Together for Christmas (17 page)

However, those suspicions
did
make Heather feel a lot better about sending The Terminator to babysit her sister three days ago. If she’d known then that Kristen might be actively trying to sabotage her reputation (instead of vaguely suspecting it, based on that gross toilet-paper-shopping “story” that had
also
hit the tabloids), she could have spared herself a few days’ worth of a guilty conscience.

Not that Kristen couldn’t handle herself, even in the face of Casey Jackson and his scary tactics. Kristen was, after all, famously poised. Their parents couldn’t quit raving (to Heather’s irritation) about Kristen’s composure, talent, work ethic, and dependability. In fact, their rampant parental pride—
in Kristen!
—went pretty far to explain why Heather didn’t return to Kismet very often. She couldn’t take knowing she would always come in second . . . to an ordinary, not-especially-charismatic, lovable girl-next-door type like Kristen. Forever.

But that was enough sibling angst for right now, Heather decided. Because despite her
herculean
efforts (thank you, Word of the Day from yesterday!) to make Alex fall insanely in love with her, he was still frowning at her instead. Heather was starting to believe it
wasn’t
because he was jealous.

Then Alex smiled. Handsomely. “I know it’s not you.”

“Why not?” she asked perversely. “I could have a boy toy!”

His chuckle did not help. At her quelling look, Alex sobered up enough to explain. “You don’t have attached earlobes. Your impostor
does
. So when I saw those pictures . . .” He shrugged. “All I needed was the necessary attention to detail.”

Heather frowned. She touched her earlobes. “Huh?”

“Your earlobes are detached, like mine.” Helpfully, Alex came closer. When he stood near enough to make her almost hyperventilate from his sex appeal, he gently grasped her earlobe. He waggled it. “Otherwise, I couldn’t do this.”

Heather’s knees felt weak. She lifted her gaze to his. “You’ve never touched me like that before. I—”
Love it
.

Alex winced. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have done it just then, either. Only you looked so worried, that I—” He broke off. Tragically, he released her tingly earlobe. “Sorry about that.”

“No! I—”
I
want you to touch me. Wishing he’d do it again, Heather touched her ears. Marveling at him, she said, “You’ve really looked closely enough at me to notice my
earlobes?
”

Alex’s cheeks colored. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah.”

Thrilled, she hugged herself to keep from dancing.

“Like I said,” Alex went on in a quashing tone, “I probably shouldn’t have touched you at all. Because the reason I was frowning at you before, the reason I was staring at you—”

“Yes?”
This was it
. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. “Go on.”

“—is because I’m pretty sure you have the chicken pox. You have a papular vesicular rash, right . . .
there
.” Alex pointed at her nose. “And there. And I think it’s spreading to . . . there.”

Helpfully, he indicated her cheek. Her neck. Her arm.

She scratched. “You’ve got to be joking. The chicken pox?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sorrowfully, Alex nodded. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but looks as though my favorite star has been infected with the varicella zoster virus.”

Wow, he was smart. He’d said she was his favorite star, too!

“God, I love it when you talk like that,” she breathed.

“I’m serious. You should go to the doctor—and probably be quarantined from the rest of the production crew, too.”

“What?” Quarantined from him? That was unthinkable. “I refuse to accept that,” Heather said. “Besides, kids get chicken pox. I’m an adult.”

“Adults can get chicken pox, too. My girlfriend had it last year.” Alex’s expression took on a faraway look. “I nursed her through it. It’s a good thing you’re
not
pregnant, because—”

But Heather couldn’t hear the rest of what he said. She was too busy hearing
my girlfriend, my girlfriend
gonging through her ears. Maybe chicken pox caused auditory hallucinations?

“You have a girlfriend?” she asked, hoping for the best.

“. . . so I’ll probably have to be quarantined with you,” Alex was saying, casting a speculative look around her dressing room.

They stopped. They stared at each other.

“That might not be so bad,” Heather said cheerfully.

And that’s how, six hours and one doctor’s visit later, Heather wound up sequestered in blissful privacy with Alex, exactly the way she’d wanted . . . leaving, in their absences, her
Live! from the Heartland
holiday TV special to fend for itself.

Chapter 11

Kismet, Michigan
T-minus 17 days until Christmas

On the morning of his fourth day in Kismet, Casey dodged two bell-ringing sidewalk Santas. On purpose.

He ignored one battalion of schoolchildren—adorably dressed up as green-suited elves—singing Christmas carols in the snowy town square. He declined the coffee shop’s sidewalk-sale offer of a sample-size “Christmassy” peppermint hot chocolate with a candy cane stirrer. He scarcely noticed the way the residents went overboard with decorations and yard ornaments or the way local businesses decked out their storefronts with lights and their windows with seasonal art. He even came face-to-face with the ultimate holiday cuteness test—a baby wearing a tiny, Santa Claus-inspired, red-and-white hooded onesie—and didn’t so much as coo at the kid. That meant it was official.

He’d beaten Christmas at its own fakery-filled game.

He didn’t even enjoy the persistent gingerbread smell that lingered all over town very much anymore, Casey noticed. He was going to be all right. This wasn’t going to get to him.

Christmas
wasn’t going to get to him. Not even here in Kismet, in the ho-ho-ho epicenter of the universe.

Feeling positively bulletproof (at least as far as the holiday onslaught was concerned), Casey hefted his laptop case from his Subaru’s seat. He burrowed more warmly into his coat, then strode past the piled-up snowbanks into the Galaxy Diner.

Inside, a whole new level of Christmas cheer assaulted him. One of Heather’s Christmas songs played on the sound system. Lights and garland abounded everywhere. Two charity Christmas trees overflowed with paper angel-shaped ornaments designating Kismet residents as “be an angel” gift givers, proving that the holiday spirit of generosity still thrived in town.

Casey strode blithely past it all, able to acknowledge it and then immediately put it behind him. He wasn’t the sentimental type, prone to going all gooey at every little kindness or trapping of the season. He was, officially, over it.

Then he reached his rented corner booth. He saw the hand-written RESERVED sign waiting on the tabletop in exactly the same place it had been every morning so far. And his inner stoicism crumpled like so much tossed-away wrapping paper on Boxing Day.

Damn that sign
. It still got to him.

Hoping to downplay his reaction, Casey scowled at it.

It didn’t help. That ordinary piece of paper—taped onto an injection-molded plastic table tent typically used to promote specials at the diner—warmed his heart. It made him feel a
part
of things at the Galaxy Diner.
That
was a sensation he didn’t experience very often. It made him feel . . . more guarded than usual.

Not that his inherent wariness helped him much. Not when, an instant later, Talia wandered over with a jolly smile and a cup of coffee—black with one sugar, just the way he liked it—and set down a folded copy of the
Kismet Comet
newspaper for him.

“We keep an employee copy on hand,” Talia said. “I thought I’d save you the trouble of getting a paper from the machine outside, the way you do every morning. It’s cold out there.”

“Thanks,” Casey said in an easygoing tone. “That’s nice. I didn’t think anyone noticed my morning newspaper pilgrimage.”

But what he really meant was,
I didn’t think anyone cared
. Realizing that painful truth, he couldn’t help frowning anew.

Yes, he ponied up fifty cents for a
Kismet Comet
every day. Yes, he did so after setting up his rented booth with his laptop, coffee, notepad, pens, and cell phone at the ready for a day’s worth of troubleshooting. Yes, he was a guy who liked routine. So what?

“Your fan club noticed.” Grinning, Talia nodded toward the cadre of regulars seated at the end of the counter.

As one, the group of women and men waved to him. “’Morning, Casey!”

“We don’t want you getting frostbitten just because you want to keep up with current affairs.” Talia set down a half-pint wide-mouth mason jar filled with homemade Concord grape jam. She’d noticed Casey’s preference for grape versus the usual strawberry, then. Argh. She looked straight at him. “You might as well face it, Mr. Big. You’re one of us now.”

Double argh
. That mishmash of teasing and kindheartedness—unique to Talia and to the diner—didn’t help either.

Neither did the arrival of Walden, the wild-and-wooly-haired pastry chef, a moment later. He brandished a doily-covered plate, tossed Talia a peculiarly intimate look (at which she blushed feverishly), then set the plate in front of Casey.

“Voilà! You’re the first taste tester of Kristen’s newest creation,” Walden told him. “It’s a cinnamon-bun crescent. See? It’s shaped like a croissant, but it’s made of
brioche vendéenne
instead of
pâte feuilletée,
then rolled up with cinnamon-sugar-and-brown-butter filling for an upscale meets down-home spin. Kristen said you mentioned liking cinnamon rolls as a kid—”

Cagily, Casey nodded. Vaguely, he remembered having accidentally copped to a weakness for those refrigerated cinnamon rolls—the cheap kind that came in a pop-open cardboard container and were frosted after baking with a miserly amount of prefab frosting from a tiny plastic tub. As a kid, he’d
loved
those things.

“. . . and you know Kristen,” Walden was saying. “She never misses a detail, and she can never leave well enough alone, either. She’s creative like that. She
loves
special projects, too. So she rolled up her sleeves and made these just for you.”

Casey eyed the crescent roll. It smelled buttery and spicy. Its sugary crust sparkled. It made his nose practically twitch with nostalgia. It smelled . . . exactly like Christmassy goodness.

Oh hell. Had he
really
just had that sappy thought?

Gareth’s arrival saved him from considering it further—but not for long. Because somehow, Gareth managed to entrench him even more deeply in the damn sense of
belonging
Casey felt whenever he arrived at the Galaxy Diner and saw everyone there.

“Oh no, you don’t, you pastry freak!” Aiming a warning glance at Walden, Gareth slid a plate full of the current breakfast special—a scrambled egg platter with chestnut-sage stuffing and cranberry compote on the side, served with black pepper brioche toast—in front of Casey, then stood back proudly. “Casey’s not having any goodies until he gets a proper meal. He needs vitamins and vegetables, not just butter and sugar.”

“You sound like somebody’s mother, Gareth,” Talia quipped.

But Casey could overlook that, just this once. Appreciatively, he inhaled. Everything smelled delicious . . . even if it
was
a little too holiday inspired. “Thanks, Gareth. This looks great,” he said. “I didn’t even order yet, though.”

“I know.” Gareth nodded. “But this is what you’ve had the past three days, so we figured it was your favorite.”

“We renamed it ‘the Casey Kick-Starter’ on the menu.” As proof, Talia brandished the latest edition of the handwritten menu. “It’s even more popular since the renaming.”

Waiting for the punch line, Casey stared at them.

Nada. What the hell? Were these people actually for real?

In his world, at least,
nobody
was this kind, this genuine, or this welcoming. Not even a ragtag bunch of foodie misfits with purple hair, nose rings, piercings, dreadlocks, hipster clothes, an uncanny ability to overlook blizzards, and an excess of Christmas spirit.

“I’ve never been an eponymous breakfast eater,” Casey joked. He
almost
nailed it. “But I’ll try anything once.”

“We’ve never named a menu item for anyone before.” Walden shrugged, stepping nearer to Talia. He gazed with perfect forthrightness at Casey. “We made an exception for you.”

Casey shook his head.
That
kind of special treatment didn’t help either. At this rate, he wouldn’t survive the morning. He would take up permanent residence at the Galaxy Diner and never, ever leave. He would . . . wonder what the hell was wrong with him.

He’d befriended a lot of people over the course of a lot of troubleshooting assignments. He liked people. They liked him. So what made the Galaxy Diner, its crew, and its owner so special?

Well, Casey knew what made Kristen so special to him. It was her ability to help with Heather’s TV special, he reminded himself ruthlessly. She could give him inside access to Heather—access no one else could. He had to remember that. All the same . . .

All the same, he was behaving like an idiot. He was tougher than this. He was smarter and sharper and more hard-nosed than this. He was (according to some) The Terminator! Casey Jackson couldn’t be undone with a few small-town Christmas kindnesses.

“You know, you might as well just come in an hour earlier, before we open,” Gareth said, “and join us for the family meal.”

Casey sharpened his gaze. “I’m not family.”

“Well, you’re
practically
family,” Gareth hedged. “I mean, you’re here every single day. You’re always one of the first ones in the door. You’re paying for the privilege with that booth rental, and we all know you now. So you’re actually—”

“I’m. Not. Family,” Casey bit out.