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