Falling For Ken (Blueprint to Love Book 2) (11 page)

Harry repressed a shudder. Christ, he still couldn't think about that fall. "You went back down there? I told you to forget it."

A flash of resentment sparked her beautiful eyes. "
I
decide what happens on my dig. Not Jimmy. Not you." Dropping into a seat at the table, her gaze challenged. "Let's get this over with. I need a shower."

Jimmy was the foreman, he remembered. Obviously, he too, had grilled her over climbing down that damn hole. Judging by her scowl, he'd succeeded in ticking her off in the process. Now Harry would finish her off with another round of bad news.

Limping to the table, he slid the folder under her restless fingers before he tugged a chair around to sit beside her. "Here are your figures," he pointed out. "And these are mine. I verified the checks with my office this afternoon. They've all cleared."

"Then why-"

"You're missing a payment– the record of a payment," he corrected. Dragging his finger down the printout from her files, he tapped the page. "Right here. This payment of three hundred seventy-eight thousand. As far as I can tell, our payment wasn't applied to this project."

Confused golden eyes raised to his and Harry's stomach dropped. He swallowed awkwardly around the dryness suddenly constricting his throat.

"Then where is it? How could I misplace nearly four hundred thousand dollars?"

"My first guess is your secretary misapplied the payment, but I'd need to see your ledger to determine that. The money's probably been credited to another project."

She shook her head. "If that were true, I'd
have
enough money. It would just be in the wrong place." Her voice edgy, she drummed restless fingers on the table. "You're sure?"

"I've got the clear dates from our bank."   

"But it's not
in
my bank." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Where did the money go?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Reading the despair etched on her face, a swift burst of anger swept through him. Why did it have to be him hurting her this way? When everything in him wanted to help? Bewilderment warred with frustration in her expressive eyes. Tears clouding her voice, the words he dreaded trembled from her lips.

"God, Harrison, what will I do?"

He resisted the urge to capture her hand. Touching her wasn't a smart idea. Not with her eyes swimming with tears. Not with him lacking willpower. "I'd like to see the records in your office. Not just these files– I want to see your accounting system."

"What good will that do?" Her fingers danced nervously over the reports before her, yet Harry knew her eyes weren't seeing numbers.

"We can see where the money's been misapplied." Pride prevented Ken from meeting his gaze. Her lips trembled when she pressed them together, fighting for control. “How about tomorrow?” Her soft sigh of defeat made him gentle his voice. The silence lengthened, wrapping around him as she wrestled with the setback. "You could drop me at your office on the way to the site."

"I'll go with you," she decided. "I've wasted enough of your time with my problem. Maybe you'll find a miracle and we can end this tomorrow."

Finally meeting his gaze, Kenny's eyes mirrored pain to their very depths. He recognized she'd already conceded defeat– without ever asking for help. His memory flashed back several years. A long ago night in the rain. The tortured expression of the girl who'd been abandoned in the cold. Miles from home, she'd been trudging through a torrential storm when he stopped, her prom gown spattered with mud. He'd been unable to forget the expression on her face. Instead of relief that someone had finally stopped, her eyes had been drenched in shame.

Like Kendall, the girl hadn't wanted his help– hadn't wanted a witness to her humiliation. His chest tightened with regret. Similar to the slender, young girl with the wounded eyes, Kenny would associate him with all the pain to come.

"I can stick around another day or so– help you clean up the ledger once we find the mistake," Harry offered, knowing it would be rebuffed.

"Thanks, but I'll handle it." She offered him a half-hearted smile. "At least you'll finally get home."

"Yeah. That's great." Trying to muster enthusiasm, he felt only the sting of failure.

Rising from the table, she rested a hand on his shoulder before turning for the stairs. "You didn't create the problem, Harry."

All he could offer were his financial skills and she'd made it clear she didn't want them. The helpless frustration he'd felt that night in the rain returned to haunt him.
Shut out again
. Her shoulders rigid, Kendall trudged up the stairs and Harry felt more defeated than he had in years.

***

The numb, haunted gloom of failure eased after a warm, scented bath. It wasn't often Kendall indulged in small luxuries, but surviving a day that would have broken most people, she'd earned the right to relax. It wasn't every day a woman lost her business. After months of struggle, endless nights of worry, she could finally acknowledge the obvious. A stinging failure on her watch. Though emotionally drained, a sense of calm slipped over her as she knotted the belt on her bathrobe. Over the next several months, there would be time for tears and recriminations, for fear and frustration. But tonight, she didn't have the stamina. After dropping his bombshell earlier, Harrison had insisted on making dinner. For once she hadn't argued.

For tonight, she would pretend everything was fine. That her business was okay. Her financial worries didn't exist. And she'd convince herself she wasn't falling for the strong, enigmatic, out-of-reach man in her kitchen.

"What are you cooking?" Shoving her wayward thoughts aside, Kendall sniffed the air appreciatively, her stomach growling over crispy, smoked bacon after the long forgotten lunch.

"Due to my limited culinary abilities, we're having breakfast for dinner." Harry shot her an appraising glance over his shoulder. "I hope that's okay? I make a decent pancake."

Ken knew those gorgeous eyes assessed more than her interest in dinner. She'd witnessed the flare of panic in them when he'd relayed the bad news earlier, wondering whether she would crumble to pieces before him.

"Sounds great. I'm starving." Somehow, his compassion made the news of her imminent demise more difficult. She wanted to rail against him– against
someone
. If he'd represented an evil conglomerate. If only he'd been cold and nasty, she could have unleashed her anger on him. But Traynor was so damn nice. His sincerity made her failure seem worse. He made her wish they were friends– that she could overcome her discomfort and accept his help. Harrison was a man made for leaning on. Rock steady. Reliable. If that weren't bad enough, he made her yearn for things she could never have– things she had no business imagining in the first place.

"Can I help?" Observing his economical movement as he whipped up the simple meal, she remembered the lunch tray he'd prepared earlier. "You're not as helpless in the kitchen as you claim."

"I have approximately a five meal repertoire." Carefully flipping strips of bacon, he turned the flame down. "Grilled cheese, cans of soup, burgers . . ." He glanced over his shoulder. "Does toast count?"  

"Not technically a food group." She smiled. "The tray you made for lunch looked delicious."

He shrugged. "You did the hard part. Your garden is amazing."

"I guess I never outgrew my love for playing in the dirt," she admitted. "I can cook because my dad insisted I learn. But I never enjoyed it until I lived alone."

"Isn't is supposed to be the opposite? Enjoying cooking for a crowd but not for yourself?" He flipped a pancake and the griddle sizzled in response.

"After my mom left us, Dad assumed cooking was
my
job." She withdrew two plates from the cabinet and slid them to the counter. "I resented that he never asked. He just demanded."

"How old were you when your mom left?"

"Fourteen." Sensing him studying her, Ken turned away. The unasked question hung between them.
Why
had her mother left? She sensed his hesitation, could almost hear wheels turning in his brain– wondering how to respond.

"My mom died when I was seventeen," he offered. "Living with Bucky was never easy, but it got rougher after Mom passed. At least I was grown. I can only imagine it was worse for a kid."

Kendall froze, silverware clutched in her hand. She hadn't expected that kind of insight from him. "I'm sorry, Harrison. Had she been sick?"

His demeanor changed in a heartbeat. When his beautiful eyes went flat and cold she suppressed a shiver. "She was an alcoholic. Forty-seven when she drank herself to death."

"That must have been awful."

"A long time ago." Harry's voice grew distant. "Probably worse for a young girl." Speaking of his mother probably made him remember things he didn't want to recall. Another similarity they shared. Memories of her father made her angry. How her childhood
should
have been. All the things he
could
have done to make life easier for a devastated, lonely girl. But he'd chosen to withhold. He'd built a new life for himself– a new family that didn't include her– and she'd finally done the same.

"My mother was a decent person," Ken offered, aware of the sudden intensity radiating from Harry. "But she let my father bully her. She never defended herself . . . or me." Setting the silverware on the counter, her stomach tightened– a reflex ingrained decades earlier. "She didn't care enough to fight for what was important."

“That's a decent person?”

"She was lazy," she admitted. "Complaining was easier than being responsible for her actions."

"Something we have in common," he admitted. "Mom blamed us for her drinking. My father worked too much. I was too noisy. Too messy. Too much . . . work." Harry's stunning face was sober, his eyes reflective. "By twelve, I was cooking, doing all the laundry. The housework and the yard . . ." He shook his head. "And Bucky still expected perfection in every other area. School. Sports. Everything."

"Maybe it was his way of trying to maintain a front." The words left her mouth before she knew to stop them.

"What do you mean?"

"Like– if I hold it all together . . . then nothing's really wrong." Her cheeks heated as a truth spilled from her lips. How she'd pretended for so many years not to be bothered by her fractured family. How she'd hidden the truth from the few friends she had. Friends who had 'normal' families. Kids with parents who cared where they were at night– for reasons other than the list of chores that needed doing.

Harry's eyes flared with an emotion she didn't recognize. Holding her breath, she prayed he wouldn't pursue the uncomfortable path she'd accidentally stumbled upon. "Where'd your mom go?"

"I don't know." Relief coursed through her as he eased away from her revelation. "Leaving my dad was the first brave thing she ever did. Once she did, she never looked back."

"Brave isn't how I'd describe someone abandoning her daughter." Anger thickened his voice. "When life gets tough, you just run away?"

Resting her fingers on his arm, she felt rigid muscles contract. "I don't hold it against her anymore. If running was the only way to save herself-"

"Leaving a young girl behind to fend for herself." His glance pinned hers. "Would you do that?"

The air between them shifted. Kendall felt hot and cold at the same time. "No." Her voice suddenly hoarse, she swallowed. Unsure why it felt like a revelation, she experienced a surge of adrenaline. "I could never do that."

Still staring at her, he flipped the last two pancakes on the mounting stack. "Don't make excuses for her."

"I'm a lot stronger than she was. I wouldn't stay in a bad marriage."

"You think you'll beat the odds?" Amusement tinged his voice.

"Damn straight I will . . . assuming I find someone crazy enough." Rising to the challenge, she continued. "The secret is being prepared to go it alone."

"Your recipe for a successful marriage is . . .
not
marrying?"

"Go ahead and laugh, but I'm a firm believer in fate.”

"You'd trust fate on a til-death-do-you-part decision?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not talking knight on a white horse fate," she explained.

"How many kinds are there?" A dimple winked in his cheek.

"If I'm
fated
," she emphasized, "to meet the man of my dreams, it'll just happen." Ken shrugged off his disbelief. "And if I'm meant to be alone . . . I'll still be happy. The wrong man won't make my life better."

"I agree with that part– but lots of solid marriages are based on far less than the 'person of your dreams' philosophy," Harry argued.

"That's where your bad odds come in," she pointed out. "People who settle for 'good enough' eventually end up searching for 'better'."

He smiled. "I'm out of arguments."

"Even with the mystical man of my dreams, it will
still
take work to maintain balance. But I believe my odds will be better because fate brought us together."