The Way To A Soldier's Heart. Gina Wilkins

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       CHAPTER ONE

      UNLIKE HER IMAGINATIVE MOTHER, Elle O’Meara had never once pretended she could predict the future. Janet O’Meara’s so-called talent for occasional precognition was based more on wishful thinking than reality, but most of their friends indulged the little quirk. As for Elle, almost every day brought surprises—mostly good, some bad—and she generally preferred not to try to anticipate the next development. Still, when a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in a black leather jacket, worn jeans and a gray T-shirt sauntered into her little coffee shop on a quiet Wednesday morning in late October, she was struck by the oddest sense of heightened awareness—as if something about this customer was different from the others she’d served that day. Almost momentously so.

      Telling herself she’d been spending too much time with her lovable but deliberately eccentric mom, she smiled brightly as she set aside the cloth she’d used to wipe the counter and welcomed the newcomer. “Good morning. Welcome to The Perkery. What can I get for you?”

      He was her sole customer at the moment and he swept the overhead menu board with a quick glance. Pastries and other baked goods were listed on the left, soups and sandwiches on the right, but he didn’t spend much time studying either side. He glanced at the now-empty play corral behind the counter, a colorful area filled with toys and toddler books. Elle got the impression this guy didn’t miss many details of his surroundings.

      She couldn’t help noticing how nicely his thick, dark lashes framed almost sapphire-blue eyes when he focused on her face again. Her jolt of reaction this time was entirely explainable. Hormones. She supposed it was nice to acknowledge that hers were still in working order, despite being pretty much ignored for the past two busy years.

      “Coffee, please. And—” He motioned toward the almost-empty display stand on the counter beside her. “Are those filled doughnuts?”

      “Yes, they are. Made fresh this morning. Your choice of raspberry, lemon or Bavarian cream filling. There could be a chocolate left—no, I’m afraid they’re all gone,” she added after a quick double check.

      He ordered the raspberry. She liked his voice, she thought as she set the plated pastry on the counter in front of him, along with a big ceramic mug for him to fill at the coffee bar. Deep, rich, nicely modulated. It suited him.

      The guy was definitely attractive. Early thirties, close to her own age. Slim but solid build. Square-cut face with strongly carved features. His coffee-brown hair was thick and wavy, carelessly styled in a manner that would make any warm-blooded woman want to play in it. Her fingers tingled at the thought, and she suppressed an exasperated grimace. What was up with her today?

      After paying, the man thanked her and carried his plate to a tiny table by the window. He looked around with the idle curiosity of a new customer as he crossed the room in this lull between breakfast and lunch. She saw him smile faintly when he spotted a couple of whimsical plastic jack-o’-lanterns arranged on the shelves of tea-and-coffee-themed merchandise for sale. The splashes of orange and black stood out among the light woods, stainless steel fixtures and ocean-blue walls. Suited to the coastal South Carolina setting, the decor had turned out just as Elle and her business partner, Kristen Boyd, had hoped. Breezy, bright and welcoming.

      Tucking her shoulder-length, honey-colored hair behind one ear, Elle reached for her cleaning cloth again. She heard Amber, her employee, clattering around in the kitchen behind her, and she assumed everything was under control in there. Appreciating the momentary quiet in the usually bustling shop, she continued tidying behind the counter, watching surreptitiously as the man filled his cup from the self-serve coffee bar. He skipped creamer and sweeteners. The no-frills type. She wasn’t surprised.

      He caught her looking his way after he returned to his table. His somber eyes locked for a moment with hers, causing a tingle of awareness to course through her. She felt a silly urge to fan her cheeks with her hand, but she asked merely, “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

      “No, thanks. This doughnut is really good. Did you make it?”

      “I did. I’m glad you like it.”

      “So, you’re the shop owner?” he asked, lounging back in his seat to converse with her from across the room.

      She very much enjoyed this part of her job, meeting and chatting with people from nearby and far away who wandered in for a break and a snack, learning a little about them, sharing a bit of herself. Carolina hospitality was always on the menu in The Perkery—a slogan spelled out right across the top of the menu board above her. Still, it wasn’t often she reacted quite so intensely to a visitor—even one as attractive as this man. “I’m a co-owner. Elle O’Meara.”

      “Nice to meet you, Elle.” She got a thrill at the sound of her name spoken in his deep voice, proving yet again that her responses to him were out of the ordinary. “I’m Shane Scanlon.”

      He looked at her intently as he said his name, as though she should know it. She searched his features, once again noting the details that made his face so innately appealing, but she was certain she’d never seen him before. She was sure she’d remember if she had. This was not a man who’d be easy to forget. “Hello, Shane.”

      He seemed to find an odd sort of satisfaction—reassurance?—in the casual tone of her reply, which made her wonder again if he’d expected a different reaction. Perhaps she was simply reading too much into his expression.

      “It’s my first time to visit your town. It’s an interesting area.”

      She smiled. “Thanks. We locals agree.”

      Dragging her gaze from Shane’s face in an attempt to regain control over those pesky hormones, Elle glanced through the big front window looking out over Salt Marsh Avenue, the main thoroughfare through the business section of Shorty’s Landing. Late October wasn’t prime tourist season. This little town lay close enough to the larger, better known resort communities along the South Carolina coast to benefit from their summer traffic, but just far enough to slow considerably more in the off-season. Fortunately, during the three years The Perkery had been open so far, she and Kristen had built enough local patronage to carry them through those leaner months. They weren’t going to become wealthy, but they were paying the bills and enjoying the work, which was what counted. At least, as far as Elle was concerned.

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