Love Inspired December 2014 - Box Set 2 of 2: Her Holiday FamilySugar Plum SeasonHer Cowboy HeroSmall-Town Fireman

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “That’s him.”

  Grandpa’s gray eyes twinkled. “About your age, isn’t he?”

  She swatted her grandfather’s good leg. “Nice try, old man.” Age was the only thing she had in common with Dylan McDonald. Right now her focus was on her principal interest, not Prince Charming. She hoped one or two of the executives Dylan claimed to serve might prove useful business contacts. A woman on her way up in the world had to look for opportunities everywhere she could. If the deal with Dylan found her a commercial real estate broker, a potential investor, or just a handful of likely customers, she’d be thrilled.

  As for the flannel-shirted, fine-looking fireman? She could always use a friend all the way out here, but she wasn’t casting a line for anything more.

  * * *

  Dylan laughed to himself the next morning as he watched Karla continue her one-woman caffeine campaign. She was persistent, he’d give her that much. Violet Sharpton scrunched her face up after sipping whatever coffee Karla had put in front of her. “I thought you said there was chocolate in this.”

  “There is.” Dylan saw Karla’s face drop.

  “Well, what else is in there messing everything up?”

  “Espresso.” Karla had to have known Violet was a tea drinker, didn’t she? She wasn’t that new to town. Still, the froth he saw on the edge of Violet’s mug told him Karla had been trying out a new concoction on the old woman. Not that Violet wasn’t a fan of new things—she was one of the most adventurous senior citizens Dylan had ever met—but some leaps were just a bit too far. “It’s a strong, Italian kind of coffee.”

  Violet put the cup down. “I have teenage grandchildren—I know what espresso is. But I could have told you up front I’m not one of those caffeine junkies.” She offered Karla a forgiving grin. “You’re a sport for trying, though. Your grandfather could use a kick in the gastronomic pants once he comes back. Never tries anything new.”

  “Karl says he knows what people like,” Dylan offered as he walked up to the counter.

  “This ‘people’ don’t much care for that.” Violet nodded toward the brew.

  “She made a pretty good latte for me yesterday.” The remark returned a bit of the smile to Karla’s face.

  “Well, then, you youngsters go on ahead with your fancy drinks and leave the basics to the old folks.” She put a hand on Karla’s. “Nothing personal, hon, but I’ll be glad when your grandfather’s back up and running.”

  “We all will,” Karla replied with a hint of weariness in her voice, making Dylan suspect Karl wasn’t a model patient.

  “Maybe I’ll come by this afternoon. Bring him some homemade soup or such.”

  Karla took the cup and saucer back with an air of defeat. “He’d like that. He always perks up when you visit. No charge for the mocha, I’ll just get you a tea. Milk and sugar?”

  “Lots of both. Tell your mom I’ll be by around three-thirty.” Violet slid from the counter, standard stoneware mug in hand with a tea tag peeking out the top. “New ain’t always better,” she said before moving to a table filled with women her age.

  He sat down where the old woman had been. “On a crusade?”

  “I don’t know why.” Karla wiped off the counter in front of Dylan. “It’s not like Grandpa’s basic brew is bad or anything.”

  “You just have sophisticated tastes, that’s all. I heard a group of the high school kids going on yesterday afternoon about there ‘finally being decent lattes around here.’ That has to count for something.”

  A little glow of pride brightened her cheeks. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.” He produced an envelope with ninety-six dollars cash inside and placed it on the counter. “And here’s the money to prove it. Next week’s coffee catches, paid in advance.”

  Karla narrowed one eye. “Coffee catch?”

  “I had to call it something. My sister came up with it. A ‘Coffee Catch’ to round off your fishing trip.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t spell it with a K.”

  He laughed at her obvious disdain for Karl’s signature gimmick. “I suppose you’re entitled to be tired of that.”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. Here, it’s cute. But back in Chicago, it’s all ‘how do you spell your name again?’” She pulled in a deep breath as she slipped the envelope into the cash register. “Another cinnamon latte?”

  “Nah. Surprise me again.”

  The look in her eyes was worth whatever drink came next, even if he had the same reaction as Violet had. She really liked doing this. “Sweet or salty?”

  “Karla, check please,” called someone from one of the front tables.

  “Sure thing,” she called back drily. “In a second.”

  “But I’m in a hurry.” The whine in the customer’s voice would have irritated anyone.

  Karla shut her eyes. They were clearly running shorthanded without Karl—who had seemed to never leave the place—and it showed in the way she applied a smile as she pulled a stack of tickets from the pocket of her apron. “No problem, Mr. Sullivan. You’ll be out of here in a flash.”

  “I’ll hold my answer till you get back,” Dylan said, watching her walk away. She seemed out of place, and yet oddly not. As if she was resisting any settling into the little town. It made sense: she had big ambitions written all over her, and Karl’s Koffee was only a holiday spot for someone with those kinds of aspirations.

  He spied an open backpack on the counter behind the cash register, and got a confirmation to his guess. Culinary Management was prerequisite reading for someone itching to get much further than waiting tables in Gordon Falls. Should it surprise him that someone as clever as Miss Kennedy had designs on moving up in the world? Ambition wasn’t the root of every evil—he had to keep reminding himself of that. Not everyone on their way up stepped on anyone to get there. Still, her apparent drive made it easier to ignore her pretty eyes and engaging personality—once burned was enough for him.

  “Well?”

  Karla’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Well, what?”

  “Sweet or salty?”

  He’d totally lost track of the question. “Um...both?” It was true, he didn’t really have a preference. “Does it work that way, like sweet-and-sour pork?”

  “Only sometimes.” She squinted her eyes in thought, her fingertips drumming softly against the counter. “Are you willing to stray from coffee?”

  He pulled back. “Like how?”

  “Chai tea. A little spicy, but with milk and honey. Very global.”

  That was a joke. He plucked at the ripped sweatshirt he was wearing. “Dylan McDonald, international man of mystery?”

  Her laugh was engaging, a musical sort of giggle, soft and light. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “No offense, but it sounds like a girlie drink.”

  Now it was her turn to balk. “Tea? England’s male population and half of the Middle East would take issue with your narrow-minded attitude, bub.” That last word had a decided “I dare you,” flavor to it.

  Okay, he could have a little fun with this. “Fine. I am man enough to try chai whatever it is. But I’m not holding out a lot of hope here, and there had better be some serious caffeine in that cup.”

  She began working the dials on the espresso machine. “Oh, this’ll get your motor humming. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some Japanese matcha. That’s got more kick than most espressos.” She leaned in. “And it’s green. Kind of like algae.”

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  A few minutes later, Karla slid a tall mug in front of him. It did smell exotic, but not necessarily in a good way. Dylan was beginning to think this little game wasn’t going to end well.

  “Go on. Try it.” Her eyes were wide and persuasive.

  He took a sizable gulp.
Closing his eyes, he took a moment to explore the many different tastes the drink combined. “Wow,” he said after a considerable pause. “That is...really...”

  Her eyes popped even wider and she leaned on the counter with both elbows.

  “Awful.” He set the cup down on the counter and pushed it back toward her.

  “Oh, don’t hold back on my account, Captain McDonald, tell me what you really think.”

  “I think it tastes like something fish would enjoy, not fishermen. Unless I’m hosting a fishing bridal shower, let’s leave this one off the Coffee Catch menu. And the Machu Picchu algae? Let’s skip it.”

  “Matcha,” she corrected, then added a playful “coward,” as she snatched back the full mug. The sparkle in her eye undercut any force she tried to give the barb.

  “Purist,” he corrected right back. “Tea’s not my thing, never has been. If it’s any consolation, I liked yesterday’s contender much better.” Just because her pout was so disarming, he added, “And the captain part. You can keep that.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. From now on, all beans, no leaves.”

  It took him a second to work out that she meant all coffee and no tea. “Steady as she goes. How about you just give me a regular coffee today—black, one sugar. You can surprise me again next Wednesday when I bring in the first customers.”

  “One boring regular coffee, coming up. On the house, on account of your recent culinary disappointment.” She pulled one of the stoneware mugs from the shelf behind her, unceremoniously dumped in the sugar and filled it with coffee. With a mile-wide smirk, she scribbled for a second on a meal ticket before placing it facedown beside the mug in front of him and sauntered away to tend to a table.

  Smiling, Dylan turned the check to face him. “Kaptain Koffee” was written in an artistic hand, with a little fish-and-bubbles doodle running up the side so that the “$0” was the last of the bubbles.

  Karla Kennedy sure knew how to bait a hook.

  Chapter Three

  “And that’s one half-decaf soy with extra cinnamon.” Karla set the final beverage in front of Dylan’s six fishermen as they sat at the coffee shop’s front table the following Wednesday morning. Dylan had phoned in their orders fifteen minutes ago, and true to her expectations, each man had requested a highly specialized drink.

  She was proud of herself; they might not ever have ventured into Karl’s on their own, which meant her marketing idea had worked. Even at someplace as nondescript as Karl’s, she had a knack for finding customers and giving them what they wanted. The affirmation bloomed a wonderful optimism in her chest. Grandpa always said skills were one thing and anyone could learn them, but the “sense” to run an eating establishment was an inborn gift. Today told her she had that gift.

  Karla smiled to herself. The first official Coffee Catch was an odd sight indeed. While Dylan referred to them as fishermen and requested she do the same—evidently Kaptain Koffee had a knack for customer service even if he did hate marketing—Karla found that a generous term. Calling the collection of well-groomed men in front of her “fishermen” was like calling a guest at a dude ranch a “cowboy.”

  These six sure didn’t fit any image Karla had of guys who normally cast hooks into water. All in their forties and dressed in upscale sportswear, this crowd looked as if they belonged on yachts at some oceanfront resort. She practically needed a calculator to add up the premium logos, brand names and expensive gadgets these guys touted. If they fished, it sure wasn’t to put dinner on the table. Still, she was glad to have them in Karl’s. These were exactly the type of customers she wanted to serve when she opened her own place.

  A man in a sky-blue polo shirt and preppy plaid shorts arched his eyebrows after taking a sip of his double-shot latte. “Hey, this is good.” Karla chose to ignore the surprise in his expression. Hey, she wanted to say, you have not left the civilized world that far behind. Which really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black—she’d had to drive forty minutes away to get all the supplies she needed to stock a full espresso bar and had been known to gripe about Gordon Falls’ “overwhelming quaintness” entirely too often. Hadn’t she just referred to her stint in Gordon Falls as “exile” last week?

  “I told you I wasn’t exaggerating,” Dylan said, coming to her defense. His stained denim shirt looked especially ragged next to his current customers. His eyes were bright, even if his morning stubble gave him the scruffy, unkempt air. He smelled of soap and salt but still a bit of fish, as if he’d tried hard to clean up for his appearance in the shop but hadn’t completely succeeded. He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets and glanced around the group. “Not a bad way to end a morning on the river, don’t you think?”

  “Makes up for the massive one that got away,” Mr. Double Shot said, pushing his expensive sunglasses up on top of his head to give Karla a million-watt smile. Had she seen him on television? One of those trial lawyers with commercials and 1-800 numbers? He had that look of a man in search of his next deal. Dylan said they came from Chicago. Maybe he could be a future customer—lawyers liked power breakfasts, right?

  “Now who’s exaggerating,” Half Decaf goaded. “I could have fit that fish in my pocket.”

  “Mixed luck out on the water?” Karla asked, setting a stack of menus in the center of the table. “Your coffee’s part of the catch, but we’ll whip up breakfast if you’re in the mood for a bit more.” She’d worked for ten minutes to come up with the perfect, nonintrusive way to hint that they might want to consider ordering breakfast.

  “You cook as well as you pull a latte?” Double Shot asked, looking doubly charming as he extended a hand. “I’m James Shoemacher.”

  “Jim Shoe,” Half Decaf cut in. “Call him Jim Shoe.” He said it again, pronouncing it like “gym shoe” and pointing to his gleaming white leather sneakers just in case she didn’t catch the joke. Shoemacher looked weary, as if years of repetition had rendered him immune to the gag.

  The same way she’d grown wearily resigned to explaining, “No, that’s Karla with a K” over and over. She shook Shoemacher’s hand—one that didn’t look like the kind that had done any time with night crawlers and a hook—and felt an unlikely kinship with the man. “Karla Kennedy.” She nodded to the sign in the window. “Karl’s my grandfather. And I don’t do the cooking, but I can sure vouch for it.”

  “Shoemacher Realty. Industrial properties.” Hmm...real estate. How fortunate was that? “And I’ve been up so long,” he went on, “it feels like I ought to have lunch. Can you do a panini?”

  “Sorry, no panini maker here, Mr. Shoemacher. We don’t really do a lot of lunch fare.” She almost laughed, picturing what Karl would think of the uppity term for a grilled sandwich. “But I’m sure I can set you up with a grilled cheese.”

  She expected him to grimace, but he smiled instead. “Do that,” he replied. “But call me Jim.”

  As she pulled out her order pad, Karla decided she might have to eat her words about never making any business contacts in Gordon Falls. “Okay, one grilled cheese for Jim. Any of the rest of you need something more than your coffees?”

  Half the group ordered a full breakfast, while three of them made a big show of checking their watches and smartphones, too busy to dally over eggs and toast.

  “If you three need to head out, I’ll go get your cleaned catches wrapped up and iced for the trip home.” Dylan had told Karla he was adding that extra service—and evidently it had been a good idea.

  “Dave’s will fit in his coffee cup, I bet,” one of them snickered.

  “Hey, at least I caught something,” Dave replied. “So far all you caught was grief from your wife.” That brought a laugh from the whole group.

  “Dylan, we enjoyed our morning,” pronounced Half Decaf, who had introduced himself as an accountant from a big firm Karla only barely recognized. “I’ll have my assistant set
us up for another later in the season.” He sent a smile Karla’s way. “And I’ll be sure to leave time for breakfast.”

  Dylan shot Karla a grinning thumbs-up as he headed out the door with the exiting half of the group. So far, the first-ever Coffee Catch seemed to be a success.

  “Dylan said this was your idea?” Jim asked when Karla brought their food orders to the table. At Grandpa’s suggestion, Karla had asked Emily to come in a bit early so that Karla could give the fishermen her nearly undivided attention, only slipping out to make the all-too-occasional coffee drink for another customer. The executives seemed to enjoy the exclusive service—which had been the point all along.

  “Seemed a nicer way to end an early morning than just getting back in the car,” Karla replied. After a second, she quipped, “The espresso machine is too heavy to roll down to the dock.”

  “Smart and funny.” Jim nodded to his two companions. “And all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m from Chicago, actually,” Karla explained. “Just finished culinary school. I’m helping my grandfather out while he’s laid up from hip surgery.”

  “Culinary school. That explains a lot. So, Karla, what do you want to do after you finish helping Grandpa out?”

  It seemed like a hundred years since anyone had asked her that question. Everyone in Gordon Falls only inquired how long she planned on staying—nobody seemed to care that she had shelved big plans to do time behind the counter. “I want to open a downtown breakfast eatery. A coffee shop like this, only a bit less...” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence without seeming to put down her grandfather’s beloved establishment.

  “Rustic?” Jim finished for her.

  Karla felt her face flush. “Well, yes.” She didn’t want to insult Grandpa’s place, just wanted to explain—especially to someone like him—that her dream had a lot more style and sophistication.

  “It’s a well-used real-estate term. Useful when explaining grilled cheese to the panini crowd.”

  She managed to laugh at that. “I get it.”