Small-Town Fireman

“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 (#ulink_e322ab01-4273-5c63-b1c1-b20a9039cfc5)

“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.