Page 4 of Christmas Home

Corey had begun preparing the moment we boarded my private jet to fly from New York to Nashville. He’d told me at least half a dozen times that he’d arranged a hotel in Nashville, just in case Crawford City was too much for me to handle.

The man was a menace most of the time, but as the years progressed, he’d also proven to care about me. I’d often wondered if there was any hope that we could be more than employer and employee, but I always reached the same conclusion.

The idea was preposterous. Corey wasn’t my type and although I loved him, he was like my family. Not a lover in any way.

I snickered as I thought about it while we walked toward the café. I was never going to be his type either, as evidenced by the string of models he’d dated and dumped over the years. I wasn’t anywhere near perfect enough. The smile slipped from my face as I thought of my scars.

I kept my burned body hidden from everyone, Corey included. Even the few men I’d dated over the past twenty years had only caught glimpses. The surgeries had helped, but the scars would never be gone, at least not entirely. They spanned across my torso, so keeping my shirt on usually hid the worst of them.

We walked into the Crawford City Café and were immediately confronted by a smiling woman. “Welcome, gentlemen,” she said before waving her hand around the cute little place. “Sit anywhere you like. We’ve got the buffet, or you can order. There’s a menu on every table.”

I followed Corey to a booth and slid in as I watched him check the seat for crumbs, then wipe his pretentious finger across the top of the table. When it appeared clean enough, he sat down.

“My God, are you always like this?” I asked.

He stopped unfolding a paper napkin to use as a placemat and looked at me. “Like what?”

“A pretentious snob?” I asked.

He promptly ignored me, picked up the menu, and began to peruse it.

When the same woman who’d greeted us approached with coffee, I gladly allowed her to pour me a cup. We’d left New York in the wee hours of the morning to avoid a storm that was building over West Virginia, so I needed a caffeine boost.

“So, what’ll you have?” she asked.

“I’ll have the buffet,” I announced, and Corey cringed across from me. Hoping the woman wouldn’t pay him any mind, I asked her about the town.

She smiled and answered my questions while Corey continued to peruse the menu. When the woman finished giving me her elevator pitch for the town, Corey said, “I’ll have the eggs Benedict.”

The woman frowned. “I’ll warn you, I just hired a new short-order cook, and this will be the first breakfast he’s fixed, so you’re gonna hafta be a guinea pig. Is that okay?”

Corey sighed and shrugged. “If it sucks, I’ll let you know.”

I shook my head as the woman nodded and disappeared through the back.

“How about we try not offending the locals. This isn’t New York, and since our dining options here in town are extremely limited, we may be eating here a lot.”

Corey laughed. “Hardly. I’ll cook until I can hire someone to do it for us. But I’ll try not to be so…myself,” he said dryly.

“Thank you,” I replied and took a swig of my surprisingly decent coffee.

Corey flipped through his phone as I looked around the café. It was dated, almost like it hadn’t been updated since I left thirty years ago. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember eating here.

Like Corey, I searched for signs of the café being dirty, but everything seemed clean. It appeared as if someone had scrubbed the floors on their hands and knees. That spoke volumes about the place, and I just hoped the food was good.

The woman returned with a plate for the buffet, told me I could go help myself, and that Corey’s food would be ready soon. Then she promptly disappeared again.

My grandmother had grown up in the house on the hill. She always considered herself a Southern woman instead of a New Englander like the rest of us. As I surveyed the buffet, I smiled when I saw the same types of food she’d cooked when I was young.

As our server had predicted, Corey’s food arrived just as I returned to the table. She placed the steaming food in front of him as I sat down. For a moment, before he could contain it, I saw pleasure in Corey’s expression.

“You boys let me know if you need anything else,” the woman said.

I dug into my food, ignoring the fact she had called me a boy, while Corey looked at me in disgust. “You know there are probably more germs on that buffet than on the floor.”

“It's possible,” I conceded, “but I’ve literally watched someone wipe down those serving utensils three times since we arrived, and even you can’t say the place isn’t spick-and-span. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my chances.”

“Well, it’s your funeral,” he said and, using his knife, cut through the eggs Benedict. I’m not a foodie. Most of the time, I eat what’s put in front of me and don’t worry so much about what I’m eating, but even I could see Corey’s meal was cooked perfectly.

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