Longing for Home

Alex closed the menu with a decisive snap, as if there were nothing on the list of options that remotely tempted him. “I’ll just have the special.”

“Sure. Coming right up.” Given the fact that she’d unlocked the door only moments before Alex made his appearance, Kate wasn’t quite sure what the special of the day was.

Grady O’Rourke, the former military cook her father had hired when Kate was in first grade, took charge of the daily menu changes. When Kate had taken over the café, she and Grady had amicably divided the kitchen duties. Grady claimed the griddle, Kate the stove.

She ducked around the counter. “I need a special, Grady.”

“You got it.” The man’s off-key whistle accompanied the sizzle of butter in the cast-iron skillet.

Kate began to fill the dessert case with slices of the pies she’d made the night before, all too aware that a pair of jade-green eyes tracked her every movement.

“Order up, katydid,” Grady bellowed.

Kate winced, hoping Alex hadn’t heard the cook call her by the affectionate nickname he’d bestowed on her when she was six years old.

“Thanks.” Kate grabbed the steaming plate on the pass-through and felt the blood drain from her face. “Grady?” The word came out in a squeak.

“Problem?”

“No…no problem.” If a person didn’t count the six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound problem sitting at a booth in the back. “I don’t think you’ve made this before.”

“Nope.” A smile bisected the grizzled face. “But mark my words. It’ll be a big hit.”

“I’m sure it will,” Kate said faintly.

Most days, Grady’s “special” came from a list of what he liked to call his “tried and trues.” Steak and potatoes. Blueberry pancakes. Ham and cheese omelets.

Why, oh why, couldn’t this have been one of those days?

Show no fear. Kate gave herself an internal pep talk as she breezed back to Alex’s booth. “Here you go. Enjoy!”

His gaze dropped to the plate and bounced back up again. “What is this?”

“The special.” Kate wished it hadn’t come out sounding like a question.

Alex arched a brow.

In retaliation, Kate lifted her chin. “It’s…a delicious blend of meat and potatoes with a hint of spice.”

“I see,” Alex said softly. “And does this delicious blend of meat and potatoes happen to have a name?”

Yes, it did. And he was going to make her say it.

“It’s…hash.” Kate pushed the word through gritted teeth.

The perfectly sculpted lips—Kate felt a trickle of horror that she noticed they were perfectly sculpted—curled at the edges.

“That’s what I thought…katydid.”

Organized chaos.

It was the only description that Alex could come up with to describe what he was seeing. Although it was possible that the word organized was too generous.

Total chaos would probably be more accurate.

He got dizzy just watching Kate Nichols in motion.

The woman fairly crackled with energy, making him wonder if the red curls poking out from beneath the floral bandana she wore doubled as some kind of power source.

In the space of half an hour, Kate had greeted each customer who came through the door by name. Paused to hug the blond, waiflike teenager who’d joined forces with her during the breakfast rush as if they were long-lost sisters. She’d even plucked a cranky toddler out of a portable highchair and balanced him on one slender hip while she rang up receipts so his weary young parents had an opportunity to finish their breakfast in peace.

Alex’s blood pressure spiked when Kate joined a group of men at their table to referee a lively discussion about the number of potholes on Oak Street.

Kate’s relaxed posture and easy laughter made him grit his teeth.

Didn’t she realize how dangerous it was to get that close to people? To let them get that close to you?

His parents had learned a lesson on setting boundaries the hard way. Abby had been six years old when a disgruntled hotel employee abducted her. The police had found her a few days later, frightened but otherwise unharmed. The family physician who’d examined Abby had reassured them that her memory of the ordeal would fade in time.

Alex, who’d been a freshman in high school, hadn’t been as lucky.

The three days Abby went missing remained etched in his mind. So had the days that followed her safe return. Their parents enrolled them in private school. His and Abby’s lives became governed by a set of rules that formed a barrier around them as impenetrable as the walls surrounding the Porter estate.

It was one of the reasons Alex had become so protective of his sister over the years. They’d lost their parents—he wasn’t about to lose the only remaining member of his family.

Kate might not realize it, but she was asking for trouble. Her smile was too friendly. Too engaging…

“Would you like a refill?”

Alex looked up and silently amended his opinion. Kate’s smile was engaging unless it was directed at him. Then it cooled to the temperature of day-old coffee. But he hadn’t come to Mirror Lake to make friends—he’d come walk his baby sister down the aisle. And to make sure there were no unexpected bumps along the way. From what he’d witnessed so far, putting Kate Nichols in charge of something as important as Abby’s wedding reception would guarantee more bumps than Oak Street had potholes.

“No thanks.”

“You’re ready for the bill?”

“Not yet.” With two simple words, Alex managed to extinguish the hopeful look in those clover-green eyes.

“All right.” He could almost see her silently counting to five…no, ten. For some reason, Alex found a perverse satisfaction in knowing he got under her skin, too.

“Kate?” The teenage waitress sidled up. “Mr. Dinsman ordered the biscuits and gravy,” she whispered.

“Absolutely not, Missy.” Kate shook her head, setting the corkscrew curls into motion. “I know what his cholesterol is. The only thing on the menu for Mr. Dinsman is a bowl of oatmeal.”

The waitress chewed on her lower lip. “He said that if you make him eat oatmeal, he won’t leave a tip.”

“Well, here’s a tip for him,” Kate said tartly. “If he wants to clog his arteries, he should stay home and make his own breakfast.”

Missy glanced at the portly man who sat a few tables away, glowering in their direction. “Do I have to tell him that?”