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“I need your sign-off on plans for the company Christmas party on the twenty-second, sir.”
He rolled his eyes. Was it his imagination, or had it only been six months since the last agonizing company Christmas party? “Are you within budget?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go ahead with it.”
“It’s only two weeks away, and you haven’t yet RSVPed, sir.”
Greg sighed. “Will and I both are coming.”
“Shall I put you down for two or four?”
Peg’s polite way of asking if they were bringing dates, although they never had before. “Two, Peg. And I can’t be interrupted right now.” He knew he sounded like a grinch, but he couldn’t help it—as far as he was concerned, Christmas simply heralded the end of another year of being trapped in this corner office. “Hold my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stabbed the disconnect button, then walked to the window that consumed two entire walls of his office. The glass transferred the outside chill to his splayed hand, providing the most pleasurable experience of the prolonged morning. Downtown Lexington, Kentucky was all dressed up for the holidays with giant white plastic garlands and shiny blue bulbs twined around street lamps, the colors a tribute to the university.
Regardless of the season, his eyes were always drawn to the same building—the city courthouse. Indulging in a favorite daydream, he imagined how his life would be different if he’d gone into criminal law, instead of taking over the legal responsibilities for his father’s real estate company when he’d graduated law school. Now, as the sole heir capable of running the business, he had no choice.
Greg reached up to loosen his tie in an attempt to assuage his sudden claustrophobia. Lately he’d had the pressing feeling that he was missing out on something, that life was passing him by. God, he hated the holidays. So damn lonely.
And now Will was wanting to leave him—or so it seemed.
Unable to face the paperwork that loomed large on his desk, Greg grabbed his gym bag and strode out the door. Without much success, he tried to push the singles ad business from his mind during his lunch-hour run, which he extended by a mile. For a reason that now escaped him, he’d never considered the day when his brother might marry and strike out on his own.
When their father had died seven years ago, Greg had sold his plush condo and moved back home, partly so Will could remain in familiar surroundings, partly to put the proceeds from his condo toward the mountain of debt their father had amassed. The bond the brothers had shared when they were children was forged even stronger, and Greg had simply assumed they would always live together, two happy bachelors.
Except, Will obviously wasn’t completely happy. Later, as Greg toweled his neck, he admitted that some small part of him was grateful that his cynicism where women were concerned hadn’t rubbed off on Will. But then again, it hadn’t been an issue for a while; he hadn’t dated anyone seriously since moving back home—the work required to get the family business headed back toward profitability had been enormous.
Oh, he’d had a few dinner dates here and there, but all the women had made their intentions rather clear—marriage. And their interest in his family’s money had been equally apparent. He couldn’t blame a woman for wanting financial security, but even a token interest in him, in his hobbies, in his dreams—was it too much to ask?
Of course, the real kicker was that, thanks to the string of bad investments their father had made before anyone realized his mind was slipping, the Healey brothers weren’t worth nearly as much money as most people believed. He groaned as he stepped under the club shower, regretting more and more the call he’d made on Will’s behalf. They had each other now—a woman would change everything, and not for the better.
When he returned to the office with a boxed lunch, he was cranky and favoring a pulled calf muscle. At the sight of a silver garland strung across his windows, he frowned. “Peg!”
The owlish woman appeared at his door. “Yes, sir?”
“I thought I said I didn’t want my office decorated.”
Her eyes bugged wider. “Do you want me to have it taken down, sir?”
He dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “No, never mind.” He gestured to the slips of paper in her hand. “Do I have messages?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Payton wants you to call him as soon as possible, sir. And a woman called about an ad, sir. Someone named…Coffee Girl?”
Heat flooded his face. “In the future, please don’t answer my personal phone line.”
“It rings so rarely—I thought it might be an emergency.”
A nice way of saying he had no social life. “Did you say you took a message?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is, sir.”
“Thank you,” he chirped, then took the note and stuffed it into his pants pocket without looking at it. “That will be all.”
Peg trotted out and closed the door.
Greg closed his eyes and counted to ten, willing away this restless, frustrated feeling that seemed to have escalated recently. He knew he needed to reduce the stress in his life, to simplify his obligations, but for the time being, things were what they were.
Glad for a reason to postpone contacting the woman from the singles ad, he phoned his general manager, Art Payton, convinced another problem was afoot. “Art, this is Greg. What’s up?”
“Great news, Greg. The interest from developers is snowballing on the Hyde Parkland parcels.” Art’s hearty laugh rumbled over the line. “If the rezoning goes through, you could be sitting on the most valuable property in central Kentucky.”
Greg refrained from reminding Art of his opposition to the acquisition of Regal Properties that Greg had targeted two years ago specifically for the Hyde Parkland property under its ownership. “Cut to the chase, Art. How valuable?”
“I’m talking about serious money. You could retire.”
He managed a small laugh. “You’re exaggerating.” But he paced in front of the window to expend a burst of nervous energy.
“No, I’m not. If the rezoning goes through, you’ll be set for life. Will, too, of course.”
His feet stopped moving. Will was the sole reason he hadn’t left the company when their father died. When he discovered the financial disaster they’d inherited, Greg had been thrust nearer to panic than he’d ever been in his life. He had to be certain that if something happened to him, Will would always be taken care of. If what Art was saying was true, the Hyde Parkland project would be the parachute he’d been hoping for.
“I’m telling you, Greg, this time next year you could be doing anything your heart desires.”
Greg walked to the tinsel bedecked window, zeroed in on the courthouse roof, and smiled—actually smiled. Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Still, anything that sounded too good to be true…“I need more details, Art. Can we get together this afternoon?”
“How about three-thirty?”
“I’ll see you then.”
He slowly returned the handset, while hope thrashed in his chest. Was this deal the light at the end of a long tunnel? Greg shoved a fidgety hand into his pocket, and his fingers brushed the note Peg had given him. A groan welled in his chest, but a promise made to Will was a promise kept, so he pulled out the piece of paper.
Meet me at The Best Cuppa Joe tomorrow morning at eleven. Coffee Girl
Greg scowled and wadded the note into a ball. Romance—bah! As if he didn’t have enough on his mind.
2
The next morning
LANA MARTINA CONJURED UP a beaming smile for Miss Half-Caf-Nonfat-Whip-Extra-Mocha. Secretly Lana thought that without the fat, why bother with whipped cream at all. But then again, she didn’t even drink coffee—an admitted peculiarity for the owner of a coffee shop—so she offered no comment. Especially since her customers were usually a bit testy before they had their first jolt of caffeine.
Ringing up the three hundred and fifty-sixth sale of the morning, she instead thanked her lucky stars for the large number of Lexington, Kentucky downtowners who relied on the ritual of sucking down coffee before facing their respective daily grinds. Addictions were profitable for the supplier, and Lana prided herself on supplying the best cup of Joe in the city. Ergo, the name of her shop: The Best Cuppa Joe. Okay, she couldn’t take credit for the name since the shop had been located at 145 Hunt Street for thirty years—as long as she’d been alive—but she was proud to carry on the tradition as owner and manager for going on six months now.
The woman exited, and with the morning rush officially over, Lana slumped into the counter and willed away the anxiety roiling in her stomach. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t turn into a workaholic entrepreneur, but lately one circumstance after another had made long hours unavoidable. Her pastry chef Annette had arrived at four-thirty a.m. with her regular supply of decadent muffins, bagels and baklava, but had sprained her ankle in the parking lot. Lana had sent her home, knowing she’d be shorthanded until Wesley clocked in before lunch.
Oh well, at least she’d be spared Annette’s monologue about her ongoing manhunt. The girl was convinced her life was incomplete without the perfect man, and she never ran out of inventive ways to extend her search. Lana, on the other hand, had already found the perfect man. His name was Harry and his maintenance consisted of an occasional puff of air into the valve on the top of his rubber head. Harry never questioned her decisions, never wrestled for the remote, never criticized her hairstyle or clothing.
On the other hand, the only release Harry’s anatomically correct body offered her was an occasional burst of laughter.
The bell on the door rang, and Lana straightened automatically until she recognized her friend Alexandria Stillman. “Oh, it’s only you.”
Alexandria glided toward the counter, sleek and catlike in a cobalt designer suit from her family’s upscale department store across town. “Nice to see you, too.”
Lana waved off Alex’s comment and rubbed her aching pouring arm. “You know what I mean.”
“Business is good, huh?”
Lana surveyed the space she’d come to love so fiercely, from the ancient brick walls to the whorled wood floors, to the slightly sagging stage where talented and not-so-talented hopefuls put their pride on the line during open-mike nights. A far cry from the claustrophobic accounting office where she’d spent seven years of her life after college—holy humdrum.
“I can’t complain,” Lana said with a satisfied sigh, pouring a mug of the almond-flavored coffee Alex liked. “Do you have time to visit for a while?”
“That’s why I came.” Alex took the proffered cup.
Lana quirked an eyebrow. “Is Jack out of town?”
A blush stained Alex’s cheeks. “Have I been neglecting you? I’m sorry.”
“Since you’ve never looked better, Mrs. Stillman, I’ll let you off the hook this time.”
“Marriage does seem to agree with me,” her friend gushed uncharacteristically. At least, the gushing had been uncharacteristic before she’d been swept off her feet by “Jack the Attack” Stillman.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lana said with a grin. “Just don’t turn into one of those marriage evangelists, okay?”
“I can’t promise anything. Hey, do you have plans for Christmas Eve?”
A smile claimed her lips that for once, Alex didn’t have to share her family for yet another holiday. “As a matter of fact, Janet is coming up.”
“Great. I’m sure you and your mother will have a good time. If your plans change, though, you’re welcome to come to Dad’s.”
Lana didn’t respond. Maybe Janet had been a little unreliable in the past, but she’d come. She would.
Alex sipped the coffee and murmured her approval. “Nice hat, by the way.”
Lana flicked the fuzzy ball at the end of the floppy red Santa hat. “Thanks. I wanted to go for the elf shoes, too, but my crew threatened to quit.”
“Speaking of crew, where’s Annette?”
“She sprained her ankle this morning, and I didn’t want her to have to stand on it all day.”
Alex tilted her head. “You look exhausted. Maybe you should sell yourself a cup of your energy blend.”
“I’m not that desperate yet,” Lana said, laughing. She pulled a bag of Earl Grey tea from beneath the counter and dropped it into a mug, then added steaming water from a dispenser. Janet, a bona fide Anglophile, had introduced her to tea as a youngster, and to tea she remained loyal.
“I guess I’m just stressed out over this roommate situation,” Lana said. “I’m glad to be rid of Vile Vicki, but I can’t afford to keep paying the entire rent much longer.” Not and cover the lease on the coffee shop space, and the short-term note for new equipment, and the payments for the additional cash registers, refrigerator and pastry case.
“If you need a loan—”
Lana cut off her friend with a look. “I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.” If she could squeak by for another year, she’d be able to pocket some of the profits instead of sinking all the money back into the business.
Alex relented with a nod. “Any responses from your roommate ads?”
They claimed a small square table painted with a redand-black gameboard. Lana sat back in a padded chair and shook her head. “A couple dozen oddballs I wouldn’t even consider.”
“Oh, that’s rich—you calling someone an oddball.”
Lana pulled a face, then reached behind her to retrieve the magazine that lay discarded on a table. “I let Annette talk me into placing an ad, so maybe I’ll hear something before Christmas, although it’s a lousy time of the year to be looking for a roommate.”
Alex leaned forward when Lana pointed out her ad:
Lexington, KY: SF seeking roommate, F or GM, nonsmoker, preferably sane and willing to share kitchen duties.
“GM?” her friend asked.
“Gay male,” Lana said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want some straight guy getting the wrong idea about the sleeping arrangements.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Alex teased, tapping her finger on the singles ads on the next page. “Maybe you should’ve placed a combination ad and killed two birds with one stone.”
“Oh, please. Don’t start.”
“You were the one hounding me to get a man before I met Jack.”
“That was before I bought the coffee shop. Now I don’t have time for scratch-off lottery tickets, much less a man.”
“Are the ads national?”
“Yep.”
“Well, you should be able to find a roommate over the entire country,” Alex agreed, grinning over the brim of her cup.
Lana frowned. “Are you saying that I’m too picky?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, do you blame me, after living with that witch for so long?”
Alex blew onto the surface of her drink. “I’m just wondering how much of the animosity for your former roommate had to do with the fact that she went out with the only man you ever cared about.”
Ignoring the flash of pain that the memory of Bill Friar conjured up, Lana wagged her finger. “Thought I cared about. Bill Friar is a low-life cheat who was threatened by a woman smarter than he is.” She’d trusted him, the cad. Lately she’d been pondering whether the problem was that she was too trusting of the people she cared about, or perversely drawn to untrustworthy people—excluding Alex, of course.
“Lana, you’re smarter than anyone I know. Maybe you should start accepting invitations to those Mensa meetings to find a date.”
“What? Holy hallucinogen, Alex, you know the only reason I maintain my membership in that uppity organization is for the insurance.”
“Afraid of hooking up with a thinking man?”
