Читать книгу A Fortune In Waiting - Michelle Major, Michelle Major - Страница 12

Chapter Four

When the bell above the door to Lola May’s chimed at just past six that evening, Francesca didn’t need to turn around to know that Keaton had just walked in. The fact that her heart began to race and a tiny shiver made goose bumps pop up all over her body left no question.

She smiled at the couple at the table in front of her as she set down their plates of food. The man made a silly joke about buttering biscuits and Francesca tried to think of a clever response. She liked bantering with customers, but right now every one of her brain cells had taken the fast train south to parts of her body she’d assumed were stuck in permanent hibernation.

Keaton Whitfield might be the reason for global warming, at least in Francesca’s world.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slide into a booth in her section. It shouldn’t be so difficult to think about speaking to him. They’d had an entire conversation last night where she hadn’t stuttered or drooled or made an obvious idiot of herself. He’d been polite and charming, neither of which surprised her given how she’d seen him interact with Lola May and the other waitresses during his daily visits to the diner.

But actually enjoying his company had been a bit of a revelation. She couldn’t remember ever simply having fun with Lou. Every moment they’d been together had been about her adoring him. His life. His band. His schedule. His needs.

She was still embarrassed to admit how easy it had been to ignore her own needs in trying to take care of him. She knew it stemmed from the fact that she’d grown up without a father. When she’d asked her mother why her dad had left, the answer was always the same—“I couldn’t give him what he needed.”

Francesca had been determined to give Lou everything he needed so she’d never lose him. The problem was she’d lost herself in the process.

Ciara had the section next to Francesca’s on this shift, so it would be easy to beg her friend to take care of Keaton. She stole another glance and found him watching her. A slow, sexy half smile curved one side of his mouth. She was positive he knew that she’d been planning to ditch him. Seriously, it was like the man was some sort of British mind reader.

How difficult could it be to serve him a meal? It was her job, after all, and they’d already had a conversation. No biggie, right?

“Hi,” she said as she approached the booth and wondered if that one word sounded as lame to him as it did to her.

“Hello, Francesca,” he said in that gorgeous accent. He might as well have said “I’d like to ravish you” because all her circuits went slightly haywire. “You look lovely tonight.”

She glanced down at her black Lola May’s T-shirt and the denim skirt she’d paired with pink cowboy boots. She had a small splattering of ketchup just above the letter M that made her feel the exact opposite of lovely.

“How was your test?” he asked.

She met his gaze and promptly forgot how to speak. It was as if the English language didn’t exist to her anymore. All she could do was stare and—oh, dear—was that yearning she felt? She could almost feel her body yearning for the man. Not a good sign. Francesca had vowed to become strong and independent after her break up with Lou, but now her fledgling feelings for Keaton made her feel flustered and weak in the knees. She couldn’t risk being weak ever again.

She groaned softly then realized Keaton was still watching her. Wait, what had he asked her just now?

He ran a hand over his jaw and the slight rasping of stubble against skin did nothing to help her focus. How would his face feel under her fingertips? What if she kissed the edge of his jaw?

“You did have a test today?” he prompted.

She blinked. Swallowed. Made a fist and dug her fingernails into the fleshy part of her palm, hoping that the bite of pain might help her focus.

“Test,” she repeated like a googly-eyed tween when faced with her biggest fangirl crush.

“Accounting, I believe?”

“Yes, accounting.” She licked her dry lips and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Not helping her focus. “I think it went well. I don’t have my grade yet but I hope it went well. I hope...”

That you’ll take off your shirt right now.

Nope. She certainly wasn’t going to add that.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said instead.

Keaton’s smile widened and Francesca felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “For dinner,” she added and grabbed the small pad of paper from the pocket in her apron. “Are you ready to order?”

“What’s the special?”

Me was the first answer that popped into Francesca’s mind and she wanted to wring her own neck. She knew better than to let her attraction to a man overwhelm her. She’d been down that road before, the one where she felt grateful for any crumbs of attention. On the surface, Keaton had nothing in common with Lou the Louse, but they were both men who were way out of her league. Why pretend it was any different?

“Chicken pot pie. It’s a recipe from Lola May’s grandmother. We make the crust from scratch. It’s amazing.”

“I’m game for some amazing,” he told her. “Pot pie it is.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Water is fine. Is there a chance you could take a break and keep me company while I eat?”

She glanced around at the crowded diner. “It’s only Ciara and me on shift tonight so...” She wanted to take a break with his man. She wanted a lot more, too. “I’ll try.”

“Smashing,” he murmured.

She giggled at the obviously British term then clasped a hand over her mouth. Francesca had been around the block enough to know better than to be turned into a giggling school girl because a handsome man with a dashing accent showed her a bit of attention.

Another customer waved her down and she hurried away, her heart still racing. Why was it so difficult to act normal with Keaton?

She gave his order for the kitchen then delivered a glass of water to his table. He was frowning at something on his phone as she approached. When he glanced up at her, there was a momentary look of such pain in his eyes that she hurt for him. It took all her willpower not to slip in next to him in the booth and give him a hug, nerves be damned. He looked like he needed a hug as much as he needed his next breath.

He closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them, the look was gone. She started to ask about it, but the toddler in the booth behind him knocked over her juice, so Francesca quickly grabbed a pile of napkins to help clean up the mess.

A few minutes later, Keaton’s pot pie was ready. She picked up the plate from the pass through between the kitchen and the front of the restaurant. There was no way she was going to get a break before closing, so she thought about asking Keaton if he could stick around until her shift was over. She wanted to spend time with him, but the very thought of it made her heart hammer and her palms sweat.

Sweaty palms and carrying a porcelain plate were not a good combination apparently. When Keaton looked up and flashed another one of those sexy half smiles, the plate started to slip out of Francesca’s hand. She leaned over the booth, trying to will the plate to land on the table, which it did. But it had so much momentum that it skidded to the edge and tipped off, dumping the entire hot, steaming mass of pot pie into Keaton’s lap.

He made a choked sound and Francesca gasped. She’d been waiting tables since she was sixteen and had never dumped food into a customer’s lap.

The next few minutes were a blur. The only thing she was sure of was that she’d never been more humiliated. She bent toward him, reaching for his lap at the same time Keaton straightened from the booth. The top of his head clipped her chin, and she gave a tiny yelp as she bit down on her tongue.

“I’m sorry, luv,” he said immediately, but she was intent on cleaning up the mess she made.

So intent that she grabbed the hunk of food from his lap before the realization hit her that she was basically pawing at his crotch.

She let out a little screech and her hand jerked, sending chunks of chicken and bits of carrot and corn onto his shirt front.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, but before he could respond, Lola May was at her side with a wet rag.

“Customers want to eat the food, Frannie, not wear it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Go get yourself cleaned up,” Lola May snapped and Francesca glanced down at the dripping mess of pot pie she held in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said again without meeting Keaton’s crystal-blue gaze. How could she ever look at him again after this fiasco?

She ran to the back of the restaurant, washing her hands under the faucet of the kitchen’s utility sink. Pieces of crust and dollops of gravy clung to her T-shirt, making the ketchup spot she’d worried over earlier seem invisible.

“You smell like dinner,” the head cook, Richard, told her with a laugh.

“It’s not funny,” she answered. “I made a huge mess of a customer.”

“From what I’ve heard from the other waitresses,” the older man said, “that British bloke has a thing for you. Maybe he figured dumping food in his lap was your way of flirting. Tell him it’s an American custom.”

Francesca groaned. “I’m not telling him anything. I doubt he’ll ever want to speak with me again.”

The thought made tears prick the backs of her eyes, and she bit down on her lip. Lola May kept a shelf of diner T-shirts for the tourists who wanted to purchase them, so Francesca went to the bathroom and changed.

She stepped out into the hallway just as Ciara turned the corner. “You have to take my tables,” she whispered to her friend. “I can’t go back out there. It’s too embarrassing.”

“I have a full section of my own, so you’re stuck back on the floor, sweetie. It may even improve your tips. Customers will be scared that if they aren’t nice, you’ll dump food on them, too.” Ciara chuckled. “That was definitely impressive aim.”

“You know that was an accident. Why does everyone think it’s funny?” Francesca covered her face with her hands. “I bet he doesn’t think it’s funny, and I can guarantee Lola May isn’t amused.”

“True about Lola May,” Ciara admitted. “Keaton was a good sport about the whole thing, though, and we packed up a new pot pie in a to-go box for him so he’ll be fine.”

Francesca peeked through her fingers. “He’s gone?”

Ciara nodded. “He smelled like ‘winner winner chicken pot pie dinner.’ Did you expect him to stay for a second helping?”

“Of course not. How could I have been so clumsy?” She pointed at Ciara. “This fiasco is why I should have asked you to take his table. I’m a bumbling idiot when it comes to that man.”

“Maybe he finds it adorable, like you’re some kind of quirky sitcom star.”

“Or maybe he thinks I’m an idiot girl who can’t even put together a coherent sentence when talking to a handsome man.” She leaned her head back against the tiled wall. “I feel like such a fool,” she muttered. “As usual.”