Defying the Odds

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Epilogue
  
• Loose Id Titles by Kele Moon
  
• Kele Moon
  

Battered Hearts: Defying the Odds

Copyright © December 2011 by
Kele
Moon

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

eISBN
978-1-61118-693-2

Editor: Maryam
Salim

Cover Artist: Valerie
Tibbs

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 809

San Francisco CA 94104-0809

www.loose-id.com

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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“For you.”

Clay looked at the small blue plate placed in front of him, his usual scowl growing deeper. “I didn’t order this.”

“It’s a gift.”

Clay’s gaze snapped to the new waitress. He eyed the attractive blonde in surprise.
“For what?”

She gave him a broad smile that made her green eyes glow bright and vibrant beneath her black-rimmed glasses. “For Thanksgiving,” she
said,
her voice soft and musical to his ears. “I saw you were eating alone, and I thought, that man needs a piece of pumpkin pie.”

“Oh.”

He glanced back at the plate, resisting the urge to gag. He swallowed hard, choosing instead to focus on the warm feeling in his chest. He was oddly touched by the gift, simple though it might be. With the exception of his best friends, Wyatt and Jules, this waitress was the first person in a very long time that bothered to do something nice for him without expecting him to sweat or bleed in return.

She turned to leave, but he didn’t want her to. He liked the pretty waitress with her sparkling eyes and thick hair wrapped up in a bun on top of her head that showed every color of blonde imaginable. He thought her glasses were charming and her figure was lush. Full hips, even fuller breasts, she looked sort of like a very huggable angel. The fluorescent lights framed her beautiful, round face with deep dimples that magically appeared when she smiled. Everything about her was soft and innocent in a way most of the women he knew would never be.

Without thinking, he reached out with lightning-fast reflexes. He grabbed her wrist before she could get too far, making her jump in shock.

Clay winced at her sharp reaction, knowing he was intimidating whether he wanted to be or not. “I’m sorry.”

“’S okay,” she said, her smile back, bright and happy once more. “I’m jumpy sometimes, but that’s not your fault.”

“I wanted to say thank you,” he said, trying very hard to put emotion in his usually gruff voice. “No one’s ever done this for me.”

“Bought you a piece of pie?”

“No.” He felt his cheeks heat, and he looked to the pie in an effort to hide. “Nobody’s just nice to me, for free, without, you know, expecting something for it.”

“Sweetie, you keep being sweet and I’m
gonna
have to buy your dinner, and between you and me, I can barely afford my own dinner, let alone feeding a big guy like you.” She squeezed his hand, making him realize he was still holding on to her wrist. “So you enjoy your pie.
Happy Thanksgiving.”

Clay nodded his agreement and reluctantly let go. He bit his lip against doing something stupid like asking her on one of those dates real people had with flowers and candlelit dinners, or just simply blurting out he thought she looked like an honest to God angel in that waitress uniform.

Rather than gawk at the waitress, which was what he really felt like doing, he focused his attention on the pie, trying to decide if big bites would make it easier to choke down or small ones would lessen the impact.

He tried a small bite first as the chime of a bell signaled someone entering Hal’s Diner, one of the few places to eat in the small town of Garnet and the only one currently open on Thanksgiving. Despite the lack of choices for the holiday, Hal’s was still empty save a few bachelors.

Clay knew what lost soul had walked in without looking, and turned his focus back to the dreaded pie.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Sheriff.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Judy,”
came
the upbeat, typically charismatic reply. “What does a hardworking sheriff have to do for a cup of coffee? Damn, but
it’s
cold out there. Where’s summer when
ya
need it?”

“
Gonna
be a nasty winter,” Judy agreed, sounding equally disheartened. “Take a seat. I’ll bring it to you. Are
ya
gonna
catch a quick bite?”

“Sure, bring me whatever turkey special Hal’s dishing up. You know I can’t stay away from
ya
, darling. Having you serve me is always the highlight of my night.”

“Hush.” Judy laughed, sounding pleased. “You know I’m taken.”

“Tell Jerry he better spoil you rotten or I’m
gonna
steal you right out from under him.”

Clay rolled his eyes, deciding he’d rather eat pumpkin pie than listen to this shit. He was poking at it with his fork when a large, ominous shadow darkened his table. “Wyatt.”

“Is that pumpkin pie?” Wyatt asked, scooting into the booth seat across from Clay and tossing his hat on the table.

“So what if it is?” Clay frowned at his best friend, who was running a hand through his blond hair, forcing away the unnatural wave caused from his hat.

Handsome and cocky as ever, Wyatt gave him a bemused smile. “But you hate pumpkin pie.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Clay scowled. “You think I don’t know I hate it?”

Wyatt gave him a look. “Then why are you eating it?”

“That new waitress brought it,” Clay explained, the reminder compelling him to take another bite. He choked, forcing himself to swallow it. “Christ.”

“You’ve officially taken one hit too many,” Wyatt said in exasperation, turning to Judy when she showed up with his cup of coffee. “Darling,
dontcha
have something else back there besides pumpkin pie?”

“We got praline,” Judy offered, her cheeks still flushed beneath her freckles. The redhead was always pink-cheeked when Wyatt was around. “You want it before your dinner?”

“Nah, it
ain’t
for me.” Wyatt gestured to Clay. “He hates pumpkin pie. I
dunno
why he let her serve it to him. Get him a piece of praline.”

“No, it’s all right,” Clay said quickly, not wanting the new waitress to know he’d sent it back. He’d rather choke down the whole thing. “I like it.”

“Bullshit.” Wyatt reached across the table and pulled the plate away when Clay took another stubborn bite of the pie, only to gag on it a second time. “Look at that. He can’t even swallow it to prove a point.”

“I’ll get you a different piece, Powerhouse.” Judy grabbed the plate off the table and turned away before he could complain.

“You’re an asshole,” Clay snapped at his best friend when Judy was out of earshot. “I was eating the damn pie. I
ain’t
bothering you. Why the fuck do you always have to run that big mouth of yours?”

“You were
gonna
puke on my dinner,” Wyatt said by way of explanation. “You need to tell the doc you’re losing touch.”

Clay huffed in response and looked across the diner to see Judy walk behind the counter. She handed the plate to Hal through the window. Clay was hoping to God they didn’t tell the new waitress he hated pumpkin pie so intensely he couldn’t eat it even when he attempted to swallow it down using steel will, which was something he usually had in spades.

He cringed when the pretty blonde walked behind the counter just as Hal put a fresh piece of praline pie through the window that separated the front of the diner from the kitchen. Judy said something to the new waitress, who looked at Clay and Wyatt before she turned back and grabbed the new plate instead of Judy.

“I hate you,” Clay growled at Wyatt.

“Shoot.” Wyatt laughed, stirring his coffee as he worked at adding several packs of sugar to it. “If I had a dollar for every time you said that, I wouldn’t be spending Thanksgiving breaking up the
Henleys
’ annual domestic disturbance. Every damn holiday, they get into it. You’d think the lot of ’
em
would figure out they hate each other and stop planning get-togethers. Frank had to take Derrick up to Mercy General. I think Greg broke his damn ribs.”