by Lisa Plumley
“I know what you meant,” Casey said. “The answer’s no.”
They all seemed perplexed. It’s just a meal, lame ass, Talia’s expression said. Dude, lighten up, Gareth’s added.
Mmm. Talia looks fantastic today, Walden’s finished.
“Hold on!” Avery hustled over, wearing her usual waitress’s uniform of a denim miniskirt, plaid flannel shirt, tights, boots, an apron . . . and a hokey red-and-white felt Santa hat, too. She plunked down a bottle of ketchup. “Don’t forget this!”
That capped it. Avery had remembered Casey’s condiment of choice. Gareth had remembered Casey’s favorite (so far) breakfast special of the day and renamed it after him. Walden had hand-delivered Casey a specialty baked good. Kristen had hand-created that baked good. And Talia had saved Casey from frostbite, delivered him a newspaper, and brought custom-prepared coffee to his exact specifications with a smile.
What’s more, they all seemed delighted to do it.
What were they trying to do? Disarm him completely?
This had to be some sort of trick. Some sort of small-town seasonal gamesmanship. A pretense of some sort—a maneuver with a specific end game in sight. Casey just didn’t know what it was.
In his experience, most people had an agenda. At least in the business circles he ran in, they did. That’s just the way it was. He hadn’t excelled in his line of work all these years just to be defeated by a bunch of amateurs now, when it counted most.
Were they all trying to protect Heather Miller? Casey wondered intently. Were they trying to lull him into not caring that Heather was torpedoing her TV special and then giving up his work in town? Were they making fun of his cluelessness about Christmas? Or were they all just that gosh-darn nice?
While Casey tried to decide which absurd scenario was more probable, all four of the Galaxy Diner crew stood beaming at him, oblivious to his confusion. A few more regulars entered the diner. They waved at him. Casey knew all their names by now, it occurred to him. He knew where they worked and how many children they had and whether they were Michigan natives. He knew them.
None of this was part of his assignment here.
Realizing that, Casey took another deep breath. He tried to fortify himself against Talia, Gareth, Walden, and Avery’s unique blend of friendliness, helpfulness, and conviviality. He tried to look past the welcoming attitudes of the Kismet Elks Club members, the warmth of the knitting-circle grandmas he’d met, and the “hey, what’s up?” geniality of the on-winter-break college students who usually occupied the next booth over.
It wasn’t working. He swore. Maybe he needed coffee first.
As Casey hastily slurped some java, his desperate gaze fell on Kristen. She was serving a plate of gingerbread waffles to a trucker sporting grizzled gray beard stubble and a knit cap.
These weren’t his kind of people, Casey reminded himself. They were bundled against the wintery, blizzardy, Christmastime-redolent weather he abhorred. They were unfashionably dressed, untanned, and unaware of the latest “It” nightclub. They were willing to make friends with strangers—with people like him.
Yeah. That was working. Feeling a fraction more normal, Casey swallowed more coffee. He let his gaze linger on Kristen, taking in her long blond ponytail, her energetic stance, and her wide smile. Yeah. None of this was affecting him anymore. Whew.
Then Kristen turned that smile of hers directly on him, and just like that, Casey was lost. The Christmas music crashed back into his consciousness, the gingerbread smell of Kismet’s whole-town holiday-air-freshener routine returned, and he couldn’t quit seeing ornamental sparkle every damn place he looked.
The worst part was, he liked it. He liked all of it. He felt part of it. He felt, for one instant, as though he belonged there. Or at least as though he could belong there, if he wanted to.
At the edge of his overpriced rental booth, the foursome of Walden, Avery, Gareth, and Talia smiled at him all over again.
“That’s more like it. Now you’re waking up,” Walden said roughly, nodding in a way that sent his dark dreadlocks flapping against his chef’s whites. “Eat that cinnamon-bun crescent, too! And don’t forget to tell Kristen what you think of it. We’re always testing new ideas in the pastry department.”
“We’re always testing savory stuff, too,” Gareth said enthusiastically, his wiry arms waving. “It’s all seasonal. We do this fantastic asparagus omelet with green garlic, smoked mushrooms, and thyme-roasted new potatoes in the springtime—”
“I won’t be here in the spring,” Casey interrupted.
Gareth exchanged a glance with Talia. She shrugged.
“Okay. Whatever you need to tell yourself, cranky.” Knowingly, Talia nodded at his coffee. “You’d better swallow some more joe before making any more predictions about your future whereabouts. Usually you need about a quart before you really start sounding coherent in the morning, I’ve noticed.”
Pointedly, Casey set down his coffee cup.
The four of them only chortled. Avery shook her head. “You don’t fool us, Casey. We all know how grumpy you are before the coffee kicks in.” She peered at his breakfast. “Aw, look! The kitchen staff gave you one of our special holiday-themed plates today! Usually we don’t break out the holiday-themed tableware until the week before Christmas. You know, to keep it special. The back-of-house staff must really like you.”
Casey frowned at his plate. Its porcelain edge was gilded with Christmassy stars, then bordered in miniature Christmas trees strung together with winding red and green ribbons.
Feeling provoked, Casey glanced toward the back of the diner. Lingering in the passageway, the busboy and dishwasher gave him a united, “Hey, Casey! How’s it going, bro?”
Their merry grins only served to put the capper on Casey’s morning. So much for his immunity to this emotional stuff.
“I’m not paying extra for this special treatment,” Casey warned the staff at large. “This booth rental is exorbitant enough as it is. So if you’re all angling for bigger tips—”
Looking wounded, they all frowned at him. Avery’s lower lip trembled. Gareth stroked his hipster beard. Talia rolled her eyes . . . then yelped and swatted Walden. With a sheepish, semi-naughty grin, Walden moved his hand from its place on her ass.
Hmm. Despite his current bad mood, Casey couldn’t help noticing the flirtatious chemistry between them. That was new.
“We’re not after bigger tips, you nitwit,” Talia broke in, hands on hips. “We like you. We take care of people we like.”
“Yeah!” Defiantly, Avery sniffled. “That’s what people do.”
Walden nodded. But Gareth only went on gazing in thought at Casey. “Not everybody does that, guys,” he said quietly.
His gaze met Casey’s. Something . . . bleak passed between them.
A second later, it was gone.
“But all the cool kids do it,” Gareth amended. “They also pick up their friends at the airport when needed, let them play ‘Everybody Hurts’ on repeat a gazillion times after a breakup”—he aimed a meaningful glance at Talia—“even when their friend hates REM with a seething passion, and they come along with them to help serve punch and cookies at the senior center tomorrow.”
Brightly, Gareth waggled his eyebrows. A variety of exclamations and grumbles met his thinly veiled hint/invitation.
But before the gang could get down to making or breaking plans to spend the evening throwing a holiday gala for seniors . . .
“Look. I’m here to get to the bottom of what’s going on with Heather Miller’s TV special,” Casey told them. “Once I do, I’m going to fix it. So if any of you can help me, please do.”
Suddenly, Gareth grew immensely interested in the assortment of vintage Christmas-tree toppers hanging on wires from the diner’s ceiling. Avery decided she needed to deal with another customer. Walden muttered something about needing to finish some pear-almond tarts for afternoon service. And Talia . . .
Talia looked right at Casey.
“If we thought helping you would save Kristen’s Christmas this year,” she said, “we might do that. But I’m not at all sure it would. So . . . nice try, but no. We’ve already got everything under control ourselves.”
Then she turned and went to deal with her customers, leaving Casey with the interesting realization that Kristen’s friends weren’t exactly fans of Heather’s glam invasion, either. They obviously blamed Heather for upending Kristen’s Christmas. They didn’t seem to like that much.
The only questions now were: Would Kristen’s pals be willing to do anything about it? If so, how far would they go?
Because judging by their unusual reactions to Casey’s request for help—and by Talia’s claim that they had things “under control”—Gareth, Talia, Avery, and Walden had already done something to improve Kristen’s Christmas. They definitely had something to hide. Casey was sure of it.
Now he just had to find out what it was.
Chapter 12
Galaxy Diner
Christmas Takeover: Day 12½
During the brief lull between lunch service and closing time, Kristen finally did what she’d been trying not to do all day: slide into Casey’s booth. Once there, she couldn’t help smiling at him, too, exactly the way she’d known she would.
That was a problem. Given how alive she felt when in Casey’s presence, Kristen didn’t doubt her infatuation with him was written all over her face. Her smile was like the Goodyear blimp of Christmas crushes, advertising her feelings as surely as lunging across the table and kissing him would have done.
Maybe even more. Since kissing was only physical . . . and the way she felt when she was near Casey went way beyond that.
Forcing herself to focus on something more material than the shape of Casey’s lips, the breadth of his shoulders, and the endearing crease that developed between his eyebrows whenever he concentrated on working, Kristen lounged in the booth.
“I figured it out,” she announced. “I know how you do it.”
Casey looked up, temporarily short-circuiting her ability to think straight. Geez, he was fun to look at. His jaw was rock solid, his eyes were the color of almost-caramelized sugar, and his dark hair made her want to run her fingers through it.
He set aside his cell phone. “Do what?”
“Troubleshoot the problems you’re assigned to. I know how you do it. I’ve been watching you for the past few days. It’s taken me a while, but I finally got a grip on your method.”
A playful smile edged onto his face. “If you wanted to get a grip on my ‘method,’” Casey said, “all you had to do was ask.”
“I didn’t know there was an open invitation.”
“For you? I’m an in-person Evite. Anytime, day or night.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Wanting to take him up on that—but knowing better than to do so—Kristen gave him a wily look. “This is part of it, you know. This”—she twirled her finger between them, indicating them both—“thing you do. This misdirection, or whatever you want to call it. I’m close, and you’re worried, and that’s why you’re trying to distract me with innuendo.”
“If you want some ‘innuendo’ from me, just ask.”
“See?” She laughed. “It’s a knee-jerk reaction from you.”
“I do see.” Casey nodded. “What do you think that means?”
“About you?”
Another nod. He seemed genuinely interested in her take on things. His cell phone went off, but Casey didn’t so much as blink. Kristen couldn’t help being impressed. Most people didn’t have that kind of focusing ability. They responded to their phones like Pavlov’s dogs, lunging for them instantly.
“I think it means you’re still doing it,” she said. “You’re hoping I’ll forget what I’ve figured out about your methods. But I won’t. Because here’s the thing—I’m still supposed to be keeping an eye on you. I made a promise. So I’m keeping it.”
“That’s the least you can do for your poor sick sister,” Casey agreed. “I’ll bet she really appreciates it.”
Kristen considered the few short phone calls she’d had from Heather recently. She hadn’t sounded particularly appreciative, but she had sounded pretty chipper for someone with chicken pox.
Because Heather had been quarantined, Kristen had eased up on her no-diva policy. She’d arranged a daily delivery of food and goodies to Heather’s room at Lagniappe at the Lakeshore, the five-star country inn she’d been staying at across the lake from The Christmas House B&B. It had been necessary to deliver enough food for two people each day, because of Heather’s unnamed “co-quarantinee”—probably her long-suffering assistant.
“Yes, I think she does appreciate it.” Kristen watched as Casey gave a friendly nod to one of the grips from the set of Live! from the Heartland, who’d arrived to pick up a to-go order . . . which reminded her why she was here. “But we were talking about you,” she said, “and your troubleshooting ability.”
Caught, Casey smiled at her. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Right. Which you do by listening to people!”
At the aha note in her tone, Casey quirked his mouth. “A heinous technique, I know. But sometimes it’s necessary.”
“It’s integral to your method,” Kristen agreed, “because without it, you couldn’t do the next part: suggest a solution.”
He shrugged. “Sounds pretty innocuous so far.”
“That’s just it! That’s the brilliant part of it. Because of the way you do it, everyone winds up thinking your idea is their idea. That makes them extra motivated to make it happen.”
Casey remained silent . . . then he reached out to touch her hand. Kristen jerked, feeling that same electric connection pass between them. She whipped up her gaze, wondering for the umpteenth time if he’d felt it too . . . then realized that Casey was merely tapping her hand so she’d lift it and allow him to retrieve the paperwork she’d accidentally put her hand atop.
He tapped his papers on the table to square them, then slid them into his laptop case. Near it, his computer hummed. His pens and notepad stood at the ready. His cell phone buzzed again. Again, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Interesting theory.”
“Correct theory,” Kristen pressed. “You don’t have to go down to the set, full of Terminator-style sound and fury, and force everyone to do your bidding. Because you make sure they want to do what you want them to do. Which is probably what the network or the production company wants them to do. It’s—”
“Ingenious?” Casey supplied with a devilish eyebrow raise.
“—insidious,” Kristen countered. “Because nobody knows what’s happening. Yet I’ve seen it work over and over again this week. During the course of a conversation with someone from Heather’s TV special, you subtly slide in a solution to whatever problem is at hand—delays, disasters, disorganization—and then you simply . . . wait a while. Before long, the person you’re talking with inevitably comes up with exactly the same idea you had!”
“Hmm.” His smoldering gaze lifted to hers, compelling and attentive and mesmeric. “That’s quite a trick.”
“Yes, it is!”
“But it’s just that—a trick. I do don’t tricks.”
Undaunted, Kristen went on. “It’s the only way you can achieve the unprecedented success you’ve achieved—”
“Have you been checking up on me?”
“—because if you tried to strong-arm people into going along with your solutions, they would resist. Inevitably. It’s just human nature not to do what you’re told, if you can possibly help it,” Kristen told him. “If you barged onto the set and started issuing orders, people would argue with you.”
“Right. But since I’m somehow hypnotizing them . . . ?”
“It’s not hypnosis. It’s . . . skill. And it’s smart.”
She wished she could think of a better explanation for it, but that’s what it boiled down to. Casey possessed an unprecedented skill for understanding what people needed and then giving it to them,
almost entirely imperceptibly. Unlike most people, Casey didn’t let his ego get in the way. He was willing to give other people credit—even for his own ideas. Once he’d succeeded, he wasn’t interested in crowing about it, either. “It’s . . . kind of remarkable,” she said.
“It’s troubleshooting.” He shrugged, full of apparent matter-of-factness. “Part of the job is leaving people happy when you’re done. Anyone can come in and be a hatchet man—”
“Like Heather accused you of being.”
“—but not everyone can devise real solutions.”
“Is that what Shane Maresca would say you’re doing?” Kristen pushed, reaching for the only reasonable counter-comparison she could make. “Devising real solutions?”
A frown. “He would say I’m getting in his way. I hope.”
“Still bloodthirsty, then?”
“Still winning.” Uneasily, Casey shifted. “I hope.”
Kristen shook her head. “What is it between you two, anyway? You were clearly close once. What happened?”
Casey frowned at his cranberry-pecan pie-in-a-jar with cinnamon whipped cream and streusel crumble. True to his word, he’d downed an entire mini pie every single day . . . and had nearly incited riots with his almost pornographic appreciation of it.
She’d say one thing for Casey: He delivered.
“Shane got what I wanted for Christmas one year,” Casey told her curtly. “I had a hard time getting over it.”
“Shane got the Tonka truck you wanted, and you didn’t?”
His jaw flexed. “Something like that.”
“No. That can’t be it. I don’t buy it.”
Casey lifted his gaze, dark and unfathomable, to hers. “Whether you do or not . . . that’s not my problem.”