The Boss's Secret Mistress. Alison Fraser

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      “We’re catering to McDonald’s fishing boat?”

      Grandpa’s idea of catering would come something closer to a thermos of coffee and a box of doughnuts. “No, they’ll place their espresso drink orders with Dylan as they pull into the dock and then I’ll have it all set on a table when they walk in. Dylan will pay up front eight dollars a head. I figure some of them might end up staying and ordering a full breakfast if things go well.” She smiled. “Everybody wins.”

      Grandpa grinned. “Well, look at you striking deals and making partners. Kennedys can do, I tell you.” It was the unofficial Kennedy Family Motto. The old man winced and shifted, rubbing his hip. “McDonald. The fireman with the fishing boat business, right?”

      “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?”

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