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A Lot Like Christmas
Kait Nolan
Jaded Army medic Ryan Malone never expected his next mission would bring him back from Afghanistan to tiny Wishful, Mississippi. His great uncle's health is failing and the cantankerous old coot has pushed everyone in the family away. Ryan is their last resort to get Uncle Percy to move into assisted living before he breaks a hip—or something worse. He's looking to get in, get it done, and get back out. That definitely doesn't include taking time out for a sweet-faced waitress with a heart bigger than the Atlantic.
Interior designer Hannah Wheeler is a long way from the high-powered clients of her old Atlanta firm. Despite the fact that she's currently spending her days waiting tables, she's discovered she really enjoys the small-town life she found with her sister. This Christmas season, she's finally ready to introduce Wishful to her true capabilities by using her skills to spread some holiday spirit. But with Ryan and Percy, she's definitely got her work cut out for her.
Will Hannah's evergreen cheer thaw their frosty hearts and remind these two that the most important part of the holidays is family?
Copyright © 2018 by Kait Nolan
Cover design by Lori Jackson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
“Sugar, are you tying utensils on that Christmas tree?”
Undeterred by the Girl, you crazy tone, Hannah Wheeler finished attaching the dessert fork to a branch with a short piece of jute and glanced over her shoulder at Omar Buckley, official master of the kitchens at Dinner Belles Diner. Taking advantage of the mid-afternoon lull, he leaned against the counter and watched her with undisguised bafflement.
“You can’t judge until I’m done. Trust me.” By the time she finished with the tree, the whole thing would be cute, kitchy, and scream “diner.” It was just the first phase in her holiday plan to introduce Wishful to the skills she had besides carting trays and taking orders. The phase that would hopefully prove to them—and to herself—that she had the chops to pursue the rest of her revised dream.
Janelle Duncan, the other waitress on duty, who was a lot more interested in checking out Omar and his former running back’s body than in Hannah’s efforts at decorating, sidled over to him with a conspiratorial head shake. “If we ever run out of flypaper, we can always use that tree. It’s at least twice as tacky. Bless her heart.”
The lack of cheerleading didn’t concern Hannah overmuch. In her previous life, she’d had far more difficult clients to please, and she’d always come through in the end. People usually didn’t have any vision until someone showed it to them. And that was fine. She had enough vision for all of them.
Grabbing a spoon and more jute, she turned back to the tree and jolted. A man stood on the other side of the window, peering inside. Hannah could hardly see his eyes past the scruff of a beard and the oily, matted hair. His shoulders hunched against the unseasonably cold weather, and no wonder. The thin denim jacket—worn and stained—was hardly sufficient for the early December temperatures. Seeing the Army green duffle over his shoulder, her heart softened. She had a particular weakness for down-on-their-luck veterans. Offering a friendly smile, she waved for him to come inside.
He blinked at her, expression unchanging, still standing there with a totally unnatural stillness that said he’d been a soldier. Hannah pointed at him and mimed drinking from a cup of coffee. She hoped he took it for the invitation it was and not as some kind of pity. Amping up the smile, she waited. She’d yet to meet the man who could turn away from that smile. Certainly, it had worked to keep her daddy wrapped around her little finger from the time she was knee high.
The stranger was no exception. He strode to the door and came inside, stopping just inside the threshold and scanning the room. She was pretty sure in a matter of seconds he’d cataloged all the exits; had noted her, Omar, and Janelle, as well as the two other patrons; and probably knew where any weapons were likely to be. Or maybe she’d just watched the Bourne movies too many times.
Hannah rose from her crouch beside the tree and held out a hand in welcome. “Please, have a seat. Warm up.” Taking a few steps closer to gesture toward the corner booth that had the best visibility in the place, she noted the powerful smell of unwashed body.
He must be homeless. Bless his heart. Hannah had seen that often enough when she’d lived in Atlanta, but here in Wishful, it was all but unheard of. Keeping the smile firmly in place as he sat, back to the wall, she asked, “What can I get you?”
“Just coffee,” he rasped in a voice that sounded rusty with disuse.
“Coming right up.” With practiced efficiency, Hannah retrieved the coffee pot and turned over the waiting ceramic mug at the table, filling it just high enough that there was room to doctor it, though guy like him would probably drink it black.
He grunted something that sounded like “Thanks” and wrapped his hands around the mug. The skin of his knuckles was chapped with cold.
“Can I interest you in some pie? Mama Pearl makes the best pie in six counties. The pecan in particular is to die for.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “But, really, the coconut cream is my favorite.”
His gaze slid over to the pie rack on the counter before he shook his head.
She didn’t let the smile slip. “Okay then. You just let me know if you need anything.”
Replacing the coffee pot, she circled around the counter and into the kitchen, where Omar had resumed his post at the grill. “Be a doll and dish up one of the specials.”
“Didn’t hear him order the special.”
“He didn’t. I’m giving it to him anyway. It can come out of my tips.”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “Whatever you say, Marshmallow.”
Janelle peered through the kitchen window toward his table and kept her voice low. “You sure you want to do anything to encourage him to stay? What if he’s not right in the head?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hannah snapped, gesturing toward Omar. “That’s like making the assumption that Omar is a thug because he wears a do rag and likes rap music. It’s not only rude, it shows an exceptional lack of compassion.” She snatched up the bowl of loaded potato soup so fast the garlic bread stick flew off the plate and onto the stainless-steel counter. Blowing out a breath, Hannah carefully replaced the bread and pushed back out front, working to readjust her expression as she went. Sometimes people just killed her with their ignorance.
The stranger’s brows drew together as she slid the bowl in front of him. “I didn’t order this.”
She just smiled. “I know. But you look frozen through, so I figured you could use it. On me. And thank you for your service.”