Small-Town Fireman. Allie Pleiter

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СКАЧАТЬ and Dad weren’t up to running the coffee shop even if they did come in from two towns over to help out with Grandpa’s recuperation. When the woman who rented the furnished apartment upstairs—where Grandpa and Grandma had lived back when they first opened Karl’s—was leaving for three months, it seemed as if God was ironing out all the details. The flat gave her a place to live above the coffee shop and not be holed up at home with her parents and grandfather. She had big plans to finalize—a girl needed her space, and Grandpa could be a handful.

      “He’s a good guy, your grandfather. He’s been nice to everyone at the fire department for that matter. We all wish him well—you tell him that.”

      That confirmed Dylan was a fireman. The department was so close that those guys made up a huge portion of Grandpa’s business. If she could sway even one of them toward an espresso drink, others would surely follow. The only trouble was that Grandpa was in the habit of plying the department with free coffee and doughnuts. Karla had taken enough restaurant management classes to know she ought not to be giving away free lattes and scones.

      Only, that’s how Grandpa conducted business. He seemed to always be giving away a lot of food. People loved him; could she really fault him for that? The shop was always packed with customers, and he took a personal interest in each one of them. “I’ll tell him you sent good wishes. Here...” She placed the latte in front of him. “Tell me what you think.”

      Watching customers eat—or drink—something she made was one of Karla’s greatest pleasures. Urbanites took their coffee beverages very seriously; it was a badge of honor when she got it right. People remembered and came back when she was on shift, so she learned the preferences of the “regulars.” Here in Gordon Falls, however, folks didn’t seem to be nearly so picky. Coffee was just that hot stuff that went with pie and...heaven help her...doughnuts. Needing a bit of an ego boost, and yes, not feeling it too much of a sacrifice to stare at the fireman’s handsome face, Karla leaned on the counter and waited.

      Dylan inhaled the aroma, catching the tang of cinnamon that now hung in the air. He wasn’t going to gulp it down like so many of the Karl’s Koffee customers—or “Klientele,” as Grandpa liked to joke. He was going to enjoy it. Karla hadn’t realized how much she missed genuine caffeinated appreciation until she watched Dylan’s eyes warm with approval on the first taste.

      “Good call.” He nodded, indulging in a second sip. “I really like this. Not too sweet, but good and strong. Just waiting for a Danish.”

      “Oh, the Danish!” Karla had completely—and uncharacteristically—forgotten about the Danish. She hurried to lift the lid on the footed display plate so much that the glass clattered and a dozen people looked up from their ordinary breakfasts. “Gimme a sec to heat that up.” She willed a flush to stay off her cheeks in the twenty seconds it took the microwave to warm the pastry.

      “I got time,” Dylan offered, a bit of latte foam lingering on the sandy stubble at the corner of his mouth. “Boat’s back in and I don’t have a shift at the firehouse for another six hours. All I have ahead of me is a lot of tiresome cleaning and advertising.”

      He said the last word as if it were a scourge. Marketing had been one of her favorite classes in school. She cocked her head to one side as she set the pastry in front of Dylan. “Advertising?”

      He sighed. “I’m a great fisherman, but I’m no hotshot at publicity. I’m meeting with somebody from the state tourism board in an hour to see how Gordon River Fishing Charters can—” he made irritated quotation marks in the air with his fingers “—reel in a few more customers.”

      “You need to find a boatload of novice fishermen with deep pockets, huh?”

      He narrowed one eye. “You say that like it’s fun.”

      Wasn’t it? She had a whole binder of marketing ideas upstairs on her kitchen table. Her shop would have great publicity. “PR’s like fishing. You have to go where the fish are and offer the right bait. You should be good at it.”

      He took a bite of the pastry, momentarily closing his eyes to savor the Danish. Grandpa got his baked goods from a little German farm woman just down the river, who delivered fresh every morning. Karla was having trouble keeping her jeans from getting too tight given the quality of the goodies, even if she did prefer scones to doughnuts.

      “I’d rather gut fish than advertise,” Dylan admitted. “And I don’t enjoy gutting fish.”

      “Yeah, but it’s part of the job if you want to grow your business, right?”

      “I prefer the term necessary evil.”

      Like coffee and doughnuts, Karla thought. Just to prove her point, two men at the corner table held their mugs aloft to cue her for a refill. “Be right back,” she sighed, lifting the pair of glass carafes from their perches on the brewer and preparing for another tour around the tables.

      * * *

      Karl Kennedy’s granddaughter didn’t belong in Gordon Falls. Dylan couldn’t claim to be an astute judge of female character—Yvonne had taught him just how wrong he could be about women—but Karla with a K clearly considered herself out of place in the quaint little tourist town he loved. Oh, she resembled her grandfather, but that was where the connection stopped. She was city all the way—from sleek dark hair that framed wide, ink-blue eyes to the boutique clothes and the manicured nails. She looked smart. As a matter of fact, she appeared highly ambitious. It wasn’t a trait he valued much anymore. Still, the coffee was a welcome change—he’d all but forgotten the pleasure of fancy espresso drinks.

      “I should have asked for your recommendation earlier,” he said when she returned to the counter. “All those weeks of ordinary coffee...”

      Karla chuckled, a low, sophisticated sound that pushed up one reluctant corner of her mouth. She wore an elegant shade of lipstick that he could only imagine came from some fancy city department store. “You must not come in here a lot.”

      It was true. Most days he was still out on the water at this hour, just finishing up with whatever junket of tourist fishermen he’d taken out on the river. He maybe came into Karl’s once a week, if that. Based on what he was sipping, that might have to change.

      “You’re right. I’m just in early for my meeting.” He took another long, slow sip of coffee. “Pity I can’t put one of those machines on my boat—the last batch of investment bankers I had out were all complaining about having to forgo their usual grande-soy-mocha-whatevers.”

      “Not the supermarket coffee from a thermos type of guys, huh?” She raised an elegantly arched eyebrow.

      Dylan winced at the thought of the can of supermarket coffee grounds in his kitchen and the dented old thermos currently rolling around the passenger seat of his truck in the parking lot. “This is exceptional coffee,” he admitted. “If you ask me, a lot of that other stuff is just high-priced hype.”

      “Well, lots of it is.”

      “Not this.”

      She planted her elbows on the counter, pleased at the compliment. “No, sir, not my coffee.”

      Dylan stared down at his cup, now nearly empty. He considered asking for another. The lady really did make a mean coffee. He took another sip. He’d never have thought to put cinnamon in there. And what had made him consent to one of those fancy drinks now that he’d retooled his tastes back СКАЧАТЬ