she knew. She encouraged the thirst for knowledge. Maybe someday, Josie would want to open her own business. A florist shop. Or a greenhouse.

  Or, Rowan sighed as she considered the possibility, a rival landscaping company. Having a competitor could be a good way to stay on her toes. Though not so great when she had been responsible for training them.

  However, the day Josie became her rival—if that day ever came—was years in the future. For now, Rowan was happy to satisfy the young woman's curiosity.

  "Maplewood Viburnum," Rowan said. She doubted Josie cared about the Latin name, viburnum acerfoilium. "I chose the plant because the height will top off at six feet, matching the wall and gated entry. Plus, that variety prefers partial shade and can tolerate drier soil. Our client is conservation conscious. She specified a garden that needs as little water as possible."

  "How do you remember all that?" Josie asked, her eyes wide.

  "Years of study. And," Rowan lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "A huge computer database. My own personal cheat sheet."

  Josie laughed. With a wave, she went back to work.

  Marsha Frederick exited the patio doors. Closer to sixty than she liked to admit, she had covered her thin frame in a long, flowing caftan that seemed more appropriate for lounging in Hawaii than Maine in November.