“Oh, sure,” J. T. said easily. “If he took a swing at me. But I can kick it fancier than ever now. I have a black belt.”
Franco could fight well enough but he was just too damn lazy to go through all that trouble to get a black belt. And that was one of the main differences between them. J. T. had always tried harder. At everything. And he was always willing to be meaner, like a cornered wild animal.
But Franco was slyer.
“Where’s the pretty woman in those TMZ photos, J. T.? You have her stashed here somewhere, too? Was she happy to meet a big star like Rebecca?”
That was some fine slyness right there.
“That woman is none of your business, Francone.”
He’d slapped those words down like a guillotine.
Damn.
Franco was smart and J. T. had been a little too quick on the draw there.
Franco studied him, musingly.
J. T. met his gaze unblinkingly. Staring a threat.
“She’s a waitress at the Misty Cat Cavern in downtown Hellcat Canyon,” Rebecca supplied blithely into the silence, although her voice sounded a little strained. “I met her. But J. T. won’t tell me anything else about her.”
“That . . .” Franco mused, “is interesting.”
Franco knew J. T. pretty well.
“Let’s all go down to the Misty Cat and show everyone we’re friends,” Rebecca said suddenly. “I could use a bite to eat.”
By bite she literally meant a bite. It was about all she would eat.
Unless she took a bite out of Britt, which was what J. T. was worried about.
And by everyone she apparently meant the world. Rebecca assumed the entire world was documenting and interpreting her every move.
She wasn’t far wrong.
“Worst. Idea. Ever,” J. T. said unequivocally. “And I’ve already eaten. Eat something here before you head out, Becks. There’s celery in the bin.”
Franco yawned and stretched. “I’m pretty hungry. While you two are thinking about it, I think I’ll just go down to the Misty Cat and get my own table.”
He stood and grabbed his keys and was out the door in a flash.
Bastard.
“You should open with ‘I have a Porsche,’ Franco,” J. T. shouted after him. “She’ll love that.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He froze indecisively, staring after Franco.
There was no hope for it. He swiped at the bowl where he usually tossed his truck keys.
It was empty.
“Where the hell are my keys?”
“Right here.” Rebecca dangled them. “Let’s go get some brunch, J. T.”
He nearly groaned. Rebecca was a liability. He could hardly abandon the highest paid actress in the world, both because of the script, and because, like it or not, he had manners.
But J. T.’s reflex was to be wherever Britt was.
He snatched the keys from Rebecca and bolted out the door, and she followed him.
Franco walked into the Misty Cat Cavern grinning as though walking into the Misty Cat Cavern was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And paused in the doorway, as if all the bemused diners who paused to stare at him were red-carpet photographers.
He’d never been subtle or shy about making an entrance.
Sherrie froze where she was hovering near the grill.
And then a smile split her face and she all but skated over to him across the clean linoleum floor.
She blasted him with her usual warmth and welcome. “Oh, my goodness, you’re Mr. Franco Francone! You must be in town to visit Mr. McCord! Gosh, I hope you’ll sign a menu for my little granddaughter. She’s such a fan of your show. As am I, hon.”
“I am, indeed, Franco Francone. McCord speaks very highly of this establishment. And to whom do I have the extreme pleasure of speaking?”
“Well, I’m Sherrie Harwood, and the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Francone. My husband, Glenn, and I own this fine establishment. If you come with me we’ll give you our best table.” She winked, given that the tables were all Formica, approximately thirty years old, and came in two sizes. It was pretty much a table democracy at the Misty Cat.
She got him settled in and waylaid Britt, who was darting across the room with two plates in her arms.
“You got yourself another famous handsome customer, Britt. Friend of J. T.’s.”
Britt paused and looked in the direction of Sherrie’s chin nudge.
Boy, Sherrie wasn’t kidding about the handsome part. Francone was in jeans and a white button-down shirt. He was unequivocally gorgeous, with waving black hair, deep-set melting-chocolate eyes, and cheekbones so artfully chiseled they wouldn’t look out of place in the Louvre.
She wondered if Rebecca had collected one of his shirts.
“You don’t have to go wait on him, Britt,” Sherrie whispered. “If it’s too . . . you know . . .”
“That man is not J. T. I’ll be just fine. ”
Britt was distantly aware that every time she heard the name J. T., it was like a tiny mallet was driving a tiny tack into her heart.
“Ookaaay,” Sherrie said dubiously. “But if—”
But Britt had dropped off her orders with a pair of diners and zipped over to Franco’s table.
“I’m Britt,” she said briskly. “I’ll be your server. What can we get started for you?”
“Well, hello Britt. I’m Franco Francone,” he said to Britt. “Maybe you’ve seen Blood Brothers?”
He clapped his menu shut, leaning back, and smiled at her as if she was the best thing to happen to him all day and was positive he was the best thing to ever happen to her. She could imagine this pretty effectively captivated a large portion of the female population.
She, of course, only knew Franco Francone as one of the stars of the “Controversy” section of J. T.’s Wikipedia page.
“So I’m told by every single person in this place, Mr. Francone, and if they didn’t tell me, all those heads craning in your direction might be a hint. Forgive me, but I never did watch your show. What can I get for you?”
“J. T. said I should open with ‘I have a Porsche.’ which must mean that won’t impress you in the least. Because he’s not going to give me any kind of advantage with someone as gorgeous as you.”
J. T. Tap. A little spike right into her heart.
She was immune to Franco Francone, though.
Well, mostly.
“Isn’t that cute, Mr. Francone. I’m guessing he knows you pretty well.” She said this ironically.
She realized too late that Sherrie may have had a point. She might not actually be equal to a conversation that featured the name J. T. She could feel herself weakening. As if she was actually losing blood with every mention of his name.
“What impresses you, Britt?” Franco asked.
“Customers who eat fast and leave big tips.”
He laughed. “J. T. and I are friends. And I get the sense that you’re loyal, Britt, which is a great quality. Maybe my favorite quality in a person. But right now you’re being loyal to a guy who’s probably negotiating a reunion with his ex-girlfriend. And I hate to say it, but Rebecca always gets what she wants.”
He said this almost apologetically. But grimly, too.
He must have seen something in her expression then, because he leaned back suddenly.
“Whoa,” he said. “You’re even scarier than Rebecca when you’re mad.”
“You’re a bit confused, Mr. Francone,” she said smoothly. “I frankly don’t care about any of that or either of them. I do care about what you might want for breakfast.”
“Good to hear. Want to go for a ride in my Porsche after breakfast?”
“I’m not a golden retriever, Mr. Francone. A car ride doesn’t excite me. What can I get for you?”<
br />
“Then let me take you to dinner. Because I already like you. And I think you’re stunning. J. T. always did have a flawless eye for singular beauty. No wonder he was so closemouthed about you.”
Singular? She almost snorted. “Everyone likes me, Mr. Francone. Being likeable is a minimum requirement of my job. I’m aware I have a certain appeal. And I’m not certain I like you.”
He was smiling at her in earnest now, a real smile. “You will be by the end of dinner.”
And for a mad millisecond she wavered. She suspected an evening with him would be entertaining, or at least yield a story to tell later, if nothing else.
“It might make J. T. su-ffer,” he wheedled on a singsong.
It was the wrong thing to say.
She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any of them, probably J. T. included.
And she’d already done her part to make J. T. suffer; of that she was pretty sure, and that could be part of her anger this morning.
She was really pretty bloody angry at herself.
“I don’t play games, Mr. Francone. It’s boring and chickenshit and the eggs Benedict are the special today. What can I get for you?”
Franco was looking at her with some astonishment.
“I’ll have the eggs Benedict,” he said humbly.
“Good choice, Mr. Francone.”
She pivoted sharply and found herself eye level with a T-shirt-clad wall of a chest.
She looked abruptly up into a pair of blue eyes rimmed in red and shadowed in mauve. Little did she know, it was a bit like looking in a mirror.
Her heart felt like it literally did a backflip.
For a second neither of them spoke.
She was afraid to breathe, because she might inhale the scent of him, and that was her aphrodisiac, and she’d probably melt into a tired puddle on the floor.
“His real name is Ed, you know. Not Franco. Ed O’Malley. He’s Irish,” J. T. finally said.
That was quite the non sequitur.
Franco shot J. T. a dirty look.
“Is it?” Britt said sweetly. “It suits him. Handsome and exotic. We can’t all have three names to choose from. Sometimes you just have to make one up.”
Franco was grinning at this. “You heard the lady, J. T. It suits me. Handsome and exotic.”
And suddenly, like the back peeling off a decal, Rebecca Corday appeared from behind J. T.
Britt was badly startled. Rebecca had probably been turned sidewise, Britt thought. The woman was about as thin as a dime when in profile.
Rebecca slinked into the chair across from Franco, plucked up the menu and fanned it open in her long fingers. Light bounced from her flawless manicure.
J. T. remained standing.
He’d actually brought that woman back into the Misty Cat?
“This is a rare occasion, Britt,” Franco told her. “Rebecca eats only every couple of weeks. Like a boa constrictor.”
“Ha ha.” Rebecca didn’t look the least bit amused.
“We’re all out of mice today.” Brit said this as politely as possible. Suddenly it felt like a hot little fist had taken up residence behind her eyes. “I can go see how we’re fixed for rats, however.”
And here she and J. T. locked eyes in a gaze so hard, steely, and complex it could have supported a rush-hour commute.
“I’m not hungry,” he said. Though she hadn’t asked him what he wanted.
He didn’t sit down. Even when Franco pushed a chair out for him with his foot.
Rebecca was studying Britt and J. T. very closely. As if she thought Britt intended to mount J. T. right here at the table. She remembered what J. T. had said about Rebecca hunting down happiness like an anthropologist. It looked as though she wished she had a magnifying glass to help her study what J. T. saw in Britt.
If Rebecca came at her, Britt thought she might be able to swiftly tie Rebecca’s skinny limbs into a knot and immobilize her.
Rebecca put the menu down. “I’ll have the veggie burger.” She smiled brightly.
Britt tore her eyes away from J. T.’s. And it almost literally felt like tearing, that was how reluctant they were to leave him.
“I’m sorry . . . Miss Corday, is it?” Britt said. It was petty. But it felt really good to say it.
Rebecca’s smile congealed.
“Could you please point out the veggie burger on the menu?” Britt knew damn well there wasn’t one.
Rebecca’s smile became more fixed and she tilted her head. “I’m sure you all could whip something up like that, caaan’t you?” She was all dazzling, melting sweetness and the inflection was very “pretty please?”
“Rebecca . . .” J. T.’s voice was a slow, ground-out threat. “Pick something else.”
It was like he hadn’t even spoken.
“If you would be so kind as to go and ask your cook . . . Britt, right?” Rebecca’s voice was velvet and her eyes were flints. “Tell him it’s for me. Tell him he might have seen my billboard out on the highway.”
She and Rebecca smiled at each other in a silent yet beaming showdown of mutual loathing.
“All right,” Britt said pleasantly, finally. “I’ll just go do that.”
She was looking forward to it.
She whipped around so fast the breeze she created almost yanked the menu out of Rebecca’s hands and stalked over to Giorgio.
Sherrie grabbed her by the elbow and halted her. “I’ll say it again. You don’t have to wait on them, Britt,” she said slowly. It was just shy of a command. “I’m not sure you should be allowed near sharp implements today.”
“I said I don’t care,” she said a little too loudly.
Sherrie’s eyes went wide.
“Oh, my gosh, Sherrie. I’m so, so sorry, I don’t know how that happened. I mean, I don’t care,” she said, in her new serene voice. She seemed to have lost the ability to modulate volume or tone. “It’s not a problem. Besides . . . I could take her.”
This she muttered so blackly that Giorgio surreptitiously slid his knife block a little further out of reach.
“Atta girl,” Glenn said. Glenn clearly thought suffering built character.
Sherrie shot him a quelling look, and he shrugged. “My money’s on Britt. I think she can take that skinny thing, too. And J. T. doesn’t look too delighted to be in her company.”
J. T. was almost comically glowering. If he were a cartoon, a fluffy black cloud would be parked right over his head.
But he finally lowered himself into a chair across from Franco, aware, probably, that he was more conspicuous standing than sitting.
“It will be over soon enough,” Britt said. “They’ll be gone. Everything comes to an end eventually, right? Everything in life is ephemeral, right? Tempus fugit?”
This earned her three concerned frowns, one each from Sherrie, Glenn, and Giorgio.
She ignored them and handed over Franco’s tag. “Giorgio, Mr. Francone would like the eggs Benedict, and Ms. Corday would like a veggie burger.”
And then she waited with held-breath glee for the anticipated response from Giorgio.
He didn’t disappoint. He uttered his first and possibly final complete sentence of the day.
And Britt whooshed back to the table, smiling as though he’d handed her a pearl.
“Ms. Corday, I asked Giorgio about the veggie burger,” she said politely.
“What did he say?”
“Are you seriously fucking kidding me.”
Rebecca froze. And then she turned two colors, white then red, both of them furious. “I . . . what . . . you . . .”
Britt patiently recited, “He said, ‘Are you seriously fu—’ ”
“I heard you,” Rebecca said testily.
“You did ask her, Rebecca,” J. T. said. Both J.
T. and Franco were wide-eyed with glee and holding their breath.
“Giorgio is a little bit temperamental,” Britt said serenely. “All artists are. You’re welcome to choose something else.”
They stared at each other.
“I think I’ll choose to eat somewhere else,” Rebecca said tersely.
“Excellent choice,” Britt purred, wondering why Rebecca Corday didn’t employ professional tasters like a despot king who feared poisoning. She was so thoroughly unpleasant.
Rebecca slipped out of her chair and stalked out of the Misty Cat, leaving a trail of wide eyes in her wake.
And Britt watched her go and was reminded that oh yes, indeed, she did love to win.
The sudden absolute silence made Franco look up from his phone, which is where he’d retreated while this was going on. Probably this nastiness was all par for the course in Hollywood.
“You and Becks can go,” he said to J. T. “I’m sticking around for my eggs Benedict.”
J. T. ignored him. “Britt,” J. T. said with what sounded like extreme patience “May I have a word?”
She balked. And then: “I can give you one minute. I have a job to do.”
He’d already scoped out a nook on the other side of the counter behind the row of napkin holders and he beckoned her over here.
“I want you to know that I didn’t want to bring her in here, Britt. I would never do that. It was not my idea.”
“That’s okay, J. T.,” she said serenely. “Bring her anywhere you want. I don’t care what you do or who you do it with. Go wherever you want. Do whatever you want.”
He frowned. “What’s the matter with your voice? You drink your breakfast?”
She sucked in an impatient breath. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed Franco in here because he was . . . determined to meet you. And I know him pretty well. ”
“God. The two of you are children.”
“Yep,” J. T. admitted grimly.
“You should know he asked me out,” she added.
J. T. whirled on Franco. “Bastard, I knew—”
Franco was scrolling through his e-mails on his phone and leisurely chewing an English muffin Sherrie had apparently just brought to him. He must have felt the waves of heat from J. T.’s glare. He looked up and gave a little wave.
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