Christmas In Whitehorn

Her full lips pressed together. “How about a side of fruit, instead? It’s fresh.”

He stared at her, giving her the same look he’d used on the scum of the earth he’d encountered while he’d been a detective in New York. The waitress—Darcy her name tag read—should have run for cover. Instead she muttered something about some people being too stubborn for their own good and wrote on her pad.

“I have to tell you, I’m giving in against my better judgment,” she told him.

“What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

“Being right won’t help you if you’re dead.”

She sounded too damn cheerful by half.

“It’s a little early for such a philosophical discussion,” he said. “Why don’t you save it for the lunch crowd?”

She smiled. “Let me guess—you won’t be in for lunch today, right?”

He shrugged. He did have plans elsewhere.

“I’ll put this right in,” she said, waving her pad, then turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen.

Mark returned his attention to his paper, but the words didn’t make sense. Instead he found himself trying to remember what, if anything, he knew about Darcy the waitress. She was new in town. She’d shown up in the eight years he’d been gone. She was young, early twenties, attractive—not that he cared about that—and a born fusser. She bullied all her customers equally, touting the benefits of orange juice with its vitamin C, warning kids about cavities from sticky desserts and pushing salads instead of burgers. Everyone seemed to love the attention. Everyone but him.

Mark shook his head to clear it, then studied the paper in front of him. Gradually the room faded as he reviewed the scores from the previous day’s football games. Maybe this year the Dallas Cowboys were going to go all the way. Maybe—

A small plate appeared in front of him. Three slices of something strange lay nestled against each other.

He glanced at Darcy.

“Don’t bite my head off. It’s compliments of the house,” she said casually. “We’re considering switching suppliers for our baked goods. This is a sample of one of the new products. What do you think?”

The slices had come from a loaf of some kind. But the color was faintly…orange? “What is it?”

“Pumpkin bread.”

He pushed the plate away. “I don’t eat vegetables before noon.”

Darcy glared at him as if he’d just won first prize in a stupid contest. “There are green peppers in your omelette. Besides, pumpkins aren’t vegetables.”

“Want to bet?”

“Okay, technically they are because of the seeds and everything, but we eat them in pie. That makes them an honorary fruit. Try it. It’s really good.”

He had his doubts. “Why pumpkin bread?”

“Because of Thanksgiving. It’s this Thursday. Remember?”

He didn’t remember, mostly because he didn’t do holidays. Not anymore. When it had been only him and Maddie, he’d worked hard to make the holidays special. His sister had just been a kid when they’d lost their folks. But lately…what was the point?

“So the restaurant will be closed,” he said, not asking a question. He’d have to fix his own breakfast. Actually, he’d probably not bother with food. Cooking was too much trouble.

Darcy’s gaze narrowed. “Tell me, Detective, what exactly are your plans for the holiday?”

“Is my order ready yet?”

She nodded her head. “I knew it. You’re the solitary type, aren’t you? You’ll spend the day by yourself, moping.”

He glared at her. “I don’t mope.”

“But you will be alone.”

He waved at the half-full Hip Hop Café. “Don’t you have other customers?”

She glanced around. “Not really, but thanks for asking. My point is, no one should spend the holidays alone. You need to get out.”

He was saved by the bell—literally. The sharp ring cut through the diner and sent Darcy back toward the kitchen. Less than a minute later she appeared with his breakfast.

“I mean it,” she said. “Solitude makes the holidays more difficult than they have to be. Don’t you have any family in town?”

He thought about his sister, who would spend the long weekend traveling. “No.”

“Then come to my place. I’m fixing a turkey with all the trimmings. Everything is homemade. There will be lots of people there. You’ll love it. You won’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Although it wouldn’t hurt you to be a tad more chatty, if you ask me.”

He groaned. The last thing he needed was to fall into the clutches of some health-nut do-gooder. She’d probably use tofu in her stuffing and want to talk about the importance of giving back to the community.

He opened his mouth to refuse her invitation, but she was gone. Seconds later, she reappeared with coffee, pouring quickly, then leaving.

For the next ten minutes, she took care of her other customers, argued about what they were ordering and avoided Mark’s table. He had plenty of time to think up fifteen reasons he would refuse her invitation. Yet when she brought him his bill, he found himself unable to say anything to bring sadness to her bright, expectant smile.

“What time?” he asked, trying to sound gracious and failing miserably.

Her expression turned startled. “You’re accepting?”

“Change your mind already?”

“No. Not at all. Say four? We’ll eat at five.” She hesitated. “Do you know where I live?” Instantly she blushed. “Dumb question.”

For the first time that day, possibly for the first time in several days, Mark smiled. “Yeah, Darcy. I know where you live.”

Darcy Montague leaned her head against the front of her locker and groaned. The good news was she could now nominate herself for idiot of the month. What on earth had she been thinking?

“Please don’t tell me that you’re banging your head against the wall,” Janie Carson Austin, who managed the Hip Hop, said as she stepped into the small storeroom. “You’re one of my most dependable staff members and if I think you’re going off the deep end, it’s going to put a crimp in my holiday spirit.”

Darcy straightened and forced herself to smile at her boss. “No head banging. I promise. Just a reflection on the state of my life.”

“Which is?” Janie asked.

“Great.”

Darcy ignored the voice in her head—even though it was telling her she was incredibly dumb for inviting Mark Kincaid to her house. Mark Kincaid—Whitehorn’s answer to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise all rolled into one. Argh! Had she actually told him he didn’t have to talk to anyone while he was at her house, only to turn around and complain that he wasn’t chatty enough? She’d babbled. It had been humiliating.