Cinnamon Toasted Read Online Free Page A

“You’re not the type for idle chatter, McBride. Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of drinking in the middle of the day, why not tell me what’s on your mind?”
    An uncertain expression crossed his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face. “I … ah … need a favor.”
    Apparently, asking favors didn’t come easily for the man, so I stopped counting cash and waited for him to continue.“Go ahead, ask away.”
    He dug into his back pocket and brought out a wrinkled page torn from a glossy magazine. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “I wanted you to look at this and give me your honest opinion.”
    “Sure.” Curious, I placed it on the counter and smoothed out the wrinkles. It was a photo of a kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances, gleaming hardwood floors, granite countertops,and ceramic backsplash.
    “So, what do you think?” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Like it?”
    “What’s not to like? It’s every cook’s dream kitchen.” I returned the page. “I take it you’re planning on doing some renovating.”
    He carefully tucked it into his pocket. “You mentioned awhile back that kitchens are a good place to start. My Realtor agreed. Thing is—when it comes to renovating,I don’t know the first thing about it.”
    I tried to hide a smirk, though don’t think I succeeded. “If memory serves, McBride, you’ve admitted to owning a hammer. You even confessed you are that rare breed of man who occasionally reads directions.”
    “Are you suggesting I buy more tools? Do the job myself?”
    “Heavens no!” I exclaimed, horrified by the notion. “From the little I’ve seen, you don’thave a domestic bone in your body. Since you seem to want my opinion, I suggest you hire a good contractor.”
    Relief washed across his features. “Any recommendations?”
    I went back to sorting bills. “Well, Reba Mae’s son Clay works for various contractors in the area. He might be a good one to talk to. Might even be able to do some of the work himself. Pick up a little extra cash on the side.”
    “Sounds perfect.” He smiled again, showing off that danged dimple. “I’ll swing by and have a chat with him.”
    I followed him as he turned to leave. This time I intended to turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED. I could use a power nap before Lindsey returned from cheerleading practice. The champagne I’d consumed was making me drowsy.
    McBride stopped in the doorway. “I’m considering your advice to knockout the back wall and have a deck built. I might even do something wild and crazy such as invest in a gas grill and retire my George Foreman.”
    “Now you’re talking.” I stifled a yawn as he walked away.
    The midafternoon drinking must have slowed my reflexes because before I could twist the lock, Thompson Gray’s face appeared on the opposite side of the glass door.
    “Thompson,” I said, steppingback and allowing him entry. “I was just about to close up shop.”
    Tall, lanky, and with a prominent Adam’s apple, Thompson never failed to remind me of Anthony Perkins, the actor who played Norman Bates in Psycho, my all-time-favorite scary movie. Like the character in the movie, Thompson lived with his widowed mother and ran the family business. Thankfully, hardware—not motels. Also unlike themovie, Thompson’s mother was alive and well.
    “Glad I caught you.” He ran a hand over thinning mouse-brown hair. “Mother’s making apple cobbler for dessert. She told me not to come home unless I brought some of your special cinnamon with me. Ever since trying it, she refuses to use anything else. Claims even everyday recipes taste better with spices from your store.”
    “Well, that’s music to myears.”
    Casey glanced up, but seeing it wasn’t one of his favorite patrons, put his head on his paws and regarded us through heavy-lidded eyes.
    Mrs. Gray, I knew, favored the Vietnamese variety for its rich, sweet flavor. Her cinnamon rolls were a surefire hit at every bake