Hearts That Laugh

He set the towels on a shelf and glanced toward the dining room. “First shift?”

“Is it the snow in my hair or the panic in my eyes?”

“Both, but the panic is doing more work.”

Before Kelly could answer, another male staff member passed behind Kieran and called, “If she needs help, I can show her the good tables.”

Kieran didn’t look back. “He means the tables closest to the pie case.”

“I mean the tables closest to me,” the man called.

Kelly removed her coat. “Do all the men here flirt with new servers, or is there a sign-up sheet?”

Kieran took her coat and hung it on the moose rack. “There’s a raffle.”

“Grand prize?”

“Getting ignored by you.”

“Excellent. I’ve always wanted to win something.”

His grin arrived quickly, and annoyingly, it suited him.

A bell jingled near the front door. Cold air swept through the entrance, carrying snow crystals across the floor. A party of four stepped inside, stamping their boots and shaking off scarves. One woman held a reservation card and looked around with the hopeful expression of someone who had survived the drive from Anchorage and expected a table as compensation.

Kieran nodded toward the hallway. “Kelly, can you take them to the back room? The host stand is being used as a pie display.”

Kelly looked where he pointed. The hallway ran past the coat hooks, bent sharply near a stack of empty kegs, and ended at a wooden door with a brass handle.

“Back room,” she repeated.

“Back room,” Kieran confirmed.

Simple. A good first task. A chance to demonstrate competence without carrying anything breakable.

Kelly approached the party with a smile. “Right this way.”

The guests followed.

The hallway was narrower than it appeared from the entrance. A server squeezed past with a tray of mugs. Someone opened a swinging door, releasing a blast of garlic and steam. Kelly kept moving, leading the party around the kegs and toward the brass-handled door.

A painted sign hung above it.

STAFF ONLY.

Kelly noticed it.

She also noticed the smaller sign beneath it.

BACK ROOM.

The first sign seemed less welcoming, but the second seemed more relevant. She chose optimism.

“This way,” she said, opening the door.

A gust of winter air slapped her in the face.

The guests stepped onto a shoveled path behind the alehouse, where snowbanks rose on either side like frosted walls. A stack of empty barrels leaned against the building. Beyond them sat the parking lot, three snowmobiles, and a startled man in a parka holding a sandwich.

Nobody moved.

The woman with the reservation card looked at Kelly. “Is this the back room?”

Kelly glanced over her shoulder at the sign.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s very… open concept.”

The man with the sandwich slowly lowered it.

From inside the alehouse came a shout. “Kelly!”

She turned. Kieran stood at the end of the hallway, one hand braced against the wall. His expression held concern, amusement, and the distinct look of a man witnessing a cart roll downhill toward a pond.

“The dining room is the other way,” he called.

“I knew that,” Kelly said.

“You opened the outside door.”

“I was testing the ventilation.”

The woman with the reservation card hugged her coat tighter. “We were promised a booth.”

“You’ll have one,” Kelly said. “Preferably one with walls.”

She ushered them back inside. The man with the sandwich stepped aside, still watching her as if she had personally invented winter. Kelly shut the door, but the wind had already done its damage. Snow scattered across the hallway. A napkin lifted from a nearby table, sailed past Kieran’s shoulder, and landed neatly on the moose rack.

Kieran picked it up. “Strong first impression.”

“I’ve been here three minutes.”

“And the building already knows your name.”

The party followed Kelly toward the dining room. She spotted a booth, pointed at it with relief, and said, “There. Your table.”

A server appeared from the opposite direction carrying two trays of salmon dinners.

At the same moment, Kieran stepped out of the kitchen with another tray.

Kelly saw the salmon first: golden edges, lemon wedges, steaming potatoes, and butter shining dangerously close to every plate. Then she saw Kieran. He saw her.

For one brief, inconvenient second, the alehouse narrowed to his eyes and the warm gold light caught in them.

Then Kelly’s boot slid on the snow tracked across the floor.

Kieran reached for her elbow.

She grabbed his sleeve.

Both trays tipped.

The first salmon dinner slid forward with the solemn dignity of a sled leaving a hill. It landed on the floor, sauce-side down.

The second spun once, struck Kieran’s tray, and launched a lemon wedge into the air.

The lemon landed in Kelly’s apron pocket.

Three plates wobbled. Kieran caught two. Kelly caught one against her chest, which would have been impressive if the mashed potatoes had not climbed her sleeve.

The final plate drifted between them.

They both reached for it.

Their hands collided.

The plate continued downward and shattered beside their boots.

There was a pause filled with sizzling butter, the hiss of the open kitchen door, and one guest whispering, “That was almost beautiful.”

Kelly looked at Kieran.

He had gravy on his cheek.

“You have something,” she said.

“So do you.”

She glanced down. A salmon flake clung to the front of her uniform.

“Mine is dinner,” she said.

“Mine is also dinner.”

“You wear it better.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping to impress you.”

“You’ve impressed the floor.”

From the dining room, one of the male staff called, “Kieran, good news. The salmon is still emotionally available.”

Another voice added, “Kelly, the guests are impressed by the ventilation.”

The party at the booth had gathered around the table, but none of them appeared to be sitting. The woman with the reservation card pointed toward the back door.

“Is that how you get to the restroom?”

“No,” Kelly said.

The man with the sandwich, still somehow present, called from the entrance, “It could be.”

Kieran crouched to gather the broken plate. Kelly reached for a fallen fork, and their shoulders bumped again.

“Careful,” he said.

“I’m being careful.”

“You’re holding a fork like it insulted your family.”

“It knows what it did.”

He laughed under his breath. The sound was low and warm, and Kelly hated that she noticed it while wearing mashed potatoes.

The staff moved quickly around them. Someone brought a broom. Someone else brought towels. The male servers who had been trying to win Kelly’s good graces suddenly became an audience of highly invested witnesses.

One offered her a clean apron.

Another offered Kieran a napkin.

A third offered, “I can take Kelly’s tables tonight.”

Kelly snatched the clean apron. “I can take my own tables.”

“Of course,” Kieran said.

She turned on him. “Was that doubt?”

“No. That was admiration with a safety concern.”

The guests finally settled into the booth. Kelly straightened, wiped the salmon from her sleeve, and lifted her chin.

“Your meals will be remade,” she told them. “Your table is secure, the restroom is in the opposite direction from the parking lot, and I promise the next salmon will arrive on a plate.”

The woman with the reservation card studied her. “Do you know where the plates are?”

Kelly looked toward the kitchen.

Kieran looked toward the kitchen.

The kitchen door swung open, releasing another cloud of steam.

“I’m narrowing it down,” Kelly said.

That earned her a smile from the woman and a snort from the man with the sandwich. Kieran stepped beside Kelly, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the actual flow.”

“I know the flow.”

“You know one door.”

“I know the important one.”

“The important one says Staff Only.”

“Then it’s clearly important.”

He led her through the hallway, pointing out the dining room, the kitchen, the restroom, the storage closet, and the door that opened onto the snow. Kelly repeated each location under her breath, like a woman memorizing the escape routes of a building that had already betrayed her.

At the kitchen entrance, Kieran handed her a fresh tray.

“Ready?”

Kelly looked at the salmon, then at him.

“Absolutely.”

A gust rattled the back door.

The tray trembled in her hands.

Kieran’s eyebrow rose.

Kelly tightened her grip. “That was the building.”

“Good. Blame it early.”

Together they carried the replacement dinners toward the booth. This time, Kelly watched the floor. She watched the tray. She watched the guests.

She did not watch Kieran.

That would have worked perfectly if Kieran had not turned at the same moment.

Their eyes met.

Kelly’s foot stopped inches from a stray lemon wedge.

She stepped over it, steady and triumphant.

Behind her, the moose-shaped coat rack tipped forward and caught the hallway curtain on one antler. The curtain pulled loose, dropped over the entrance, and sent a shower of decorative pinecones bouncing across the floor.

One rolled beneath Kelly’s boot.

Kieran caught the tray.

Kelly caught Kieran.

The guests applauded once, uncertainly.

Kelly stood very still, holding his arm while pinecones scattered around her shoes.

Kieran looked down at her hand.

Then he looked back at her.

“Still want to make a good first impression?” he asked.

Kelly released him and smoothed her apron, though it was already stained with salmon, potato, and a lemon-shaped damp spot.

“I’m making several,” she said. “They’re just not agreeing with one another.”

Kieran smiled.

From the dining room, someone shouted, “Kelly! Your name tag is missing!”

She looked down.

The tag was gone.

Kieran glanced toward the tray she had just set on the table. A small silver rectangle clung beneath it, stuck fast to a smear of butter.

He lifted it carefully.

“Found it.”

Kelly took the name tag from him. His fingers brushed hers, and the ridiculous warmth of that tiny touch traveled straight through the cold still trapped in her bones.

The alehouse buzzed around them. Snow whispered against the windows. Somewhere near the entrance, the moose rack creaked as if preparing another opinion.

Kieran nodded toward the dining room. “Fresh start?”

Kelly pinned on her name tag.

“Fresh start,” she agreed.

Then the back door slammed open, and a gust of wind sent the tip jar skittering across the floor in a glittering spray of silver coins and someone’s mysteriously pink confetti.

Kelly stared at it.

Kieran stared at her.

She sighed. “I’m going to need a larger apron.”

And this time, when he laughed, she laughed too - carefully, with both feet planted well away from every lemon in the building.

End of chapter one. 32 more chapters in the full book.