The Boss's Secret Mistress. Alison Fraser

out here in Gordon Falls.

      Karla began opening the box. “I got a few extra books from the entrepreneurship program. Business stuff.” Pulling off the packing tape, she removed the filling to see Restaurant Ownership, The Chef’s Guide to Marketing, and Culinary Management alongside the two workbooks needed from her online courses. The used texts had clearly seen wear and tear, but they were half the price of the new ones. Plus, if she was fortunate, they came with highlights and notes from their previous student owners.

      “Ambitious,” Mom remarked from over Karla’s shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Karl could probably tell you half of what’s in those books.” She winked. “Or so he’d boast.”

      “Aren’t we done yet, Rosa? My hip is yelling at me.” Grandpa’s groaning echoed into the kitchen from the living room.

      “A saint, I tell you.” Mom was laughing, but probably only because she was picking up her car keys. “I’m off to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”

      Oh, there was a long list of what Karla needed, but Halverson’s wasn’t likely to carry any of it. “No, I’m going to place an order with the restaurant supply place this afternoon after I talk to Grandpa about something.”

      Mom raised a curious eyebrow. “You can tell me about it later, okay?” She ducked her head into the living room. “Karl, be nice to Rosa. She’s here to help.”

      Karla heard her grandfather grumble something about the nature of helpfulness, punctuated by a yelp that generally signaled his descent into the recliner chair. His therapist walked into the kitchen, returning the blue cardboard folder that held the papers showing Grandpa’s daily exercises to its spot on the counter. He was supposed to do exercises twice a day when Rosa wasn’t here, but often refused. “Two more weeks.” She sighed. “Remind him he can go out and about after two weeks but no driving for another month.”

      “We’ll see about that!” Grandpa yelled from the living room. “Morehouse is a tyrant, I tell you.”

      Karla offered Rosa a shrug. “Dr. Morehouse is on your side, Grandpa,” she called into the other room. “Try to remember that.”

      “See if you can get him to keep his feet elevated with ice on that hip for twenty minutes twice this afternoon. After those exercise he claims he does, but doesn’t.” She looked at Karla. “I told your mom just what I told him—he’s doing better than expected. He’ll make a full recovery if we can just keep him from overdoing it.”

      Grandpa was the king of “overdoing it.”

      “I’ll do my best. You take care. Want a Danish?”

      Rosa sighed, took a Danish and headed out the door.

      The minute the door closed, Grandpa was making noises in the living room. “Can we go out to lunch today? I won’t tell a soul.”

      “Everyone will see you and rat you out.” Karl Kennedy could no more walk down the streets of Gordon Falls unrecognized than Karla could whip up a soufflé over a candlestick. The man’s coffee shop was the unofficial town hall. It was part of the charm—and the pain—of being here: everyone knew Karl, and everyone knew she was Karl’s granddaughter. She was starting to really miss Chicago’s anonymity.

      “No one will tell on me. Call Vi. She’ll come spring me.” Violet Sharpton had come to visit Grandpa multiple times in the hospital and stopped by every other day. While she was as feisty as Grandpa, Vi wasn’t a likely conspirator for anything that would endanger his recovery.

      “Dad would have my hide,” she replied as she walked into the living room with a cheese Danish on a napkin. “You know that. And Mrs. Sharpton wants you to get better, so I doubt she’ll help you cheat. We’ll order out from Dellio’s, how about that? Besides, I struck a deal at the coffee shop today and I want to tell you about it.”

      That got Grandpa’s attention. “What kind of deal? You bringing in some other fancy machine no one knows how to work?”

      It was true; no one else seemed to be able or willing to work the cappuccino machine. One high school student managed a brave attempt, but it ended in an incident so awful the entire shop staff had made a pact never to tell Karl how hazelnut syrup got into the heating vents. The other waitress, Emily, had nearly refused to touch the machine.

      Karla sat down on an ottoman opposite her grandfather. “We’re going to supply breakfast to Dylan McDonald’s charter fishing customers once or twice a week. I worked out a package deal for the next month.” She laid out the terms of the agreement as Grandpa ate the Danish. “We shook on it, but I told him it wasn’t official until I got the okay from you.”

      “We’re catering to McDonald’s fishing boat?”

      Grandpa’s idea of catering would come something closer to a thermos of coffee and a box of doughnuts. “No, they’ll place their espresso drink orders with Dylan as they pull into the dock and then I’ll have it all set on a table when they walk in. Dylan will pay up front eight dollars a head. I figure some of them might end up staying and ordering a full breakfast if things go well.” She smiled. “Everybody wins.”

      Grandpa grinned. “Well, look at you striking deals and making partners. Kennedys can do, I tell you.” It was the unofficial Kennedy Family Motto. The old man winced and shifted, rubbing his hip. “McDonald. The fireman with the fishing boat business, right?”

      “That’s him.”

      Grandpa’s gray eyes twinkled. “About your age, isn’t he?”

      She swatted her grandfather’s good leg. “Nice try, old man.” Age was the only thing she had in common with Dylan McDonald. Right now her focus was on her principal interest, not Prince Charming. She hoped one or two of the executives Dylan claimed to serve might prove useful business contacts. A woman on her way up in the world had to look for opportunities everywhere she could. If the deal with Dylan found her a commercial real estate broker, a potential investor, or just a handful of likely customers, she’d be thrilled.

      As for the flannel-shirted, fine-looking fireman? She could always use a friend all the way out here, but she wasn’t casting a line for anything more.

      * * *

      Dylan laughed to himself the next morning as he watched Karla continue her one-woman caffeine campaign. She was persistent, he’d give her that much. Violet Sharpton scrunched her face up after sipping whatever coffee Karla had put in front of her. “I thought you said there was chocolate in this.”

      “There is.” Dylan saw Karla’s face drop.

      “Well, what else is in there messing everything up?”

      “Espresso.” Karla had to have known Violet was a tea drinker, didn’t she? She wasn’t that new to town. Still, the froth he saw on the edge of Violet’s mug told him Karla had been trying out a new concoction on the old woman. Not that Violet wasn’t a fan of new things—she was one of the most adventurous senior citizens Dylan had ever met—but some leaps were just a bit too far. “It’s a strong, Italian kind of coffee.”

      Violet put the cup down. “I have teenage grandchildren—I know what espresso is. But I could have told you up front I’m not one of those caffeine junkies.” She offered Karla a forgiving grin. “You’re a sport for trying, though. Your grandfather could use a kick in the gastronomic pants once he comes back. Never tries anything new.”

      “Karl says he knows what people like,” Dylan offered as he walked up to the counter.

      “This ‘people’ don’t much care for that.” Violet nodded toward the brew.

      “She made a pretty good latte for me yesterday.” The remark returned a bit of the smile to Karla’s face.

      “Well, then, you youngsters go on ahead with your fancy drinks and leave the basics to the old folks.” She put a hand on Karla’s. “Nothing personal, hon, but I’ll be glad when your grandfather’s