Free Sweet Blessings (Love Inspired) by Jillian Hart

‘like ancient.’” Amy lovingly mimicked the twins’ intonation as she set the basket out of the grease and turned to add slices of cheese to half of the frying meat patties. “You gotta love those two.”
    â€œOr something!” Jodi was laughing—or maybe crying. Several years older, Jodi was well into her midthirties and, Amy suspected, unappreciative of-being called ancient. “I’ve got a few crow’s feet, but goodness! The olden days. Did they really say that?”
    â€œHonest and truly. I wish I could say they meant to be insulting, but they said it as cheerful as could be. Just wait.” Amy reached with the tongs to rescue the buns from the browning rack—but missed. Her fingers froze in midair, woefully short of the metal tongs.
    The screen door behind her squeaked. Turning, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man fill the doorway.
    Her loner was back, and he didn’t look happy. “Can I come in?”
    â€œWe’re busy.”
    â€œI need to talk to you.”
    â€œI’m busy.”
    Heath knew that look and what it meant when it was on a woman’s face. He was in the doghouse, no doubt about that. His hand was raised in a loose fist to knock on the metal door frame, but since he’d already been spotted, he lowered his hand. He tried to gather up his pride and his troubled conscience.
    The other waitress took one look at him, grabbed her tray of salads and disappeared through the swinging doors, leaving him alone with Amy McKaslin, who turned her back on him to whisk two burgers from the grill with a neat jab of the big metal spatula. She deposited them on well-dressed bottom buns, added bacon to one and sauce and pineapple rings to the other and, finishing with the top bun, loaded them onto plates.
    He knew the look of hard, honest work. His conscience smote him even harder as, with her back to him, she kept on working. Her golden-blond ponytail bounced in rhythm with her movements, the curling end brushing at the collar of her T-shirt. It was a vulnerable thing, seeing the soft creamy skin and the visible bumps of her vertebrae. She was small-boned and fragile, and yet she worked with a strong capability that said she was made of steel, too.
    He’d hurt her more than he’d realized, and he felt sick about it. He could see that in the rigid way she kept her back to him as she worked. Flipping strips of bacon, stirring sautéing onions, changinggloves to drop fresh oversized buns onto the rack to warm.
    â€œMaybe you could spare a minute?”
    She didn’t so much as flinch. “I don’t really have a minute to spare.”
    â€œI can see you’re in the middle of a lunch crowd.”
    She arched her brow, her face a set mask as she rushed by to lift a bin of sliced tomatoes from the industrial refrigerator. Okay, she wasn’t going to make this easy for him, he understood it. He respected her for it, too. She was a nice person, but she wasn’t a pushover. He liked women with a bit of grit to them.
    So he tried again. “I just wanted to apologize. I’ll only take, say, thirty seconds of your time.”
    â€œBelieve me, if you want to apologize properly, it’s going to take a lot more than thirty seconds.” She kept her back to him, swapping gloves again, dressing toasted buns with relish and mayonnaise, adding lettuce and tomato.
    She didn’t seem quite as angry. Maybe that was a good sign. He gave his cap’s bill a tug as he thought. He wasn’t sure what to say other than that he’d behaved like a donkey’s behind. Without reason. “Can I come in? Or are you going to make me stand here and grovel for forgiveness from ten feet away?”
    â€œAre you going to grovel?”
    He thought he heard a smiling sound in her voice, but he couldn’t be sure. “How would you like it? Onmy knees? Prostrate on the floor? Maybe wearing sack cloth and covered with