At First Touch. Tamara Sneed

sarcastically. “Because then you’d have your perfect husband with your perfect relationship in the perfect town.”

      She realized that she sounded more bitter than she intended and silently cursed. Sometimes she forgot that Charlie was not Kendra. Kendra did not take insults personally because Kendra was made of Teflon or some equally indestructible material that had been found in space. Charlie took everything personally.

      “Graham is not perfect and our relationship is not perfect. We have our ups and downs, just like every couple,” Charlie said, sounding hurt.

      “I know, Charlie,” Quinn said immediately. “I’m sorry. I warned you that I hadn’t had my coffee yet.”

      “Quinn—”

      Quinn groaned loudly, hearing the concern in Charlie’s voice. “It’s too early in the morning for a heart-to-heart talk, Charlie.”

      “I’m not trying to have a heart-to-heart talk. I just want to talk to you. Some families actually do that every once in a while.”

      “Can we talk later?”

      “Quinn—”

      “I have to figure out where to hunt and kill breakfast in this hick town and then I have to intimidate Wyatt and his mother into doing what I want them to do so I can get out of here and back to civilization. I expect to be eating dinner tonight at my favorite sushi restaurant on Sunset. Whenever I step foot in this town, I immediately start craving fish.”

      “I wish you would stay an extra day. Graham and I will be there tomorrow. We’re going to spend Christmas in Sibleyville.”

      “I know. You’ve told me that a million times.”

      “There’s no reason for you to drive all the way back to Los Angeles just to turn around in a few days to come back.”

      “There is one reason that you’re forgetting. I won’t be in Sibleyville.”

      Charlie laughed, then said, “Call me when you’re on the road and drive safely.”

      Quinn pressed the Disconnect button, then stared at the ceiling. She didn’t want to get out of the bed and face this horrid town, where everyone stared at her as if she were a freak. She was used to being stared at, but not as if she were the town harlot who needed to be run out of town. And these people didn’t know half of the things she had done.

      But no matter how miserable she was this morning, at least she could make Wyatt more miserable. That prospect actually made her smile and get out of bed. She even whistled a little on her way to the shower.

      

      “Good morning, Mom,” Wyatt greeted as he walked into her kitchen.

      Beatrice Granger looked up from the stove and angled her face for a kiss. Wyatt smiled and pressed a kiss against her smooth peanut butter-colored cheek. His mother patted his cheek and went back to scrambling eggs.

      The bottom floor of the Granger Funeral Home was comprised of several viewing rooms of various sizes, a reception area and a small office. The back of the house and the second level were the family’s living quarters. Most people had thought it was strange for Wyatt to grow up in the mortuary, but to him, it had just been the way it was. He would come home from soccer practice to find the county coroner dropping off body bags, his dad in a smock covered with blood and his mother holding a tray of oatmeal cookies. Just another day in the Granger Funeral Home.

      During Wyatt’s last year in college, his father had died. The usually unflappable Beatrice had been inconsolable, and had fallen into a depression that had scared Wyatt into moving back home into the small apartment over the garage in the back of the house.

      The move was supposed to be temporary, but someone had to keep the family tradition alive and his mother needed him. So here he was, years later, still living over the garage.

      “I’m going to string up the Christmas lights this morning,” he said as he sat at kitchen counter where his mother had set a table setting for him.

      Even though Wyatt was thirty-two years old and didn’t technically live in the house with his mother, Beatrice still made him breakfast every morning. Wyatt could just imagine Quinn’s reaction to that little tidbit about the exciting life of Wyatt Granger.

      He grimaced and drained the glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice on the counter. But it was too late. He was thinking about Quinn now. Damn it. He had been dreading asking his mother about the film all morning. Beatrice did not like change, and she definitely did not like change that would involve Quinn Sibley. Beatrice had seen Quinn dancing with a groomsman at Charlie and Graham’s wedding in a tangle of arms and legs that had not been fit for public viewing, and she had gone on for two weeks about the spectacle Quinn had made. Wyatt had been more pissed about the display than his mother, especially since Quinn had kept giving him smug smiles while she twisted in the other man’s arms, but Wyatt had kept that to himself.

      “Do you want bacon?” Beatrice asked.

      “Don’t I always want bacon?”

      Beatrice smiled in response and placed a plate of steaming food in front of him. Wyatt grinned and dug in.

      “I spoke to Dorrie this morning,” Beatrice said in a casual tone that was anything but casual. “She was telling me that her kitchen sink is clogged. I told her that you’d come take a look at it this afternoon.”

      Wyatt tried to keep his tone level, “You just happened to speak to Dorrie this morning?”

      At least Beatrice had the decency to look ashamed. “She called me, Wyatt.”

      “Returning your call, no doubt.”

      “She’s a polite girl. I called her about the quilting circle. We’re looking for another member, and I suggested her.”

      Wyatt rolled his eyes and groaned. “How in the world did you talk your friends into letting Dorrie into the quilting circle? You all haven’t allowed any new members since the Lyndon administration.”

      “Well, I haven’t exactly gotten the group’s approval,” Beatrice admitted reluctantly, then added with a smile, “But, I don’t anticipate any problems. We need some new blood and Dorrie is a wonderful person. Sweet, kind, respectful—”

      “I get it, Mom. You like her,” he said tiredly. His mother wasn’t exactly a subtle person, and she had not been subtle in the least over the last few months about how much she liked Dorrie. “I like her, too. But as much as you and I both like her, I don’t need you setting up dates for me. I am a grown man.”

      “I know you’re a grown man, sweetie. Do you need me to butter your toast?”

      Wyatt shook his head in surrender as his mother began to busily spread butter on a slice of toast for him.

      “So, what time should I tell Dorrie you’re coming over?”

      “Mom—”

      “Well, are you not going to go just because I arranged it? She’s in need. I raised you better.”

      “Mom…”

      Beatrice sighed heavily and set the plate of toast in front of him. “I know you like Dorrie. Dorrie knows that you like that Dorrie. The whole town knows that you like Dorrie. What’s taking you so long? Just ask her out for a real date. We don’t get young single women in this town. This may be your last chance. And if you don’t claim her, I hear that Miles Logan has been sniffing around her office, claiming to need help on his finances when we all know the man has an MBA from Harvard. Susan Logan certainly bragged about it enough.”

      “Mom…”

      Beatrice signed heavily then said, “Fine, have it your way. I’ll just tell her that you’re not coming over—”

      “Tell her I’ll be there at eleven,” Wyatt groaned.

      His mother’s smug silence almost