Page 6 of Blame it on the Mistletoe
There were two things Faith didn’t do: trust or secrets. Her childhood hadn’t allowed for either. Trusting someone meant being vulnerable, and sharing secrets created an intimate bond. But she’d had no choice but to trust Noah to keep his word, because her good sense didn’t allow for intimate coffee meetups with cops. Which brought her to the third thing she didn’t do.
Cops.
So if he’d breathed even a single word about her being Sweet’s Secret Samaritan, then he’d better watch his pistol. Because when Faith got hold of him, he wouldn’t have anything left to holster.
“Mister was in here this morning flapping his lips about how you were moonlighting. He offered up a hundred dollars to anyone who’d reveal where you’re dancing. He’s thinking about hosting the next Moose Lodge get-together there, then announcing his candidacy for club president. He thinks your”—she waved a pie slicer at Faith’s cleavage—“jingle bells will give him an edge over Mr. Woodrow Rayborn in the race.”
“First, I’ve never danced, well,thatway. And second—” Faith leaned in and lowered her voice. “Does Ms. Luella know about this? Because I don’t want her putting a hit out on me or dumping a load of coal on my porch.”
Faith shivered at the idea of letting Mister anywhere near her jingle bells. Not only was he one hair from bald, but he was also the long-standing gentleman friend of a woman who’d once tie-dyed an entire flock of sheep because their owner implied Ms. Luella’s knitting was so inferior it was a waste of wool.
“Ms. Luella isn’t who you need to be worried about.” This time the pie slicer was aimed at Faith’s throat. “You know I don’t tolerate moonlighters on my staff.”
“I work fulltime at the hospital and pick up odd shifts here after work or on the weekends.” Like today. Faith worked the early shift at the hospital, then raced to the diner just in time to start the swing shift, taking her workday from ten hours to a whopping fourteen. “So technically, when I’m here I’m moonlighting.”
Mrs. McKinney considered that for a long, hard moment, her lips tightening even more than usual, then lowered the weapon. “Since there’s no hanky-panky involved, I’ll let it slide. But now you’ve got me thinking. After all the ruckus about you in those leggings, maybe you should wear that outfit to work. Wouldn’t even have to offer Senior Sunday anymore, you’d gather a crowd. You’d have ’em wheeling their chairs right out of the nursing home.”
“I have burned the costume and, not that it’s any of your business, I only wore it because I was picking up some last-minute Dear Sweet letters from a few of the kids in the pediatric ward. And there was a mix-up at the costume shop, and that was the last elf costume they had.”
“Bet there were a bunch of angry parents trying to dodge all kinds of elf-inspired questions today.”
“It’s been a week.” Surprisingly, last night had been the highlight. And she meant that in the best kind of way. Seeing Noah had been exciting. Sparring with him had been as thrilling as the front seat of a roller-coaster ride.
“So that’s a no on the holiday uniform?” Viola asked.
Faith dug her hands into her hips and glared down at her boss, which was impressive since, at only five-three, Faith spent most of her life looking up at people.
“Well then, shoo.” Viola swatted her with the spatula. “We’ve got hungry customers and the food’s getting cold. Now go fetch a basket of biscuits for table five.”
“Yes, Mrs. McKinney,” Faith said, sweet as pie.
“Don’t take that tone with me. I don’t know what to do with nice.”
With an even warmer smile, Faith grabbed a basket of steaming biscuits—because this was an around-the-clock biscuit establishment—and honey butter and headed toward table five, where one of her best friends was holding court.
Gina Echols was dressed in a sharp-looking blue suit, a pair of candy red heels, and enough bravado to cut steel. She was superhero worthy and ready to kick some serious bad-guy butt. Which was fitting since she worked as a lawyer for the County Prosecutor’s office.
Faith set down the basket of biscuits. “On the house.”
“The biscuits are always on the house. Your uniform literally says, BISCUITS ARE FREE. JUST DON’T ASK ME TO BUTTER THEM,” Gina said, not bothering to look up from the brief she was reading. “Plus, no biscuits on court day. Carbs are for the weak.”
“I put extra honey butter in there.”
Work forgotten, Gina snatched the basket to peek in. She took a big sniff, her head sagging against her chest in defeat. “You play dirty.”
“I can’t help it—I’m an enabler at heart.”
“Next time enable someone who didn’t skip their morning run, three years in a row,” Gina said around a mouthful of buttered biscuit.
“Your usual then. A coffee, eggs and bacon scramble with extra bacon on the side.”
“Don’t forget to hold the fruit.”
“Got it.” She had turned to walk away when Gina pulled out a dollar bill and stuck it in the hem of Faith’s skirt. Faith snatched the bill and glared. “What’s this?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.” HerYou’re bustedexpression said Gina wasn’t asking for a rundown on today’s specials.
“I’m bringing my double-soaked bourbon balls to the wrapping party,” Faith said, and Gina pulled out another bill, making a big deal about it. Faith snatched that one, too. “Who told you?”
