The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (17 page)

“I just want to speak to you.”

Olive crossed her arms. “I’m not interested. I came to apologize to you, Josie, for what happened at the tea. It was undignified, and I hope the matter is settled.”

“All is well, Olive. Competition has a way of bringing out the worst in us.”

“I can see you’re upset, Miss Gloss, but as I told you, there is no reward.” Daniel’s words were trampled under Olive’s skirt as she stormed past him to the street.

“Well”—Josie folded her arms—“if the reporter doesn’t spread the story, Olive just might.”

Harvey threw up his hands. “One minute, Blair.”

Josie had best not waste it. She touched Daniel’s sleeve. “This has become a mess.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. I was just so—”

“Relieved.” She glanced at Harvey. “Meanwhile, you have plans to hunt down.”

“That’s not it.” He rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry. For everything. Accusing your mother and Wilson. And Tilly. And kissing you in public.”

The sigh escaping her chest ached. “I think it best that we halt our arrangement. The Home is designed, after all.”

Daniel’s brows were low over his eyes. “I have not spent weeks of my life with you in exchange for the Home.”

“Dan?” Harvey called. “Plans due by noon tomorrow. Are you coming, or shall I go alone?”

Daniel’s gaze bore into her, his intent clear. “We aren’t finished.” Then he turned and caught up to Harvey.

But they were. As flat and useless as a punctured cycle tire. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and turned back toward the house.

Her footsteps echoed in the foyer. Mother must be painting. Josie should start on the blanket for the Mothers’ Home. Instead she went upstairs to trade her skirt for bloomers. She couldn’t escape her tumultuous thoughts while she sat with her pink yarn, but perhaps on her bicycle, she might out-pedal them for a while.

Daniel arrived home empty. His hands lacked the plans for the Humphries Competition, which he and Harvey had failed to find. His heart was drained from his horrible conversation with Josie, and on top of it all, his stomach protested his failure to eat today.

I’ve got nothing left, God.

He’d wash up, change, and fill up on a bowl of Mrs. Beake’s thick stew. Then he’d be back at the office, where he and Harvey would work all night re-creating their plans for the Humphries Competition.

He stepped into the foyer, where his weekly gift of a floral arrangement sat on the credenza. Mrs. Beake stomped out of her parlor. “Mr. Blair.”

He knew that tone and braced for her wrath. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“I hope you don’t want supper. You were not here by six.” She sniffed. “And there’s more unwanted baked goods. A cinnamon crumb cake, if my nose isn’t mistaken, brought by that Goldie Addis girl. Again. She is relentless.”

“I spoke to her, honest.” Although right now, he was grateful for her efforts. It’d be crumb cake for dinner.

“This ‘eligible bachelor’ twaddle must stop.” Her fists planted on her bony hips. “A reporter from the
San Francisco Journal
darkened my door, looking for you.”

Before she could continue, a watery sneeze racked her body. Daniel offered his handkerchief. His set of monogrammed linen squares had never seen such use by females as they had in the past weeks.

She waved the hankie. “The lilies you sent—” She sneezed again.

“My apologies. I meant to honor you, not sicken you. I’ll put them in the dustbin.” Could he do nothing right?

But this wasn’t about him. This was about Mrs. Beake, and how her sense of order had been disrupted. He touched her shoulder. “If you wish, I’ll look for new lodging tomorrow. I have appreciated living here, but I don’t wish to cause any more harm.”

“Mr. Blair.” Her chin quivered. He waited for more words, but none came.

He lowered his hand and took the offending vase of flowers outside.

He had nothing. No plans for the Humphries Competition, which meant no boom in business for the firm.

No relationship with his father.

No home, until he found something else.

No Josie. And could he blame her, after he’d accused her family?

No peace with God. He’d thought he’d been serving Him at the expense of his father, but the one person he’d been serving was himself.

Wilson would get a laugh. Not only had he bested Daniel, but Daniel had lost everything.

Chapter 8

W
hy did men never listen? Josie massaged her temples, but it did little to ease the ache that radiated forehead to jaw this past quarter hour since she called on Wilson.

He sat across from her on the fashionable sofa Nora picked out, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a cup of coffee in hand. “I won’t retract the reward, because I don’t regret offering it.”

“Not even for the collateral damage your actions have caused?” She’d already informed him of the pain experienced—or caused—by Olive, Goldie, Estelle, and the others.

“Daniel’s inability to set a few girls straight before their feelings got hurt is his fault, not mine.”

“How callous you are.” And delighted, by the looks of his smile. Now that his plans were submitted to the Humphries Competition, Wilson took the morning off and relaxed at home, the picture of ease.

They sat across from each other in his parlor, today’s edition of the
Journal
on the table before them. Josie scowled at the offending newsprint. That nosy reporter published a story on Daniel’s heroics yesterday—another man who hadn’t listened to her.

And then there was Daniel. Had he recovered the missing plans?
Please, God, help him.
Josie’s fingers fussed with the trim of her cornflower mohair walking gown.

Wilson sipped his coffee. “It’s man’s nature to be competitive. Rivalry is healthy.”

“But jealousy is not.”

Wilson snorted. “Jealous? Of what?”

“I don’t know. Daniel’s decision to go into practice with Harvey rather than you, which he no doubt did to preserve the fragile relationship you have. Or perhaps you envy Daniel’s peace, whether he wins or loses. You could have it, too, if you turned to God for it.” She sighed, at once weary. “For your own sake, for Daniel’s—for all the ladies’ sakes—let go of your jealousy. Retract the reward on Daniel’s head.”

“Heart, not head.” Wilson laughed. “Don’t you want him happy? With a little family to call his own?”

He wasn’t listening. She stood, brushing her hands over the coarse texture of her dress. “I love you, Wilson, and I forgive you. If you win the Humphries Competition, I will be happy for you, but not as happy as I would have been had you won without inflicting so much damage along the way.”

One stubborn man down, another to go. She left Mason Street and walked to her next stop. Delicate shafts of sunlight pierced the fog and brightened her path. It gave her a bit of hope.
God, may Daniel and I come to a better understanding than Wilson and I did.

When she shut the street door to Whitstone & Blair behind her, the sound echoed through the empty waiting area. Mrs. Crabtree was not at her desk, nor were there indications of anyone in the office, no chatter, scrape of chairs or shuffle of papers. Josie tiptoed farther into the room, the rustling of her gown the room’s lone noise. Should she call out? Where was everyone?

She was about to noisily clear her throat when Mrs. Crabtree walked past the hall door, a silver tray in hand. She glanced at Josie and startled, setting the tray wobbling.

“Miss, you gave me a fright.” One hand landed atop a china coffeepot, holding it still.

Josie hurried to take the tray from the older woman. It wasn’t heavy, so the coffeepot must be empty. “I wasn’t certain anyone was here.”

Mrs. Crabtree sighed. “They’re still in Mr. Whitstone’s office. Those two were here all night, re-creating the Humphries plans.”

“I was hoping they’d found them.” Josie glanced at the clock. Just after eleven. “They don’t have long to finish.”

Mrs. Crabtree frowned. “A shame, I say.”

“Perhaps I might leave a note on Mr. Blair’s desk?” At Mrs. Crabtree’s nod of approval, Josie lifted the tray an inch. “Where can I put this?”

“With me, miss. I’m about to brew a fresh pot. There will be a cup for you if you’d like to wait.” She took the tray and smiled, as if she liked Josie now. Perhaps it was the dress. Or perhaps it was because Josie was the one female in Daniel’s life who didn’t barrage Mrs. Crabtree for his favor.

Still, she dare not accept Mrs. Crabtree’s invitation. “Thank you, ma’am, but I wish to be gone when the gentlemen come out of the office. They have so much on their minds.”

Mrs. Crabtree’s smile grew.

Josie took hurried, silent steps to Daniel’s office. Paper and pencils were always at the ready on the desk. She’d jot a quick note and be out before the coffee finished brewing.

But his office was occupied. A woman in a yellow hat and skirt leaned over the desk, lowering something onto the blotter. A tendril of red hair hung loose at her nape.

“Goldie Addis, what are you doing here?”

Goldie shrieked, spun around, and covered her mouth with her hands. Behind her, a cylinder rolled off the desk and onto the floor with a thunk.

Josie dashed to scoop the tube from the floor. It was heavy, as if filled with rolled pages. “Are these the Humphries plans?”

“I—I just borrowed them,” she said through her fingers.

“You never wanted Daniel. You wanted your father to win the Humphries Competition. This is how you went about eliminating a rival? Stealing his plans?”

“Not eliminate. He has time to submit them.” Tears filled her eyes. “Father hoped seeing Daniel’s finish work on the exteriors would spark an idea. His firm is failing, you see. But in the end Father realized it was wrong. He’s withdrawing from the competition.” A sob gurgled out.

Josie placed a hand on Goldie’s shoulder while clutching the tube to her like an infant. “Oh, Goldie.”

Mrs. Crabtree rushed into the room, her bosom heaving. “What is the meaning of this?”

Daniel and Harvey followed her, brows knit. They’d discarded their coats, vests, and collars. Daniel’s shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a bit of shirttail had untucked on the side. His dark hair was mussed, gray circles underscored his eyes, and stubble shadowed his cheeks. He’d never looked more handsome.

Someday, would she stop thinking this way about him? Would the hurt lessen? She swallowed. That was a topic to ponder later, when she had the privacy to cry her eyes raw. For now, she held out the cylinder to Daniel. “They’re here. The Humphries plans.”

“I’m sorry,” Goldie bellowed. Then she dashed from the office.

“I should go after her.” Daniel took a step.

“I’ll do it. You’re better with pen-and-inks, in case something needs repairing.” Harvey dashed out the door.

“She took them for her father, I take it?” At Josie’s nod, Daniel’s exhalation was long and ragged. “I never felt she wanted me, or the thousand dollars.”

Then she was a fool.

Daniel opened the tube and pulled out the papers. He laid them on his desk, counted the pages, and examined each one while the seconds ticked by. Mrs. Crabtree joined him, peering over his shoulder. “It’s them, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes. Nothing altered.” His eyes were on Josie. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.” She stepped backward. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Please wait.” He followed her, his eyes soft. “Please.”

She shook her head. “I dropped by to wish you well. That was all. Now put on a tie and fix your shirt. You haven’t much time.”

One hand gripped the plans, and the other twitched, like he wanted her to stay. But he had to submit the plans by noon. This was his dream.

She’d make this easy on him.

“Godspeed, Daniel.” She turned on her heel and ran.

Daniel hesitated, taking a full breath of the morning fog still blanketing the city. There was a flavor of the ocean to it, tangy and sharp. The smell of his home. He took hold of the door knocker and let it fall with a sharp clap. The door opened, admitting Daniel to his father’s manse.

Seven days had passed since he’d seen Josie. He’d respected her desire to end the arrangement, but he’d used the time in a way he knew she’d like. He’d spoken with frankness to every female who sent him treats or cards. He conferred with a realtor about land for the Mothers’ Home and another project. He’d ridden his bicycle for the fun of it, not as training for his surely canceled race against Wilson next week. And he’d prayed.