The Catch of a Lifetime

Karla Kennedy doesn’t belong in Gordon Falls. The aspiring restaurateur has far loftier goals than running her grandfather’s quaint coffee shop. The only person who seems to relate is handsome volunteer firefighter Dylan McDonald. Dylan understands dreams—he risked everything to start his fishing charter business. Now he needs Karla’s help to make it succeed. As they work together, Karla and Dylan quickly discover that while their timing may be bad, their chemistry is undeniable. Karla always thought of Gordon Falls as a layover on her way to a big-city career, but could it be where her heart truly belongs?

Gordon Falls: Hearts ablaze in a small town

“This’ll get your motor humming.” Karla slid a coffee mug in front of Dylan.

“Go on, try it.” Her eyes were wide and persuasive.

Dylan took a sizable gulp. “Wow,” he said after a long pause. “That is…really…”

He set the cup back down on the counter and pushed it back toward her, smiling.

“…awful.”

Karla laughed. “Wow, don’t hold back on my account, Captain McDonald.”

“Maybe leave this one off the Coffee Catch menu.”

“Coward!” she playfully called as she snatched back the full mug.

“Purist,” he corrected. And just because her pout was so disarming, he added, “but the Captain part? You can keep that. How about you just give me a regular coffee today.”

“Aye, aye, sir. One boring regular coffee, coming up.” With a mile-wide smirk, she scribbled on the check before placing it facedown in front of him. “On the house.”

Smiling, Dylan turned the check to face him. Kaptain Koffee was written in an artistic hand, with a little doodle of fish and bubbles running up the side so the “$0” was the last of the bubbles.

Karla Kennedy sure knew how to bait a hook.

ALLIE PLEITER

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA® Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in speech from Northwestern University and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fund-raising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

Small-Town Fireman

Allie Pleiter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In their hearts humans plan their course,

but the Lord establishes their steps.

—Proverbs 16:9

To Les, who never made me bait a hook

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Dear Reader

Discussion Questions

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Coffee, doughnut. Coffee, doughnut. Coffee, Danish. Tea, toast. Exile.

Karla Kennedy ignored the ache of longing in her gut as she passed by the unused espresso machine to fill yet another basket of everyday coffee grounds for the ordinary brewer. Bringing an espresso machine to Gordon Falls—even the spectacular one Grandpa Karl had bought her as a graduation present—was an exercise in futility. Since her arrival last week, she’d only used the machine for one customer other than herself: a teenager who wouldn’t know a well-pulled latte from a diner milk shake. Everybody else seemed to find the drinks overpriced and unnecessary, preferring the regular brew in Karl’s clunky white mugs.

No one seemed willing to even try something new and refined—pure exile indeed for a foodie like herself. She might as well just give up and start subsisting on potato chips and Pop-Tarts.

A customer was here. All through culinary school, Karla knew she possessed the intuition Grandpa had told her about—the sixth sense that let her know a customer had come up to the counter needing something. “Shop eyes,” Grandpa called it. Sliding the basket of coffee grounds into its place for the hundredth time on the commercial coffee machine, Karla turned and forced the weariness out of her voice before asking, “What’ll it be?”

“Well, what do you recommend?” If his cobalt-blue eyes weren’t enough to startle her, his question did the rest.

She couldn’t help herself. “A trip back down the interstate toward civilization?” Feeling guilty, she amended to “Or the Tuesday special—coffee and...”

“Two doughnuts,” the guy finished for her. “Pretty popular, I see.”

“A Karl’s Koffee Klassic.” Some days Grandpa’s fondness for K-based alliteration was a bit hard to take. She wanted to love the hokey charm of this place as much as everyone else seemed to, but it just wasn’t coming.

“Myself, I’ve never been one for what everyone else is having.” Mr. Blue Eyes leaned against the counter, swiping off a baseball cap to reveal a mess of reddish-brown hair. Karla was pretty sure he was one of the firefighters from across the street who made up the shop’s regular customer base, but without the usual Gordon Falls Volunteer Fire Department blue T-shirt, she couldn’t be sure.

So he didn’t want what everyone else was having? The espresso machine practically called to Karla from behind the counter. She felt a smile light up her eyes. If she could win over just one of those guys... “Well, you know, we’re trying out some espresso drinks if you’re interested in something different.”

He looked intrigued, peering behind her at the mass of spouts and knobs. “Fancy. Karl’s moving up in the world. How is the poor guy anyway? A broken hip takes a long comeback, I hear.”

“Grandpa’s doing okay.” Karla wiped her hands on a dish towel and reached for one of the new cups and saucers she’d brought to the shop out of sheer desperate optimism last week. The standard-issue stoneware mugs everyone used for coffee in this place had to be twenty years old by her guess. “Three more weeks of physical therapy and he ought to be out and about.”

“You’re Karla,” the man said, a disarming smile brightening his features. “Karl said he was getting you to take over while he was laid up.” He slid onto the counter seat with an athletic grace. “Karla with a K, has to be.”

It was a phrase Karla said over and over whenever giving her name to anyone. “That’s me.” Some days the K spelling was unique and helped people remember her. Other days it confused clerks and was just plain annoying. Another K-based alliteration; Grandpa Karl, Dad Kurt, daughter Karla. Sure, it proved useful for identifying junk mail and making small talk with bank tellers, but outside of Karl’s Koffee it didn’t hold much weight.

The customer unzipped his sweatshirt and stuffed the cap into the back pocket of his jeans. The open sweatshirt revealed a well-worn fire department T-shirt stretched across a broad muscular chest. The scent of early morning and river wafted across the counter—a wet, woodsy smell that never ceased to remind Karla of childhood fishing trips. Whoever this guy was, when he wasn’t a fireman he was outdoors and active. He rubbed his hands together as if he found the coffee prospect as exciting as she did. “Okay, Karla with a K, what should I have this morning?”

Finally, a tiny bit of creative license! It was like opening a window to clear a stale room. Karla carefully set the cup and saucer on the table between them. This was what she did best, what got her up in the morning. What filled the margins of her culinary school textbooks with ideas for adventurous menus and exotic flavor combinations. What made her similar to Grandpa but altogether different from him, as well. “Tell me your three favorite foods.”

He raised his eyebrows, then steepled his hands together in thought. Karla’s spine began to hum and tingle. The three other times she’d tried this favorite strategy to create the right coffee drink for someone, they’d huffed as if she’d handed them a final exam, and then ordered plain java. But here was a guy who got what she was trying to do. Who looked as if he found the process intriguing. After an electric moment of deep consideration, he replied, “Your grandfather’s apple pie, a perfect steak and Dellio’s fries.”

The local diner’s legendary fries didn’t provide much of a clue, nor did the steak—except that he was a standard-issue Midwestern male—but the apple pie offered up a hint. “Cinnamon latte with an apple Danish.”

She waited for his nose to turn up. For a fancy-schmancy coffee wisecrack to come. Instead, he smiled. “I’m game. I’ve always liked my coffee strong and sweet anyways, and I am partial to a good Danish.”

“Great.” Karla grinned in victory, pulling the milk out of the small fridge below the counter. She launched into small talk while she worked the machine, just the way she’d been trained at the coffee shop back in Chicago where she’d worked her way through culinary school. Where she’d been one of the shop’s best baristas. Where she’d solidified her calling to give interesting people exceptional coffee. “What’s your name?”

“Dylan McDonald.”

Now the river scents made sense. “The fishing guy?” Grandpa had mentioned that someone with that last name had started running fishing charters up the Gordon River for the tourist season.

“That’s me. I’ve been up since four—this better have a good kick to it.”

The day was looking up. “Kick starts with a K.” Maybe there was a little more of Grandpa in her than she was ready to admit.

“Ha, that’s a good one. You’re a natural. How long are you in from the city?”

Karla tamped the finely ground coffee into the special container and slid it into the machine. “Shows that much, huh?”

“Well, the crack about the interstate was a dead giveaway. That and the fancy apron.”

Karla smoothed a hand over the vintage apron that had been a graduation gift from her roommate. She’d started a collection during her last year of school while the dreams of opening her own shop started to really take shape. Wearing the distinct aprons to work in Karl’s had been her declaration of sorts—no matter how many broad hints Grandpa dropped—that this stint was just temporary, not a gateway to joining the family business. “Oh. Well, I’m here until August or until Grandpa’s back on his feet, whichever comes first.” It wasn’t that she didn’t love her grandfather—it had been an easy decision to shelve her professional plans for a few months while he recuperated. It was just that no one seemed to realize she didn’t belong here in Gordon Falls.

She certainly couldn’t leave running Karl’s to Dad. The “shop eyes” had skipped a generation in her family—Mom 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 to “black, one sugar” java? “You can make these to go?” Karl’s never really did a “to go” business, but she looked ready to try new things.

“Absolutely. I mean, a couple of national chains have built a fortune on it—why not Karl’s?” She shrugged. “Gordon Falls is just catching on. Or catching up.”

There it was, that ever-so-slightly judgmental tone he’d see every now and then from charter customers. Nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live all the way out here. It didn’t take a marketing genius to see she wasn’t terribly thrilled to be here. Which was funny to him, because Dylan had moved heaven and earth to be here. “Gordon Falls has lots of other charms.”

“Yeah.” She clearly didn’t hold to that theory. He could spot that bored look a mile off.

Well, Chicago had bored him. Wouldn’t she be surprised to discover he’d been one of those blue-suited, briefcase-toting caffeine junkies rushing to make the seven-ten downtown? He’d bought into the whole upwardly mobile mind-set, working long hours and hitting all the right societal notes. He’d even found himself the perfect partner in Yvonne, sure she was the love of his life.

Then the love of his life left him high and dry for someone with what she deemed were faster prospects for success. Ditch your future fiancé for his boss? Who did that? How had he not seen that icy vein of ambition in her before she’d slit it open right in front of him?

He could almost be thankful. Almost. With the life sucked out of him like that, it had only taken Dylan three weeks after Yvonne’s grand exit to realize how much he had bought into a giant lie. He hated corporations. And suits. And cubicles in high-rise buildings. He’d never truly wanted any of it, just thought it was what he was supposed to want. Half of what he’d done, he’d only done out of Yvonne’s urging for what he ought to be.

Startled out of his corporate stupor, Dylan woke up to what made him truly happy. He slogged it out six more months in that suffocating office to scrape together the boat, the money and the contacts to kiss Chicago goodbye and launch his charter fishing business. He hadn’t ventured the three hours back to Chicago since. He owned one suit for weddings and funerals, and hoped to never touch another briefcase again. The fancy coffee, however...that might be worth revisiting.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” Karla remarked, straightening up off the counter. “What time do you normally come in?”

“I’m not much of a regular, and if I do get here it’s rarely before ten-thirty.”

“Well, that explains it. I’m usually done by eleven.”

“Are you the only one who makes these?” He was pretty sure he knew the answer. Emily, the other server, was a nice enough lady, but he doubted the fifty-year-old ex-librarian cared to learn barista skills.

She smirked. “Let’s just say I don’t think you’d want Emily’s version of a cappuccino.”

He nodded in agreement.

“Karla?” someone called from the room full of tables behind him.

With the tiniest glimpse of weariness, she grabbed the glass carafe again from the brewer behind her and walked toward the sea of customers. Dylan took another exquisite sip and watched her move through the tables, efficient but not engaged, feeling his curiosity rise and stretch like a lazy cat. Or was that caution getting his back up?

Karla returned. “So...what brought you in today?”

“That tourism meeting.” He checked his watch. It was only ten minutes until his meeting with Cindi the tourism rep—Cindi with an i, for crying out loud, with a flighty personality to match the alternative spelling. If he wasn’t eager to go before, now he felt certain Cindi was too young, too perky and too cheerful to come up with anything truly effective. “Like I said, I need some new ideas to grow my charter fishing business.” He’d gone through his savings faster than he’d expected launching this business, and pretty soon the boat loan payments were going to start becoming a challenge if things didn’t pick up.

“What about applying a little added value? You could bring your customers in here. End their experience with a nice, home-style breakfast and some killer coffee.”

While Dylan abhorred business school buzz-terms like “added value,” the simple idea sounded ten times better than the unimaginative set of bullet points Cindi had emailed to him yesterday. “You know, it’d be nice to end the morning on a high note even if the customers came in empty-handed. Only I can’t exactly pull the boat up to Tyler Street, you know?” Karl’s Koffee sat right in the middle of Gordon Falls’ main thoroughfare, Tyler Street. The shop was, in many ways, the social center of the town—at least for the locals. Tourists tended to breakfast at their inns or the more upscale restaurants.

Karla pulled a ballpoint pen from her apron pocket and a napkin from the canister on the counter. “Solvable...” One eye narrowed while she began making calculations, rapidly scratching numbers on the napkin.

“Hey, coffee here?” a call came from a table to his left.

Without looking up from her calculations, Karla held up one finger, “In a second...”

A disgruntled sigh from the customer made Dylan wince, then let out a breath as Karla circled a number at the bottom of the napkin. She slapped down the pen, reached behind her to the coffee brewer—again, almost without looking—and then stared at Dylan. “Stay,” she commanded with a pointed finger just before dashing out toward the diners.

Woof, Dylan thought, annoyed. What am I, a puppy?

Still, he did stay. He told himself it was to finish off the great coffee, but the command still stung. Today’s charter had been hard to take—a herd of accountants bent on upstaging one another the entire morning. As much as he chafed from the upscale customers, they were essential to his business. These past ten minutes had been the most pleasant of his day: it was nice to have someone take his satisfaction into consideration instead of the constant press of “customer service.”

Returning, Karla slid the carafe onto the brewer so fast it nearly sloshed out the top. She had energy to spare, this woman. Eyes bright, she spun the napkin to face him. “How many trips do you have the rest of this month?”

Dylan squinted in thought. “Eight.” That hurt to admit; it needed to be more like ten or twelve.

“Easy deal. You pay a flat eight dollars a head, I take orders in advance that you phone in from the dock, and they have perfect specialty drinks and such waiting for them when they arrive. That’s if Grandpa approves it—” she parked her hand on her hip with an air of determination “—which he will.”

Dylan had to admit, it solved a multitude of problems. His customers got a good send-off no matter what they caught—or failed to catch. If he was smart and applied himself, he could roust up some repeat business while they sipped. And good old Karl got some extra business. Maybe “added value” wasn’t as evil as it sounded. “You’re one sharp cookie, Karla Kennedy.”

The corner of her mouth curled up into the cutest little grin. “Just for that, there’s free lunch in it for you—well, late breakfast anyway—if you like.”

Dylan liked that idea so much he ordered scrambled eggs and toast while he phoned Cindi to cancel their meeting.

Chapter Two

“Looking good there, Grandpa!” Karla called to her grandfather and his physical therapist when she came in the front door of his house an hour later.

“That’s what I told him,” Rosa, the therapist, said, frustration clipping the edge of her words. Her grandfather was impatient and used to activity; ensuring that he got his rest was no small feat. The only thing harder than getting him to take it easy was coaxing him to do the required exercises to heal his hip. That lion-tamer of a job required patience, diplomacy and a thick skin. Medical progress aside, it seemed to irk Grandpa that Karl’s Koffee was actually surviving without him behind the counter.

“We miss you at the shop,” Karla confessed, momentarily unsure if that would make it better or worse. “Everyone’s asking how you are.”

“How do they think I am?” Grandpa snorted. “I’m stuck using this stupid walker like some old coot.”

Karla detoured into the living room to kiss her grandfather’s cheek. “Yeah, but you’re my old coot. It won’t take long before you’ll be kicking me out of here and running Karl’s like always.” That was a bit of an overstatement. While everyone agreed her grandfather would be back at his namesake shop sometime in the future, only Karl believed he’d be “running it like always.” He’d needed to slow down even before the broken hip ground him to a halt.

Rosa raised one eyebrow while Grandpa merely growled. Evidently today’s therapy session had been particularly prickly. Karla escaped to the kitchen, where she slid her handbag and a box of Danish from the shop onto the counter. Mom’s tired eyes matched Rosa’s as she looked up from the sink. Her parents, who lived twenty minutes west of Gordon Falls, were staying with Grandpa off and on until he could safely be on his own. The doctors thought that would be two more weeks. Grandpa thought it should be two more hours—hence Mom’s weary expression.

“Everyone having fun today?” Karla teased.

“Oh, loads.” With her father trying to keep regular hours at his shelving business during the day, Karla knew her mother’s days with Grandpa could get long indeed. Mom nodded toward the living room, whispering, “Rosa is a saint. I’d have throttled him by now. If your father hadn’t left an hour ago, I think they would have come to blows.”

She knew the feeling. Kennedys—and those who married them—were doers. Action people, thinkers and planners. Grandpa’s extended convalescence was taking its toll on everyone. Somehow, for reasons that weren’t too hard to guess, all this was opening up an old Kennedy family wound. Karla’s father, Kurt, had declined to take what Grandpa saw as his place behind the counter at Karl’s. Dad’s choice not to follow in his father’s footsteps had always been a wedge between them. Karla’s stepping in to run Karl’s Koffee, even as reluctantly as she had, just seemed to drive that wedge an inch or two deeper. Add a painful surgery, long hours of fidgety Kennedys sitting around hospitals and living rooms, and combustion was unavoidable. Karla didn’t opt to live in the apartment above the shop rather than here at Grandpa’s house for no good reason—she’d leave that volatile situation to her parents, thank you very much.

“Your books came.” Mom gestured toward the kitchen table. “Weighed a ton. I thought online classes didn’t need all those textbooks.” Karla had enrolled in an online restaurant management certificate program even before Karl’s fall. Now she was doubly glad to have the business-related work keeping both her future plans in motion and her mind occupied while all the way out here in Gordon Falls.

Karla began opening the box. “I got a few extra books from the entrepreneurship program. Business stuff.” Pulling off the packing tape, she removed the filling to see Restaurant Ownership, The Chef’s Guide to Marketing, and Culinary Management alongside the two workbooks needed from her online courses. The used texts had clearly seen wear and tear, but they were half the price of the new ones. Plus, if she was fortunate, they came with highlights and notes from their previous student owners.

“Ambitious,” Mom remarked from over Karla’s shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Karl could probably tell you half of what’s in those books.” She winked. “Or so he’d boast.”

“Aren’t we done yet, Rosa? My hip is yelling at me.” Grandpa’s groaning echoed into the kitchen from the living room.

“A saint, I tell you.” Mom was laughing, but probably only because she was picking up her car keys. “I’m off to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”

Oh, there was a long list of what Karla needed, but Halverson’s wasn’t likely to carry any of it. “No, I’m going to place an order with the restaurant supply place this afternoon after I talk to Grandpa about something.”

Mom raised a curious eyebrow. “You can tell me about it later, okay?” She ducked her head into the living room. “Karl, be nice to Rosa. She’s here to help.”

Karla heard her grandfather grumble something about the nature of helpfulness, punctuated by a yelp that generally signaled his descent into the recliner chair. His therapist walked into the kitchen, returning the blue cardboard folder that held the papers showing Grandpa’s daily exercises to its spot on the counter. He was supposed to do exercises twice a day when Rosa wasn’t here, but often refused. “Two more weeks.” She sighed. “Remind him he can go out and about after two weeks but no driving for another month.”

“We’ll see about that!” Grandpa yelled from the living room. “Morehouse is a tyrant, I tell you.”

Karla offered Rosa a shrug. “Dr. Morehouse is on your side, Grandpa,” she called into the other room. “Try to remember that.”

“See if you can get him to keep his feet elevated with ice on that hip for twenty minutes twice this afternoon. After those exercise he claims he does, but doesn’t.” She looked at Karla. “I told your mom just what I told him—he’s doing better than expected. He’ll make a full recovery if we can just keep him from overdoing it.”

Grandpa was the king of “overdoing it.”

“I’ll do my best. You take care. Want a Danish?”

Rosa sighed, took a Danish and headed out the door.

The minute the door closed, Grandpa was making noises in the living room. “Can we go out to lunch today? I won’t tell a soul.”

“Everyone will see you and rat you out.” Karl Kennedy could no more walk down the streets of Gordon Falls unrecognized than Karla could whip up a soufflé over a candlestick. The man’s coffee shop was the unofficial town hall. It was part of the charm—and the pain—of being here: everyone knew Karl, and everyone knew she was Karl’s granddaughter. She was starting to really miss Chicago’s anonymity.

“No one will tell on me. Call Vi. She’ll come spring me.” Violet Sharpton had come to visit Grandpa multiple times in the hospital and stopped by every other day. While she was as feisty as Grandpa, Vi wasn’t a likely conspirator for anything that would endanger his recovery.

“Dad would have my hide,” she replied as she walked into the living room with a cheese Danish on a napkin. “You know that. And Mrs. Sharpton wants you to get better, so I doubt she’ll help you cheat. We’ll order out from Dellio’s, how about that? Besides, I struck a deal at the coffee shop today and I want to tell you about it.”

That got Grandpa’s attention. “What kind of deal? You bringing in some other fancy machine no one knows how to work?”

It was true; no one else seemed to be able or willing to work the cappuccino machine. One high school student managed a brave attempt, but it ended in an incident so awful the entire shop staff had made a pact never to tell Karl how hazelnut syrup got into the heating vents. The other waitress, Emily, had nearly refused to touch the machine.

Karla sat down on an ottoman opposite her grandfather. “We’re going to supply breakfast to Dylan McDonald’s charter fishing customers once or twice a week. I worked out a package deal for the next month.” She laid out the terms of the agreement as Grandpa ate the Danish. “We shook on it, but I told him it wasn’t official until I got the okay from you.”

“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?”

Karla’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Well, what?”

“Sweet or salty?”

He’d totally lost track of the question. “Um...both?” It was true, he didn’t really have a preference. “Does it work that way, like sweet-and-sour pork?”

“Only sometimes.” She squinted her eyes in thought, her fingertips drumming softly against the counter. “Are you willing to stray from coffee?”

He pulled back. “Like how?”

“Chai tea. A little spicy, but with milk and honey. Very global.”

That was a joke. He plucked at the ripped sweatshirt he was wearing. “Dylan McDonald, international man of mystery?”

Her laugh was engaging, a musical sort of giggle, soft and light. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“No offense, but it sounds like a girlie drink.”

Now it was her turn to balk. “Tea? England’s male population and half of the Middle East would take issue with your narrow-minded attitude, bub.” That last word had a decided “I dare you,” flavor to it.

Okay, he could have a little fun with this. “Fine. I am man enough to try chai whatever it is. But I’m not holding out a lot of hope here, and there had better be some serious caffeine in that cup.”

She began working the dials on the espresso machine. “Oh, this’ll get your motor humming. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some Japanese matcha. That’s got more kick than most espressos.” She leaned in. “And it’s green. Kind of like algae.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

A few minutes later, Karla slid a tall mug in front of him. It did smell exotic, but not necessarily in a good way. Dylan was beginning to think this little game wasn’t going to end well.

“Go on. Try it.” Her eyes were wide and persuasive.

He took a sizable gulp. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to explore the many different tastes the drink combined. “Wow,” he said after a considerable pause. “That is...really...”

Her eyes popped even wider and she leaned on the counter with both elbows.

“Awful.” He set the cup down on the counter and pushed it back toward her.

“Oh, don’t hold back on my account, Captain McDonald, tell me what you really think.”

“I think it tastes like something fish would enjoy, not fishermen. Unless I’m hosting a fishing bridal shower, let’s leave this one off the Coffee Catch menu. And the Machu Picchu algae? Let’s skip it.”

“Matcha,” she corrected, then added a playful “coward,” as she snatched back the full mug. The sparkle in her eye undercut any force she tried to give the barb.

“Purist,” he corrected right back. “Tea’s not my thing, never has been. If it’s any consolation, I liked yesterday’s contender much better.” Just because her pout was so disarming, he added, “And the captain part. You can keep that.”

“Aye, aye, sir. From now on, all beans, no leaves.”

It took him a second to work out that she meant all coffee and no tea. “Steady as she goes. How about you just give me a regular coffee today—black, one sugar. You can surprise me again next Wednesday when I bring in the first customers.”

“One boring regular coffee, coming up. On the house, on account of your recent culinary disappointment.” She pulled one of the stoneware mugs from the shelf behind her, unceremoniously dumped in the sugar and filled it with coffee. With a mile-wide smirk, she scribbled for a second on a meal ticket before placing it facedown beside the mug in front of him and sauntered away to tend to a table.

Smiling, Dylan turned the check to face him. “Kaptain Koffee” was written in an artistic hand, with a little fish-and-bubbles doodle running up the side so that the “$0” was the last of the bubbles.

Karla Kennedy sure knew how to bait a hook.

Chapter Three

“And that’s one half-decaf soy with extra cinnamon.” Karla set the final beverage in front of Dylan’s six fishermen as they sat at the coffee shop’s front table the following Wednesday morning. Dylan had phoned in their orders fifteen minutes ago, and true to her expectations, each man had requested a highly specialized drink.

She was proud of herself; they might not ever have ventured into Karl’s on their own, which meant her marketing idea had worked. Even at someplace as nondescript as Karl’s, she had a knack for finding customers and giving them what they wanted. The affirmation bloomed a wonderful optimism in her chest. Grandpa always said skills were one thing and anyone could learn them, but the “sense” to run an eating establishment was an inborn gift. Today told her she had that gift.

Karla smiled to herself. The first official Coffee Catch was an odd sight indeed. While Dylan referred to them as fishermen and requested she do the same—evidently Kaptain Koffee had a knack for customer service even if he did hate marketing—Karla found that a generous term. Calling the collection of well-groomed men in front of her “fishermen” was like calling a guest at a dude ranch a “cowboy.”

These six sure didn’t fit any image Karla had of guys who normally cast hooks into water. All in their forties and dressed in upscale sportswear, this crowd looked as if they belonged on yachts at some oceanfront resort. She practically needed a calculator to add up the premium logos, brand names and expensive gadgets these guys touted. If they fished, it sure wasn’t to put dinner on the table. Still, she was glad to have them in Karl’s. These were exactly the type of customers she wanted to serve when she opened her own place.

A man in a sky-blue polo shirt and preppy plaid shorts arched his eyebrows after taking a sip of his double-shot latte. “Hey, this is good.” Karla chose to ignore the surprise in his expression. Hey, she wanted to say, you have not left the civilized world that far behind. Which really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black—she’d had to drive forty minutes away to get all the supplies she needed to stock a full espresso bar and had been known to gripe about Gordon Falls’ “overwhelming quaintness” entirely too often. Hadn’t she just referred to her stint in Gordon Falls as “exile” last week?

“I told you I wasn’t exaggerating,” Dylan said, coming to her defense. His stained denim shirt looked especially ragged next to his current customers. His eyes were bright, even if his morning stubble gave him the scruffy, unkempt air. He smelled of soap and salt but still a bit of fish, as if he’d tried hard to clean up for his appearance in the shop but hadn’t completely succeeded. He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets and glanced around the group. “Not a bad way to end a morning on the river, don’t you think?”

“Makes up for the massive one that got away,” Mr. Double Shot said, pushing his expensive sunglasses up on top of his head to give Karla a million-watt smile. Had she seen him on television? One of those trial lawyers with commercials and 1-800 numbers? He had that look of a man in search of his next deal. Dylan said they came from Chicago. Maybe he could be a future customer—lawyers liked power breakfasts, right?

“Now who’s exaggerating,” Half Decaf goaded. “I could have fit that fish in my pocket.”

“Mixed luck out on the water?” Karla asked, setting a stack of menus in the center of the table. “Your coffee’s part of the catch, but we’ll whip up breakfast if you’re in the mood for a bit more.” She’d worked for ten minutes to come up with the perfect, nonintrusive way to hint that they might want to consider ordering breakfast.

“You cook as well as you pull a latte?” Double Shot asked, looking doubly charming as he extended a hand. “I’m James Shoemacher.”

“Jim Shoe,” Half Decaf cut in. “Call him Jim Shoe.” He said it again, pronouncing it like “gym shoe” and pointing to his gleaming white leather sneakers just in case she didn’t catch the joke. Shoemacher looked weary, as if years of repetition had rendered him immune to the gag.

The same way she’d grown wearily resigned to explaining, “No, that’s Karla with a K” over and over. She shook Shoemacher’s hand—one that didn’t look like the kind that had done any time with night crawlers and a hook—and felt an unlikely kinship with the man. “Karla Kennedy.” She nodded to the sign in the window. “Karl’s my grandfather. And I don’t do the cooking, but I can sure vouch for it.”

“Shoemacher Realty. Industrial properties.” Hmm...real estate. How fortunate was that? “And I’ve been up so long,” he went on, “it feels like I ought to have lunch. Can you do a panini?”

“Sorry, no panini maker here, Mr. Shoemacher. We don’t really do a lot of lunch fare.” She almost laughed, picturing what Karl would think of the uppity term for a grilled sandwich. “But I’m sure I can set you up with a grilled cheese.”

She expected him to grimace, but he smiled instead. “Do that,” he replied. “But call me Jim.”

As she pulled out her order pad, Karla decided she might have to eat her words about never making any business contacts in Gordon Falls. “Okay, one grilled cheese for Jim. Any of the rest of you need something more than your coffees?”

Half the group ordered a full breakfast, while three of them made a big show of checking their watches and smartphones, too busy to dally over eggs and toast.

“If you three need to head out, I’ll go get your cleaned catches wrapped up and iced for the trip home.” Dylan had told Karla he was adding that extra service—and evidently it had been a good idea.

“Dave’s will fit in his coffee cup, I bet,” one of them snickered.

“Hey, at least I caught something,” Dave replied. “So far all you caught was grief from your wife.” That brought a laugh from the whole group.

“Dylan, we enjoyed our morning,” pronounced Half Decaf, who had introduced himself as an accountant from a big firm Karla only barely recognized. “I’ll have my assistant set us up for another later in the season.” He sent a smile Karla’s way. “And I’ll be sure to leave time for breakfast.”

Dylan shot Karla a grinning thumbs-up as he headed out the door with the exiting half of the group. So far, the first-ever Coffee Catch seemed to be a success.

“Dylan said this was your idea?” Jim asked when Karla brought their food orders to the table. At Grandpa’s suggestion, Karla had asked Emily to come in a bit early so that Karla could give the fishermen her nearly undivided attention, only slipping out to make the all-too-occasional coffee drink for another customer. The executives seemed to enjoy the exclusive service—which had been the point all along.

“Seemed a nicer way to end an early morning than just getting back in the car,” Karla replied. After a second, she quipped, “The espresso machine is too heavy to roll down to the dock.”

“Smart and funny.” Jim nodded to his two companions. “And all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m from Chicago, actually,” Karla explained. “Just finished culinary school. I’m helping my grandfather out while he’s laid up from hip surgery.”

“Culinary school. That explains a lot. So, Karla, what do you want to do after you finish helping Grandpa out?”

It seemed like a hundred years since anyone had asked her that question. Everyone in Gordon Falls only inquired how long she planned on staying—nobody seemed to care that she had shelved big plans to do time behind the counter. “I want to open a downtown breakfast eatery. A coffee shop like this, only a bit less...” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence without seeming to put down her grandfather’s beloved establishment.

“Rustic?” Jim finished for her.

Karla felt her face flush. “Well, yes.” She didn’t want to insult Grandpa’s place, just wanted to explain—especially to someone like him—that her dream had a lot more style and sophistication.

“It’s a well-used real-estate term. Useful when explaining grilled cheese to the panini crowd.”

She managed to laugh at that. “I get it.”

“It’s a very good grilled cheese,” Jim added. “Takes me back, you know?”

“I’m glad you liked it.” She looked at the other men. “Your breakfasts all okay?”

The other two nodded behind full mouths. “Hmm.”

Jim pulled out his wallet and handed Karla one of those top-level charge cards. “I’ll get this, boys.” He also pulled out a business card. “When you get ready to open that place, Karla Kennedy, you give me a call. I’m good at spotting people who will go far in this world.” He pointed at her. “You may just be the best catch of the day.”

Karla slipped the business card in her pocket and smiled. She’d been moaning to God in her prayer journal last night that being cooped up in Gordon Falls was feeling like a colossal detour. This morning, however, felt like God’s personalized reminder that she could pursue her dream even while out here. The card in her pocket—and the contact it represented—served as a deposit on the future she had beyond the counter at Karl’s.

The massive tip Shoemacher added to the meager breakfast tab? Well that was very nice, as well.

* * *

“So.” Jesse Sykes, a fellow volunteer fireman at the Gordon Falls Volunteer Fire Department, pulled on a gray T-shirt and shook his still-wet hair as they stood in the locker room later that afternoon. “How was the big rig gig?”

Dylan yawned—it was tiring to pull a shift as a volunteer firefighter right after a full morning of playing host to a bunch of city visitors. It was 3:00 p.m. and he’d been up for eleven hours already. “Not bad, actually.”

Jesse took one last swipe at his hair before tossing the towel he held into the large canvas laundry bin in the corner. They’d just finished a demonstration at the high school, so it wasn’t as if they’d just come in off a fire, but the heavy gear could make a guy sweat in January, much less June. “Today was the day you took them to Karl’s afterward, right? How’d that go?”

“It’s a nice perk—no pun intended.” Dylan rubbed his own hair dry. “Puts just the right cap on the morning, especially if the fish haven’t been biting, which they weren’t this morning.” One of the worst parts of the charter fishing business was that the satisfaction of his customers sometimes depended on the participation of Gordon Falls’ finned inhabitants. This morning the fish had not been cooperative.

“Came in empty-handed?”

“Not completely, but there’s always—” he made quotation marks with his fingers in the air “—the big one that got away.” He laughed. “A lot of them got away this morning. Makes it hard to keep the customers happy, you know?”

“I can imagine.” Jesse smirked. “Hey, I think the coffee thing’s a pretty clever idea, actually. A way to add to the experience no matter how the fish are biting—and a bit more sophisticated than coffee in a thermos. Anything you can do to pull in the high-end crowd is always a good thing, right? You’ve got bills to pay.”

Dylan shut his locker door and spun the lock. “Those boat loans don’t care that I’ve just about run through my savings getting this thing up and running. As for the coffee, the whole thing was Karla Kennedy’s idea, actually.”

“Karla? Karl’s granddaughter?”

“She’s studying restaurant management, or something like that. I’d have never thought of it, being a ‘coffee in the thermos’ kind of guy.” He smiled ruefully. “Although I did like whatever it was she made me the other day. Had cinnamon in it, and frothy milk. I gave up all that stuff when I stopped working downtown, but now I think maybe I might go back to some of it.”

“So you talked shop with clever little Karla Kennedy.” Jesse hoisted a bag over his shoulder. “There’s brains behind those big blue eyes.” He waggled one eyebrow at Dylan. “Reeling in more than the fishermen, are we?”

“She’s not my type and I don’t think I’m hers.” Dylan leaned against the locker he’d just shut. “Karla’s definitely a city girl. I get the feeling she can’t get back to Chicago fast enough. You should have seen her charming up my customers—she definitely prefers a high-end kind of guy.”

Jesse fished a watch out of his pocket and put it on. “You’re a high-end kind of guy. You just do it in a down-home kind of way now.”

“You just contradicted yourself, Sykes.” Dylan sat down on the locker-room bench and began tightening the laces on his work boots.

“Not necessarily.” Jesse tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, wait a minute—I thought you told me this morning’s fishermen were guys in their forties.”

“They were.” Dylan tied off the knot.

“So I highly doubt Karla was fishing for dates from them.”

“I didn’t say she was flirting with them.”

“Maybe not with words.” Jesse set his bag back down. “Look at you. You didn’t even realize you were jealous.”

“Cut it out, okay?” He was not jealous of the attention Karla had paid those businessmen.

“Likely she was just being nice. You know, making business contacts. You said she wants to open her own place back in Chicago, right?”

“She mentioned it a few dozen times.”

“So she talked to you. A lot. And she made you coffee. And you said she gave you a free lunch the other day. Do the math here, buddy.”

Dylan didn’t even bother to reply. He only shot Jesse a glare as he stood up to go.

“Man, we have to get you out more. You’re spending way too much time with fish instead of females.”

Maybe I like it that way. “Ever since you started ‘ring shopping’ with Charlotte, you’ve become impossible, Sykes. Well, more impossible than usual.” Jesse had been the firehouse’s most proclaimed bachelor until a pretty, young Chicagoan named Charlotte Taylor had bought a property right out from underneath him. Jesse got himself hired to help Charlotte renovate that cottage, and it was safe to say the relationship had gone far beyond contractor-client since then. “You going to pop the question soon?”

Jesse’s smile gave the answer even though he replied, “That, mister, is privileged information.”

“Good for you. Really, I’m glad for you.” He was—he and Jesse were good friends—it was just that the wave of happy couples in Gordon Falls was getting a little hard to bear. Starting with Fire Inspector Chad Owens, there had been four weddings and an engagement in recent years, and Jesse was about to make that number five.

Dylan hoped that would signal an end to the discussion, but no such luck. His buddy sat back down on the locker room bench. “Look, Dylan, you gotta put yourself back out there. You can’t let Yvonne keep doing this to you—I can’t stand to watch it. Just because she went after someone with deeper pockets doesn’t mean every woman sees you as short on cash.”

How many versions of this lecture was Sykes going to give him? Dylan glared at Jesse again, hoping to signal his reluctance to hear any more on the topic.

“I mean it. You’re doing fine for yourself. You are long on charm, buddy. Give yourself more credit. You’re a catch. There are other fish in...”

Dylan rolled his eyes and held up one hand. “Stop with the fishing metaphors. Please, I’m begging you.”

Jesse squared off at him. “Tell me you’re over Yvonne.”

“I am,” Dylan declared as he bent down over his second boot, trying hard not to sound as annoyed as he felt.

Jesse shook his head and blew out a breath. “Nope. Make me believe it.”

Dylan tied off his second boot so ferociously the lace broke. Determined to put an end to this once and for all, he stared hard at Jesse and growled, “I. Am. Over. Yvonne.” He tried to remember that the other fireman had his best interest at heart. Still, no one could ever call Jesse Sykes subtle. For all his good-hearted companionship, the guy was an interpersonal bulldozer.

“And Karla Kennedy is...” Jesse circled his hand in the air, cuing Dylan to finish the sentence.

Just say what he wants to hear and he’ll go away. Dylan shrugged his shoulders. “Kind of cute and very smart.”

“Very cute and super smart.” Jesse pointed at Dylan. “C’mon, you said she dubbed you ‘Captain’—that’s a dead giveaway right there. The woman has eyes for you.”

Of course it amused him that she’d begun to call him Captain, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Sykes. The guy needed no encouragement. “I’ve sworn off women with hard-driving ambitions. Besides, she’s going back to Chicago as soon as she can manage it.”

“Maybe not, if you give her some good reasons to stay.” Jesse slid his bag back onto his shoulder. “When’s the next Coffee Catch thing?”

He almost didn’t say, worried his pal would show up and do something everyone would regret. A talented tenor, Jesse had a regrettable habit of breaking into song at inappropriate times. “Next Tuesday.”

Thankfully, Jesse turned toward the locker room door. But not before calling “More fat-walleted businessmen?” over his shoulder.

“Nuns.”

Jesse spun around to stare wide-eyed at Jesse. “What?”

It was the truth, but Dylan immediately realized he should have made up something else. Jesse would never let something like this go. “The sisters of Saint Cecilia’s,” he explained, applying his “don’t get started” face. “They’re on retreat. They booked a fishing expedition and evidently they like good coffee.”

Jesse clapped his hands together, walking back toward Dylan. “Ha! Buddy, you’re in. Nuns. They’ll love you. Not a speck of competition in sight. It’s a sign from above, I tell you.” He laughed. “Fishing nuns. Only you, McDonald, only you.”

Dylan felt compelled to defend the good sisters. “Hey, they sound like nice people. They’ll probably be a lot less trouble than this morning’s captains of industry, that’s for sure. Those guys were high maintenance.” He paused and blinked. “Can a guy be high maintenance?”

Jesse picked at the denim shirt Dylan had on. “It’s not like you’d ever know.”

Chapter Four

Karla wasn’t surprised when Dylan showed up at her counter Thursday morning. He wore a wide smile, so it was safe to say he felt the Coffee Catch experiment had gone as well as she did. “What’ll it be today, Captain?”

His eyes narrowed just a bit as his smile widened. “I have to say, that’s growing on me.” He wore a navy blue shirt that did splendid things with his tanned complexion, despite the fraying around the edges. The rugged attire definitely suited him, even if no one would ever call Dylan McDonald a clotheshorse.

“Oh, well—” she applied a mock scowl “—we can’t have that, now, can we?” Karla turned the crank to shoot a burst of steam through the espresso machine, clearing out the piping for whatever Dylan would get this morning. “I was thinking hazelnut this morning. Less sweet, but smooth.”

“Maybe a banana nut muffin to go with that?”

“Excellent choice.” As Karla began making the drink, it struck her how much she’d been looking forward to Dylan’s visit this morning. She was proud of her idea for the Coffee Catch, satisfied that it had worked out so well for everyone involved, including her. “So, who’s coming Tuesday?”

Dylan got a funny look on his face. “Nuns.”

“What?”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone so surprised that the sisters of Saint Cecilia’s want to go fishing?”

He had a point. “I guess I shouldn’t be. Lots of people like fishing, I suppose.”

She’d said that wrong; his expression perked right up, catching the disdain she’d neglected to hide from her voice. “But not you.”

Karla busied herself with the hazelnut syrup. “Well, no. It’s not my favorite.” As the words left her mouth, she realized just what she’d let herself in for. When she looked up from the mug she was filling, Dylan’s hands were planted on his hips.

“I’m going to have to take offense at that. Fishing is wonderful. This is Gordon Falls, after all. Fishing is practically our national pastime.”

She poured the steamed milk into the mug to mix with the fragrant coffee. “I don’t think a town can have a national pastime.”

“Don’t get technical. I know Karl fishes. You can’t tell me your grandpa never took you fishing.”

“Oh, he did. Lots of times. It was sort of fun when I was little.” Why hadn’t she had the sense not to get into this discussion with someone like Dylan?

“Then what made it not fun when you were bigger?”

There wasn’t a safe way to answer that. There were times when peaceful afternoons out on the river made for good memories. It was just that as she grew up, those long stretches out on the water too often ended up in tense arguments between her father and grandpa. “It wasn’t the fishing, so much as the fishermen.” She slid the steaming mug toward him and lifted the dome off the glass plate where the muffins sat piled.

Dylan caught the plural. “Obnoxious brother?”

“Oh, no, I’m an only child of an only child. Let’s just say Dad and Grandpa don’t always paddle their boats in the same direction.” That felt much kinder than the memories of arguments she’d tried hard to forget ever happened. Some of those trips were the first times she’d become aware of her difficult position between her father and grandfather. She loved them both, but most times they had such a difficult time loving each other. It was one of the reasons she’d consented to come out here when Grandpa needed help—leaving Dad and Grandpa alone with each other was always a dicey proposition.

“Oh.”

She was glad Dylan seemed to catch on to what she was saying. This wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to relay in any detail.

“Water isn’t always a peacemaker, is it?”

Funny thing was, it always had been for her. Even when the prospect of going out with Dad and Grandpa held the good chance of a fight, she went anyway. “I like the water. It’s why I like Chicago. Back home, I get out to Lake Michigan whenever I can.”

“The lake is nice, but I found it too big. Give me a river any day.”

She looked at him curiously. “You used to live in Chicago?”

Something flashed behind his eyes before he answered. Chicago was evidently a sore subject. She watched him measure out his words the same way she’d just done. “It wasn’t for me.” There was a long story behind that short answer.

“So you came here.”

Dylan took a sip of the coffee she’d made, nodding his approval. “Oh, I like this better than the last one. Maybe even better than the first one.” He glanced at her for a long moment. “I should have come here all along, but I let other people convince me of what I wanted.” Then he took another sip, a longer one, making Karla wonder if he was buying himself time to decide how much he was going to say. “Don’t ever do that.”

“I’ve got my own dreams clearly in sight.” She patted the Small Business Strategies textbook where it sat on the counter. The look in his eyes made her add, “And now it looks like you do, too. Captain of your own destiny, as Grandpa would say.” The “as if” expression on his face made her wonder if that was why he seemed pleased and annoyed at the “Captain” title. His fishing business meant much more than a paycheck to him, she could see that.

“I’ve poured everything into Gordon River Fishing Charters. It’s going to work out because I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work out.” He turned up one corner of his mouth in a half smile, half grimace before adding, “Even marketing.”

“I imagine you will,” she replied. The determination in his eyes made that easy to believe.

Dylan took another sip and then set down his mug. “Are you working Saturday morning?”

“No, my dad takes over on Saturday mornings.”

“Then that settles it. You’re going fishing.”

Karla let out a moan. “Don’t you have a charter or something? Boy Scout field trip?”

“As a matter of fact, this is my only free Saturday this month. I think you need to go fishing.”

“No, really—it’s not my thing.”

Dylan picked up the coffee mug again, hoisting it up in front of her face as if it were Exhibit A.

“You got three tries out of me. I think it’s only fair I get three hours out of you. Five-thirty to eight-thirty Saturday morning.”

“Five-thirty a.m.? You want me to get up at dawn on my day off?”

A playful grin crept across his face. “It’s not like you won’t have enough coffee.”

“There isn’t enough coffee in the world,” she complained, leaning against the counter. “Is the sun even up then?”

“Just barely. It’s the best time to be out on the river.” He pointed to the Commercial Baking recipe book open on the back counter behind her “Besides, anyone who wants to be a baker ought to be ready to rise before the sun, right?”

“Let’s see—” Karla looked up at the ceiling, squinting in mock consideration “—the smell of freshly baked bread greeting the sunrise, or the smell of fish? It’s such a tough choice.”

“Let’s see,” Dylan matched her tone, “standing in a cold, dark kitchen staring at an oven or the thrill of landing a prize fish in the glorious setting of a river at sunrise? It’s such a tough choice.”

“Hey, that sounds like marketing talk to me. What did you do before you came out here to launch your dream job?”

All the light left his handsome face. “I sat miserably doing nothing that really mattered.”

“Ouch. Sorry to bring it up.”

He ran a finger around the rim of the mug. “You couldn’t have known. Most of the world hasn’t caught on to the soul-killing nature of institutional cash-flow analysis.”

Karla stared at him. “Wait...you had a corporate job?” She tried to imagine Dylan in a suit and tie, but couldn’t.

“I’d rather not talk about it.” He looked up. There was so much going on behind his eyes. “I’d rather take you fishing.”

Her curiosity got the best of her. “Okay, three hours. I bring the coffee—you never bring the subject up again after Saturday. Deal?”

“Deal.”

* * *

Dylan put his hand to the doorknob of the firehouse conference room Friday night like a man greeting his execution. Meetings. To his mind, there wasn’t anything more joy crushing than a committee meeting. His aversion to meetings had been solidified back at his former office job, and Dylan wasn’t in any hurry to build on it. If Chief Bradens hadn’t personally asked him to serve on the firehouse’s 150th Anniversary Committee, there wasn’t a soul in Gordon Falls who could have made him be here. No soul except Violet Sharpton. Dylan couldn’t rightly say if Bradens had sicced the feisty old woman on him, but Violet had nevertheless cornered him after Sunday services last week saying they “needed new brains in the room” and wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Chief Bradens on his own was a force to be reckoned with, but when tag-teamed with Violet Sharpton? Well, Dylan was smart enough to know when he was licked.

Lord, I don’t mind telling you I’m in no mood for whatever lesson You have in store for me here. Death by committee isn’t the way I’d choose to go.

The rectangular meeting room table was all filled except for one seat: his. Normally a pretty prompt guy, Dylan just couldn’t bring himself to hustle to this meeting and as such was five minutes late. He’d happily have supported the firehouse’s 150th anniversary any other way, and planned to jump on any opportunity to escape into a more task-oriented role. If only that didn’t look like the slimmest of possibilities. Dylan was so absorbed in his exit strategy that he almost didn’t register the biggest surprise in the room: Karla Kennedy sat between Vi and her grandfather.

He caught her gaze as he settled into his seat. She wore the same “what are you doing here?” look he must be wearing. If Dylan couldn’t figure out why he was on this committee, he had even less of a clue why Karla was here. She wasn’t even a Gordon Falls resident, nor did she profess any desire to stay in town once Karl had recuperated. Not to mention that next to Clark Bradens—who was the youngest fire chief Gordon Falls had ever hired and by definition had to be here—Dylan and Karla were almost a decade younger than anyone else in the room. So he and Karla constituted Violet’s “new brains”?

He took a moment to survey his fellow committee members. Chief Bradens’s father and predecessor, George Bradens, was to his left. George was a friendly, caring guy—an honorary dad to half the department and a pillar in the Gordon Falls community. Next over sat Pastor Allen from the church. Dylan liked the man—he was compassionate without meddling and easy to talk to. Next to Allen sat Margot Thomas, the high school principal.

At the head of the table opposite Chief Bradens sat Ted Boston, the round, slightly self-aggrandizing man who’d been mayor of Gordon Falls for as long as anyone could remember. According to the chief, this town-wide celebration had been Boston’s idea. It made sense in some ways; the firehouse seemed to be the hub that held Gordon Falls together. It sat in the center of town in more ways than one, Chief liked to say. Next to Boston, Violet Sharpton sat smiling at Dylan, practically beaming in satisfaction. That couldn’t end well, and knowing Violet, there was more to it than met the eye. Dylan felt the weight of suspicion settle in his stomach like a rock.

The usual formalities of introductions and basic goals went by without incident. Another boring, ineffective meeting like the hundreds he’d endured in his former life. The firehouse was important to him; he knew he ought to participate. But as it was, Dylan ended up devoting more energy to trying not to look at Karla than he did mustering up some enthusiasm for the celebration.

“I’ll be honest, people,” Mayor Boston said as he leaned back in his chair, “the last thing this town needs is another potluck dinner. I want us to come up with something unique, something that will really pop. Something to put Gordon Falls on the map.”

It was one of Boston’s favorite phrases; he was always talking about ways to put this town “on the map.” Dylan thought Gordon Falls was holding its own rather nicely and didn’t need much help in the public relations department. It was part of the reason why he’d come here.

Blank faces met Boston’s challenge. If you needed new ideas, Dylan thought a bit sourly, why’d you ask the same old people who run everything else in town? The same old people except for Karla and me, that is. And why us? Dylan realized he wasn’t being fair in his criticism, but his good mood had left the room a while ago.

“That’s why I brought Karla,” Karl pronounced, as if reading his thoughts. “She’s a fountain of good ideas.” He looked right at Dylan when he said it. Karla went a bit pale and looked down at her hands.

Dylan had to admit, Karl wasn’t wrong there. “I have had a lot of success with the Coffee Catch she dreamed up,” he offered, if only to take the blanched expression from her features. “But, Karl, you’re bound to be fully on your feet long before July. Don’t you think we ought to let Karla get back to her business in Chicago?”

“It’s no good to rush these things,” Violet cut in, her voice pleasant but with a decided edge. “Let’s not go giving Karl any deadlines he can’t meet. I like to think Karla can help bring a visitor’s perspective. Besides, Karl can always help sitting down.”

Karl hurrumphed at Violet’s coddling. “Don’t you worry about me, Vi.”

“So, July is when you are planning on the event?” Karla piped up, obviously feeling the squeeze of being seated between Violet and her grandfather.

“The official anniversary date is July 15, but that’s a Sunday,” Chief Bradens answered. “Pastor Allen has already agreed that we’ll honor the firefighters in church that day, but we were hoping to have some kind of special event on the Saturday before.”

Karla looked as if that solved everything. “That’s Bastille Day.”

Befuddled expressions met her pronouncement. “What’s that got to do with the firehouse?”

“Well, nothing directly,” she replied, “but it does hand you an easy way to have a unique kind of celebration.”

Dylan had spent enough summers in Chicago to see where she was headed with this. “The Venetian Night boat parade.” It wasn’t a bad idea at all.

“What?” Violet’s smile was curious but a mile wide.

“Every July Chicago celebrates the weekend around Bastille Day with a boat parade,” Karla answered to the entire room. “People decorate their boats with lights and streamers and all kinds of things, and then they have a sort of parade out on the water at night. It’s beautiful.”

“We’ve never done anything like that before here,” Principal Thomas said. “It’d be an easy way to get all kinds of people from the community involved. Even the students.”

“It’s barely a month away—can we get it done in time?” Chief Bradens wondered aloud.

“I don’t see why not. We could let each boat pick a decade from the one hundred and fifty years the firehouse has been in existence,” Mayor Boston suggested as he looked up from taking furious notes.

“Or just let them use the color red. Or firemen in general. There are loads of ways to do this.” Karla’s entire expression had changed from suspicious boredom to genuine excitement. Until, that is, the moment when Mayor Boston turned to her with an authoritative gleam in his eye.

Oh, no. He knew that gleam. Chief Bradens had that gleam, too, and it only meant one thing. Poor Karla—she didn’t know what she’d just done, did she? Her next month was a goner—if she was even planning to stay that long.

“Miss Kennedy, I think you’ve hit on a grand idea,” the mayor said. “I think Gordon Falls will be in your debt after you’ve chaired such a marvelous celebration. And to think our young people will be the ones to spearhead this effort. It’s a most exciting thing.”

Dylan watched in sympathy as the shock registered on Karla’s face. “But wait...I...”

“Of course she’ll chair the thing,” Karl piped up before Karla could even finish her objection. “But hang on—we can’t expect her to do all this by herself.”

“No one’s asking her to,” Violet replied. Dylan’s gut dropped to the floor when Violet turned her sweetest gaze to him and said, “Ted said young people.”

Mayor Boston turned his head slowly to look straight at Dylan. “I most certainly did.”

“You don’t...” Dylan sputtered, feeling inevitability rise up and swallow him like a high tide. “I mean...” He felt the next four weeks slip through his fingers as though Violet had personally yanked them from his grasp.

“I’ll gladly free up Dylan’s time so he can chair the event. It’s a great idea.” The chief had the good sense to look pleased that he’d just dodged the chairmanship himself.

Before another ten minutes went by, subcommittees for decorations, food and publicity had been formed, and Dylan found himself approving a weekly Thursday meeting for the next month. His peaceful, autonomous life had just evaporated right before his very eyes. He was supposed to be building a business, not running a parade. Surely he and Karla could find some way to get themselves out of this before it went any further. Because even if it was June, this was Gordon Falls—and this town was very good at letting things snowball out of control.

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