by Lisa Plumley
Kristen widened her eyes. “Yes! How’d you guess?”
“I’ve always been a big fan of the populuxe aesthetic.” Shane gave a deliberately modest shrug. “But then I’m a helpless retro-futurist at heart when it comes to architecture.”
“Me too!” Kristen appeared flattered. Her cheeks turned pink. Her smile broadened. Her voice lowered, full of instant camaraderie. “Most people don’t notice the intricacies of the restoration work, but this place was a wreck when I got it.”
“Well, it’s beautiful now,” Shane said. The bastard. He gave her an audacious, approving smile. “Just like its owner.”
Kristen tittered. Her blush deepened. “Aw, thanks.”
That was it. Casey had had enough. “Never mind about that guide thing, Shane,” he said casually. “I was only kidding.”
Maresca gave him an “oh, are you still here?” glance.
Kristen did, too. That rankled. “What do you mean?” she asked. “You just said you needed a guide in case you got lost.”
“Lost?” Shane suppressed a chortle. Sort of. Jackass.
“I never get lost,” Casey told her. “And if I did, the last thing I would need is directions from my archrival.”
“Archrival?” Kristen frowned, glancing from Casey to Shane and back again. “But I thought I was your—I mean I—” She broke off, then cleared her throat. “I’ll get that pie for you.”
Then she took herself across the diner, leaving Casey alone with the only real arch nemesis he’d ever had . . . his one and only former best friend.
Chapter 6
Galaxy Diner, Kismet, Michigan
Christmas Takeover: Day 8½
Kristen strode into her diner’s office, made a note to order more extra-potent Vietnamese cassia cinnamon for baking pies with, and—on her way out—nearly collided with her friend (and longtime trusted employee) Talia McCoy.
Talia was headed toward her employee locker wearing a purposeful look. Also a flashy ankle-length, leopard-print coat, sunglasses, and her wintertime diner “uniform” of a denim skirt, flannel shirt, tights, and boots. In Talia’s case, the whole ensemble was accessorized with several piercings, a couple of tattoos, and something new but not unexpected: long, blond hair.
Talia’s wavy hair was usually cropped to earlobe length and colored in a vivid lavender (at least most recently), giving her a vaguely rockabilly Tinkerbell look. But Kristen wouldn’t put it past her adventurous friend to try something new.
“Hey! New look?” Kristen asked.
“New . . . what?” Talia blinked. Then she touched her head. “Oh yeah! This!” Laughing, she whipped off her long, blond hair. She opened her locker, stuffed in that headful of fake hair, then shrugged. “Just something I was trying out. But judging by all the catcalls I got on the street on my way here, this look is less ‘punk-rock Brigitte Bardot’ and more ‘daytime hooker.’ I think I’ll pass for now.”
“I dunno. I kind of liked it.”
“You would. You’re a natural blonde.”
“So?”
“So you don’t understand the travails of the less follicu-larly blessed.” Talia retrieved her nametag. She pinned it on. “Blond hair is automatically eye-catching.”
“And lavender hair isn’t?”
“Well . . . you’ve got me there.” A businesslike glance. “So, how are things going here? It looks like quite a crush out there.”
“Was everyone mobbing a particular tall, dark stranger?” Kristen asked wryly. “Were they letting him crowd surf past all the tables or maybe erecting a monument to his awesomeness?”
“Um, no.” Gazing into the employee mirror opposite the time clock, Kristen fluffed her lavender hair. “What’s got into you?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“I’m serious.” Via the mirror, Talia cast her a worried glance. “You haven’t been yourself since your sister blew back into town. I know it’s been hard on you having Heather—and her entourage—back after all this time, especially with all the crazy Christmas stuff they’ve been doing. So . . . let’s have it.”
Kristen hesitated. This was going to sound silly, but . . .
“Do you think it’s weird to be irked that you’re not someone’s only archrival?” she asked abruptly. “I feel really competitive about this, for some reason, and I—”
“Wait.” Talia froze with her arm in the air, caught in the midst of straightening her eyebrow ring. “You’re someone’s archrival?”
“Well, I thought I was,” Kristen said in a disgruntled tone she couldn’t help (or believe). “But now I’m not so sure.”
Talia put her hands on her hips. “Whose archrival?”
“This . . . new guy.” Vaguely, Kristen waved. “The crowd surfer.”
“There was nobody crowd surfing when I got here.” Talia came forward. Concernedly, she urged Kristen to take a seat on the employee break table, then she held her hands. “You’re not making sense. What are you talking about?” Apparently struck by a possible explanation, she gave a chary look. “Did one of those paparazzos get in here? Is that it? Did they upset you and threaten to torpedo your Christmas again? Because if they did, I’m not above a little necessary ass-kicking.”
Warmed by her pugnacious tone, Kristen smiled. She really did have great friends—friends who would defend her fiercely.
“No. Heather made a deal with the paparazzi, remember? She let them take ‘candid’ on-set photos of her in exchange for them leaving me and my diner alone. I’m safe here.”
“Mmm.” Noncommittally, Talia made a face. “Yeah. For now.”
“For good. Heather promised.”
“Mmm-hmm. So, about this supposed crowd-surfing archrival—”
“It’s nothing. He’s—” Surprising. Annoying. H-O-T: hot. “He’s a troubleshooter who’s come to fix Heather’s TV special. He says he won’t fire anybody—”
“The corporate types always do.”
“—and he promises to be out by Christmas—”
“Efficiency freak. Gotcha.”
“—but I’m still not sure what to make of him,” Kristen admitted. “Heather asked me to try to ‘distract’ him for her—to keep him away from the set and away from her while she tries to sort things out herself—”
“Fat chance. She’s about as capable as a bag of bricks.”
“—and I promised I would do it—”
“Oh, Kristen.” Talia shook her head. “Big mistake.”
“—and I’m doing great so far.” Warming up to her news now, Kristen scooted across the table, making room for her friend. She patted the table. Talia joined her. “I couldn’t very well leave the diner for hours at a time to tail this guy, so I maneuvered him into agreeing to set up shop here.”
“Here? But what if he’s a spy?” Talia narrowed her eyes. “What if he’s an undercover reporter for Us Weekly? What if he’s trying to get some dirt on Heather and her ‘humble’ background?”
“He’s not. You’re even more cynical than I am.”
“He might be. And yes, I am.”
“You haven’t even heard the best part yet.” Kristen gave a canny smile. “He’s agreed to pay one hundred and seventy-five dollars—per day—for the privilege of renting our corner booth. Right where I can keep an eye on him, near the cash register.”
Talia’s mouth dropped open. “The booth with the squeaky seat cushion?” At Kristen’s nod, she gawked anew. “Okay. I’m impressed. That must have taken some mad negotiating skills.”
“Not really.” A pause. “I think he likes me.”
“Of course he likes you!” Talia said faithfully.
“No, I mean . . . he likes me,” Kristen said, remembering the way Casey had looked at her . . . the way he’d reacted when she’d touched his wrist, even just briefly. She hadn’t been able to contain a jolt herself. Fortunately, she’d used her studious examination of his watch as a clever cover for her own reaction. “And I—”
“Who wouldn’t like you?�
�� Gareth Richards—one of her line cooks and another close friend—sailed into the break room. “You’re totally lovable.” Fondly, Gareth hugged Kristen. When he leaned back, he eyed Talia. “Everyone tells me this guy is superhot. I wouldn’t know. I’ve been turning out burgers all day. But he’s all anyone can talk about out front.”
Kristen confirmed as much. “That’s part of the reason I’m back here. I needed a chance to breathe.” And to think about why Casey had seemed so bugged to have run into Shane Maresca—whoever he was—in Kismet. “I could barely move out there for all the people stopping me to ask about ‘the new guy.’”
Gareth and Talia exchanged knowing glances.
“Well, I’ve got to see this earth-shattering superstud corporate flunky for myself, then.” Talia hopped down from the table. She headed for the entryway to the back room, through which the sounds of clanking dishware, Christmas carols, and chattering diners could be heard. “What’s he look like?”
Kristen resisted an urge to describe her own mental image of Casey Jackson. Her version of him involved far too many sexy smiles and imaginary darned socks to admit. Also, she wanted to play it cool. Her friends were already protective enough of her. They didn’t need any reason to think she might already be smitten with the enemy. Or at least with her sister’s enemy.
Or at least with her sister’s potential enemy.
Besides, being smitten was the province of Jane Austen heroines. Not sensible, forward-thinking, modern women.
So, sensibly, Kristen said, “He’s dark-haired. Polite. Really good-looking, but with this air of vulnerability that catches you off guard. You know? He’s surprisingly kind. And confident. And intelligent, too. But he’s not arrogant about it. In fact, just when you’re not expecting him to, he—”
She became aware that her friends were staring at her, apparently befuddled by her rhapsodic description of Casey.
“He’s the one in the suit,” Gareth advised Talia wryly.
“A suit? Then he is some corporate drone?” Talia shook her head. “You know how I feel about soulless businessy types.”
“He’s not soulless,” Kristen said in Casey’s defense, uncomfortably remembering herself saying something similar to Heather about the “permatanned CPA type” she’d be expected to disarm and distract. She lifted her chin. “He’s an orphan.”
They both gawked at her with twice as much disbelief.
“Or a foster child, at least,” Kristen amended, feeling a fresh tug of empathy for him. The look on Casey’s face when he’d told her about his watch being stolen had really struck her. She didn’t think he’d meant to tell her about it. “When he mentioned it, I got the sense that he didn’t like to talk about it much.”
Just like she didn’t like to talk about her attachment to her diner very much. But Kristen did identify with her work there. She was proud that she’d made something out of nearly nothing—even if she had almost gone broke while doing it. She was proud that she’d done something—anything—that Heather hadn’t done first, to more resounding applause, and better.
“Right.” Talia crossed her arms. “Tragedy. Very slick.”
“A difficult childhood isn’t ‘slick’!” Kristen protested.
“He’s probably not even telling the truth.”
“Talia!”
But her friend only poked her head into the passage to the dining room and looked around. “Hmm. It’s tough to single out ‘vulnerability’ in a crowd.” With a droll grin, she motioned for Gareth to join her. She pointed. “There. Is that him?”
Gareth held up his hands. “I don’t want to be in the middle of this. When you two fight, it makes me want my blankie.”
“Very funny.” Talia dragged him closer. “Just look!”
“I’m on Kristen’s side,” Gareth insisted.
Talia sighed. “Fine. I’ll just go ask him myself.” She tied on her apron, stuck her order pad in her pocket, then squared her shoulders. “One dreamboat, on the house, coming up.”
“No!” Gareth grabbed her. “You’ll blow Kristen’s chances.”
“What chances?” Kristen glanced up from the break table.
Gareth looked guilty. Then, airily . . . “Nothing. Never mind.”
But it was too late. By then, Kristen had already realized what he was up to. “Don’t try to set me up with him,” she warned. “I told you before, if I want a date, I’ll get one.”
“No, what you always get is a dirty, sordid fling.”
Kristen grinned. “That’s the best kind.”
“It’s the most meaningless kind,” Gareth said. “You deserve more. You deserve love. And happiness!”
“Believe me, the kind of love I get makes me very happy,” Kristen joked. “Especially when it’s done right.”
Talia backed him up. “You know what we mean! The second a guy seems like he might actually be nice and things might be going somewhere between you two, you drop him like a rock.”
“Right.” Skeptically, Kristen gazed at her friends. “So that’s why you want to fix me up with a mysterious troubleshooting former orphan who’ll only be in town until Christmas. Hmm. Sounds like perfect long-term romance material to me! What could possibly go wrong?”
“He,” Talia said meticulously, “was a foster kid.”
“He might be long-term romance material,” Gareth added, a familiar matchmaking gleam in his eye already. “We don’t know.”
Kristen only laughed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Sure, I like him. But I already gave him my litmus test—”
At that, her friends both groaned in unison.
“Do you want to die old and alone?” Talia asked.
“That stupid test is a guaranteed hookup-breaker,” Gareth said.
“—and he failed. Okay?” Kristen slid down from the break table, then straightened her apron. “Even if I wanted to sleep with Casey, I would have to resist. It’s my policy.”
“It’s dumb,” Gareth said. “Bordering on destructive.”
“You have to separate yourself from your sister some other way,” Talia put in. “Because that method is doomed to fail.”
“It’s working pretty well so far.” The idea of getting hot and heavy with someone who’d seen Heather “performing” was beyond creepy. “I’m going to stick with it.” Even if it does mean I’ll never get to experience Casey’s flat abs, taut biceps, and broad, strong shoulders for myself. If he had them, of course. Technically, she’d only imagined those physical details.
Along with his make-believe tight black boxer briefs. Mmm.
“As a strategy, it’s only going to fail more as time goes by, too,” Gareth said in a knowledgeable tone. “Because it’s not as though people get bored with porn or anything. I mean, that video of Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson is a bona fide classic. It’s right up there with Lesbian Spank Inferno in total views.”
Kristen sighed. “I wish it was different. I really do.”
She did, too. Because she bet Casey would be spectacular in bed. He had the eyes for it. His eyes stayed focused on you, full of attentiveness and admiration and not-at-all concealed attraction. He had the hands for it. His hands moved nimbly and surely and capably, just the way she enjoyed the most. Most especially, Casey had the mouth for it, Kristen mused, because his lips looked soft and full and firm and kissable and . . .
“Hey, Kristen. Heads-up!” Her pastry chef, Walden Farr, strode into the break room wearing his cranberry-compote-smudged chef ’s whites. His linebacker-size body, beard stubble, tattoos, and long, dark dreadlocked hair combined to make him an imposing presence—but his chocolaty brown eyes turned him into a teddy bear. “That asshat from the bank is out front.”
“Again?” Kristen groaned. “He’s not supposed to be here! I’ve been over this and over this with the bank. They were supposed to be looking into the situation.”
“Yeah.” Walden nodded. “They’re ‘looking into it’ by harassing you. My guess is, they think if they hound you enough, you’ll
just buckle and let them repossess the place.”
“Ha! They don’t know you very well then,” Gareth said.
Concernedly, he and Talia frowned at her. The whole gang knew about her travails with the bank. Somehow, during a recent bank merger, her mortgage documents for the diner had gotten mixed up with a bunch of repossessions paperwork. The bank’s threats to close her diner hadn’t exactly made Kristen’s Christmas season, but she couldn’t afford to hire a lawyer to rebut their claims on a more informed and official basis.
Maybe after the holidays, she’d be in a better financial position to deal with all of it. But Kristen couldn’t help hoping that if she could just dodge the bank rep for another few weeks, the bank would sort out its paperwork, let her off the hook, and save her all those attorney’s fees in the process.
“I heard Avery tell him you’re not here.” Walden nodded toward the front, where the waitress in question, Avery, was working. “I’d suggest you make that a true statement.”
Gareth and Talia nodded. “I’ll cover for you,” Talia told her, offering a shooing motion. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Don’t even worry about coming back to close later,” Gareth added. “We’ll handle everything.”
Kristen hesitated. It wasn’t like her to skip out early, but it was only a few hours until closing time. The Galaxy Diner was a breakfast-and-lunch joint only, open until 3:00 P.M. most days. She had hopes of expanding into dinner service someday, but until she bolstered her finances somehow, this was it.
She’d already sunk all of her personal resources into the diner. Every dime of profit went to covering operating costs and repaying her debts. She couldn’t give any more.
“Okay.” She handed her keys to Gareth, gave Walden a grateful nod, then outlined a few last-minute instructions to Talia. She shrugged into her coat. “Hey, thanks, you guys. You’re the best. I’ll have my cell phone if you need anything.”
“We won’t need anything.”
“But if you do—”
“Get out of here!” all three of them shouted at once.