The Christmas Family. Linda Goodnight
a little overwrought, aren’t you, brother? Wounded pride, maybe?”
“Yeah!” Brady cranked the engine, listened to the rumble and put the shifter in gear. “She’s supposed to be thrilled.”
“Wonder why she refused. Do you think she actually doesn’t see the problems?”
“Nah, it’s not that. She was upset, not oblivious. The problem is, I don’t know what button we pushed to fix it, but she was offended.”
“The little girl was cute, huh?”
“Adorable.” The truck bumped across the railroad tracks. The sun was in midset, shooting orange fingers through a purple sky. “Did you notice her artwork all over the walls?”
“Couldn’t miss it. The mom’s not too bad, either.”
Brady gave him a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They need this remodel. Maybe you could turn on the Buchanon charm.”
Brady snorted. “No.”
“You haven’t dated anyone since Kiley and that was months ago.”
“Not interested. I’m a builder, not a Romeo.” Never mind the strange sensation that had tingled up his arms when Abby brushed past him in the kitchen. Or the weird, weird heat in his chest when Lila gave him her angel drawing. “You’re the man about town. You ask her out.”
“The Christmas makeover is your project.” Dawson’s wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We can always find another recipient. That side of town has plenty of candidates.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Plan B.” But Abby and her little girl needed the remodel more than anyone else he’d considered. Lila, especially, according to his sources at the day care, suffered from the lack of special-needs accessories in her home. He wanted to do that makeover.
* * *
The next morning Brady awakened hungry. Nothing unusual about that, but this morning he decided to eat breakfast at the Buttered Biscuit. Call him stubborn or perverse, but he wasn’t ready to give up on Miss Abby Webster. If a little of his presence reminded her of how much she needed him and what a good guy he was, all the better.
The drive to the café took a few minutes. He’d built his house, or rather half of it, on the edge of town not far from the river in a copse of bald cypress and red oak. As he liked to say, his home was a work in progress. The lower floor was finished and the rest evolved in squeezed-out hours and minutes. All of the Buchanon kids except Quinn had, over time, acquired a Buchanon Built home.
Older brother Quinn was, himself, a work in progress, still trying to pull his act together after a life-altering accident, though most of the family thought ten years was enough time for anyone. Forgiving Jake Hamilton, the cause of the accident, had made a difference, but Quinn had a ways to go.
Brady turned the lock on his front door and whistled his way out into the cool morning with Dawg at his heel.
As he drove into town and down First Street to the café, gray fog crawled along the ground in mysterious wisps and wiggles.
“Sit tight, pal, and I’ll bring you a sausage patty.” Brady gave Dawg a pat and rolled the window down enough for the animal to stick his nose out if the mood struck. Dawg, accustomed to waiting for his master, put his chin on his paws and went to sleep.
Breakfast smells hit Brady full in the olfactory glands the minute he entered the café. His stomach reacted with wild abandon.
As usual this early in the morning, the café was jammed and the clatter of conversations mixed with the clink of plates and the cook’s voice calling “order up!”
An old-time diner-style café that served up home cooking and comfort food, the Buttered Biscuit was the place to be for good eats and all the latest and greatest in Gabriel’s Crossing news.
Brady greeted friends and acquaintances as he made his way to a table still cluttered with someone else’s empty plates and took a seat.
Jan, the owner and baker of the fluffiest biscuits in Texas, whipped past. “Get that in a sec, Brady.”
“No rush.” Which wasn’t technically true. He was always in a rush these days.
Two other waitresses were on duty, all of them moving at Mach speed to fill cups and deliver plates. Abby Webster, pad in hand, took orders two tables away. She looked up, spotted Brady and hesitated as if she didn’t want to see him.
Too bad.
She had kept him up late trying to figure out why anyone would refuse a free home makeover from the best builders in the area. The least she could do was bring him a cup of coffee.
She whipped toward him and he noticed her as he never had before, though he ate at the diner fairly often. Probably because, as Dawson said, she was all business. The other waitresses smiled and bantered with the customers—he noticed them—but Abby simply worked. He wondered, randomly, if she did anything for fun.
“French toast and milk?” she asked. Her cheekbones were tipped in pink.
“Sure. And the strongest cup of coffee you have.” Coffee, like her eyes. Dark and shiny and able to deliver a jolt.
She didn’t offer a joke, as Jan would have, by asking him if he’d been out all night partying or some other sass-mouthed comment she was known for. Abby simply scribbled his order, grabbed a pile of plates and sailed away.
He watched her move through the customers, topping off coffee and delivering checks as she made her way to the kitchen with his order.
She was actually kind of pretty, a truth that surprised him this morning. Mink-colored hair that gleamed over one shoulder, huge dark eyes framed by thick, arching eyebrows and a wide, full mouth. On anyone else, the large features would be too much, but they looked good on her.
“What are you staring at, big brother?” Dawson pulled out the chair opposite him. Sawyer, the other twin, joined him on the right.
Brady ignored the question. “What are you two doing here?”
“Same as you. Too lazy to cook breakfast. Have you been able to locate a plumber for the Edwards job?”
Brady slapped the heel of one hand to his forehead. “Ah, man, I forgot.”
He’d been so keyed up after the strange meeting with Abby he’d not given the plumber another thought until this moment.
“Dad’s not going to be happy.”
“I’ll find someone.” But not before the already-passed deadline of six o’clock. “Any ideas.”
“A couple. You might call Richie Clonts up in Idabel.”
“Good idea.”
“Give Charity a call. She’ll know his number.”
Charity was their oldest sister, a powerhouse real estate agent with a steel-trap mind and a list of contacts a mile long.
He fished his cell phone from his hip pocket, got the number from his sister and called the plumber. Five minutes later, he hung up a happier man. “Richie can send someone tomorrow. Dad wanted someone today, but tomorrow is better than nothing.”
Abby appeared with his coffee in a thick white mug and took orders from the twins.
“You’re pretty busy,” Sawyer said, saying the obvious with a toothy smile. Brady’s younger brothers, especially Sawyer, were always scoping the field for ladies.
“Slammed, but it’s letting up.”
“Still have my phone number?” Brady asked.
Her gaze flicked his direction. She got pink again. “Haven’t you chosen someone else?”
“I’d