And he was no bad boy. Glory knew from real bad boys now thanks to her stint at the Plugged Nickel. She’d pass on those, thank you very much.
He’d wept when she’d kindly but firmly ended their on-again, off-again relationship for good. And then he’d asked for reasons. She’d demurred. And then he’d begged and whined and wept and insisted until she blurted out all of the reasons, with a lot more detail and less delicacy than she probably could have.
She’d just been so certain he’d been just as bored as she was.
It wasn’t her first lesson in realizing that stasis was as good as it got for some people. That some people liked never changing at all. She supposed that explained a lot of her family.
And Mick didn’t grow, because he noticed nothing. He existed with the placidity of a potted plant. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with this. Once upon a time this hadn’t seemed important. But she now knew what a luxury being truly known was.
He was sitting with Megan Forster, whom she also knew from high school.
“Hey, Megan,” she said. “Good job on the eyeliner.”
Eight years out of high school and Megan was still Goth, at least from the neck up. She was wearing office attire from the neck down. Seems even Megan had a grown-up job now.
“Hey, Glory. Thanks. Um, Mick and I are together now.” She said this sympathetically, with a head tilt. As if Glory would understandably be torn up about the news, but that the feminine sisterhood would compel the two of them to be mature about it.
“Gosh. Congratulations, you two. Let me tell you about our speci—”
“I thought you were leaving for San Francisco, Glory. And that’s why you broke up with me.”
Mick’s voice was pitched about an octave higher than usual. Glory knew that pitch. Any second now his bottom lip would start trembling.
Glory’s eyes darted toward Sherrie, who was absorbed in conversation with another customer. She lowered her voice. “Come on, Mick. I had a list of reasons. Remember? You made me tell you. Don’t make me do it again,” she warned, with stern desperation. “Speaking of lists of things, have you looked at the menu? I recommend the pumpkin muffin.”
The pumpkin muffin was becoming her little go-to refuge. A little island in a stormy waitressing sea.
“But you said you were leaving,” he repeated. The word leaving wobbled a little.
She pushed a menu gently into his hands, and his fingers reflexively curled over it like a drowning spider offered a twig.
“He’ll have the pumpkin muffin,” Megan said patiently, clearly confident of her place in Mick’s life and obviously accustomed to his sensitivity. She knew how hard Glory had dumped him, and she liked having a project. “I’d like a pumpkin muffin, too.”
“Good choice.” Glory was relieved. A take-charge woman was just what Mick needed. “Anything to drink, Mick?”
“I’ve already swallowed a gallon of my own tears,” he said, an accusing throb in his voice. “I couldn’t drink another drop ever again.”
“I can get you a Sprite,” Glory said through gritted teeth.
“He’ll have decaf,” Megan said placidly. “I’ll have an Earl Grey.”
“Coming right up!” She spun about and all but sprinted to Giorgio with this order. That was it. The thrill officially gone from the newness of this job. And there were a lot more tables to go.
She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and—
Well.
Well. Well. Well.
An improbably good-looking man, one she’d never seen before in her life, was seated at a four-person table near the front entrance, his back to the wall.
He was a little too pristine, maybe—she liked to be able to imagine a scar or two on a guy, or see some evidence he’d taken a risk in his life. This guy looked as though someone rushed to shove a mattress underneath him every time he tripped. His shirt was a sort of green linen, simple, sexy, and entirely lintless, his face was a sculptural wonder, and his deep-set eyes were soulful and dark.
She put a little swing in her hips on her way over to him.
He leaned slowly back in his chair and smoldered at her appreciatively with those eyes.
And then smiled slowly.
She smiled in return. She was great at flirting, and this was the kind of guy who wouldn’t take it seriously, given that women probably only communicated with him by flirting.
“Good morning. I’m Glory. I’ll be your waitress. Are you ready to order, or would you like a moment?”
He studied her a moment. “Glory,” he mused. “Is that actually your name, or the word men exhale when they get a look at you?”
“It’s both. Though that’s not the only adjective that comes up.”
He nodded, thoughtfully, as if that was the answer he’d been looking for. “It’s a perfect fit.”
“Right back at ya, mister.”
He grinned. “Man, I’d love to know where the Misty Cat Cavern here in the middle of nowhere California gets their waitresses. Because every time I come in here I’m knocked out.”
“Gosh, there’s absolutely nothing women love more than being lumped in with other women. May I take your order?”
“Forgive me, Glory. Anyone can see you’re one of a kind.”
“Mercifully enough, that’s true. Are you ready to order?”
He grinned again. His teeth were startlingly uniform and as white as that reflective strip down the middle of the highway.
He had the most recent iPhone, lined up there next to his utensils. It kept buzzing little notes and messages in at steady intervals. Popular guy. He glanced down, then returned his attention to her.
“Is Glory your real name?”
“Yes. Why, did you think it was my Roller Derby handle?”
“Mine is Franco Francone.”
She froze. Holy Shit.
He was indeed Franco Francone.
The Franco Francone.
He was a little thinner in real life. A little older-looking than he was on television and the internet and so forth. But there was really no question.
“Now that name sounds made up, Mr. Francone.” That was pure deviltry on her part.
She knew exactly who Franco Francone was. She wanted to see what he would do if he thought she didn’t.
His handsome face went a little darker in bemusement. “What is it with this town? You’d think it was Brigadoon. That cop, for instance . . .”
That cop? What cop? Her heart lurched. The word cop also meant “Eli” to her, though technically he was a sheriff’s deputy.
But Francone didn’t finish that intriguing sentence. Glory gave a guilty start when Sherrie shot her a worried warning look as she escorted a pair of people through the restaurant to sit at the counter in what happened to be the last empty seats in the restaurant. Sherrie was probably belatedly realizing the complications that could ensue if she left Glory Greenleaf to attend to someone who looked like Franco Francone.
“What can I get for you, Mr. Francone?”
“Your phone number, for starters.”
“Wow.” She gave a short laugh. “Talk about cheesy.”
Oh crap. Sherrie flashed her a distinctly quelling look on her way back to a table against the wall. “That is, the Denver omelet is cheesy, and I recommend the pumpkin muff . . .”
Suddenly her brain was full of white noise. Just like when the cable went out because they hadn’t paid the bill.
Eli was standing in the doorway.
Chapter 7
He was wearing a pair of soft old jeans, and the way they hung on his hips and clung to his thighs made her stomach muscles contract from yearning.
A lightweight gray t-shirt hugged his shoulders and hung a little loosely at his narrow waist, and her hands twitched, as if they could slide over those delicious quadrants of muscle she’d discovered there the night they’d nearly banged each other against a tree.
But . . . something was different about him. Something seemed a bit .
. . off.
And then she realized it was because something besides the jeans and t-shirt were clinging to him.
A blonde.
To be fair, she wasn’t so much clinging to him as chummily looping a hand through his crooked elbow and pointing at some Gold Rush ephemera hanging on the wall of the Misty Cat.
He lowered his head a little solicitously to hear what she was saying.
He hadn’t seen Glory yet.
Glory realized her breathing had gone shallow. She couldn’t take her eyes off that slim tan hand on Eli’s arm. As if some terrible species of arachnid had landed on him and she couldn’t find her voice to warn him about it.
Finally that hand dropped away.
God knew Glory had seen blondes hanging off Eli all through high school. She’d seen him making out with various blondes over the years, too. Just as he’d seen her with Mick, racing around in Mick’s car, making out with Mick at school dances.
How long had this blonde been in the picture?
Glory was innately competitive.
But what she was feeling now wasn’t mere competition. It felt a little more primal.
She hadn’t anticipated that one kiss would somehow alter her own body chemistry permanently to think “mine!” every time some woman touched Eli.
Whether or not she wanted him.
And then she realized she was now completely ignoring Franco Francone.
“I have a Porsche,” Francone said suddenly. Clearly wanting her attention again.
“What’s a Porsche?” she said absently, with wicked and quite faux innocence. Without looking at him. She suppressed a smile, imagining steam coming out of his ears.
Eli heard her voice. His head whipped around.
He went absolutely motionless when he saw her. He must have in fact gone rigid, because the blonde took her hand from his arm and looked up at him quizzically.
Finally he smiled slowly and crookedly, as if he couldn’t help it.
Glory’s heart seemed to sort of obsequiously roll over on its back.
“What’s that name tag for, Glory?” Eli said finally. “I would have thought a warning label would be more appropriate. Something like, ‘contents under pressure’ or ‘handle at your own risk.’”
She would not blush.
“Ha. This is my job. People need to be able to call me something when they want refills on their coffee. Hence—” She wagged a finger to and fro at the name tag.
There was a beat of silence.
“You’re working here now?” His eyebrows dove.
There ensued a strange little moment where he was clearly trying to get a grip on a number of conflicting emotions, one of them amusement, another confusion before the blandly non-judgmental expression he was clearly aiming for was able to settle in.
“I can be a waitress,” she said defensively.
He pressed his lips together.
She was becoming less and less certain that this was true. Given that the rich pageant of her personal history kept coming in the door.
“I’m so sorry,” Eli said suddenly, remembering the blonde. “I’m being rude. Bethany Walker, this is Glory Greenleaf. Glory, this is Bethany Walker. Her grandmother is Mrs. Wilberforce.”
“Mrs. Wilberforce at Heavenly Shores? With the rhododendrons and the grand prizes?” How had this come about?
“Yep, that’s her, Glory! Gosh, I love small towns,” Bethany gushed. “Everyone knows everything about everybody.”
“Yeah,” Glory said flatly. “That’s what’s so great about them.”
Bethany was willowy and delicate featured, and she had big, brown, friendly eyes, like a cocker spaniel’s, skillfully mascaraed lashes, and the most symmetrical eyebrows Glory had ever seen. She thrust out a hand to shake, and Glory took it. Her manicure was flawless.
Her handbag was quite stylish, a floppy orange leather number that spoke volumes to Glory’s color-loving heart, and her hair was about fifteen exquisitely nuanced shades of blond, only about one of which was natural, if Glory had to guess. Casey Carson would know.
“I’m one of the freelance makeup artists on The Rush,” Bethany volunteered. “I’ll be staying here in town while they film a few scenes on location.”
Eli was still staring at Glory. And then his face transformed, as if he’d finally figured out what was bugging him.
“What’s . . . going on with your hair?”
“It’s just a braid. Jeez,” she added. Like a ten-year-old.
“You look about ten years old. And a little alarmed.”
That would be due to the upraised eyebrows.
“That’s not what I was thinking at all,” Franco volunteered from over her shoulder. “And I’m ready to order, Glory.”
Glory turned a smile toward Franco. “Oh my goodness. My apologies, Mr. Francone.”
“No worries, Glory. I’m happy to wait for you. Or wait on you. Or even open the passenger side door of my Porsche for you.”
He grinned to let her know he knew this was smarmy as hell. She grinned back.
She turned back to Eli and his . . . “date.” Even in her head she put that word in quotes. As if she could make it less real that way. Though it was pretty clear that’s what this was.
She was surprised to see that Eli’s face had gone thunderous and almost pensive. It was a familiar expression. She realized it was very similar to the one he’d been wearing when he’d threatened to break Leather Vest in half.
She suspected, exultantly, it had to do with Franco Francone.
Then again, she wasn’t entirely certain it had to do with her and Franco Francone.
Only one way to find out.
“Look, Eli,” she said, “we don’t have any available tables, so . . .” She shrugged. Which she hoped he’d interpret as “scram.”
Very bad waitressing, admonished a little voice in her head that sounded a bit like Mrs. Adler but was surely her conscience. Her bad waitressing got even worse when she turned her back on them without waiting for an answer, pivoted toward Franco, froze . . . and then smoothly, slowly pivoted back toward Eli and Bethany with a fresh and evil inspiration.
“Mr. Francone, would you mind terribly sharing your table? It’s just . . . this is Deputy Sheriff Barlow. He’s the top lawman in town. And I know your last show was all about law enforcement, and since Bethany works on the show you’re filming now, well . . . you’ll all have a lot to talk about, I imagine. You’d really be helping us out.” Us being the Misty Cat. She illustrated this with a general wave of her arms.
She gave him her best smile, all vixeny sparkle.
She’d just put all of them in an interesting—for her—and probably untenable position.
Francone would look like a jerk if he said no, given that he had a nice comfortable four-person table to himself. And he seemed rather invested in impressing her.
She knew full well how Eli felt about Blood Brothers.
And Bethany was an underling on that show. It was both a chance to schmooze and to be seen with the Franco Francone.
“Mr. Francone and I have met,” Eli said.
Boy. That sentence was forged on an anvil and coated in icicles.
Fascinating. When would this have happened?
Franco frowned faintly, studying Eli. And as recognition dawned, he came slowly to his feet. An observer might have interpreted that gesture as gentlemanly.
But Glory knew it was really just one guy demonstrating to another guy just how tall he was.
Eli had him by an inch, maybe a little less.
But Francone was well aware that every eye in the place had watched him rise, because he had a sense of drama. He was so handsome it was nearly otherworldly. As if someone had strolled in wearing a Franco Francone costume.
And Eli, by contrast, was very of this world. Like Hellcat Canyon itself. The actual canyon. Big and glowering, rugged and a little bit dangerous.
Franco Francone extended his hand. Eli took it.
Glory susp
ected a little macho hand-crushing was going on.
“A pleasure to meet you, Bethany,” Francone added graciously, when he took his hand back. “I imagine I’ll see you on set for a few days. And what should I call you, Deputy, when you’re off duty?”
“Deputy works.”
Glory happened to know that nearly everyone in town called him Eli when he was off duty. Often when he was on duty, too.
“The deputy here gave me a ticket for speeding,” Franco told Glory. “That’s how we met.”
“Eli is such a stickler,” Glory said sympathetically. “He loves enforcing laws more than anything in the whole wide world.”
Eli shot her a look that made her feel nine years old again. “Mr. Francone was doing warp speed down Main Street.”
“Oh, can you do warp speed in a Porsche?” She turned sparkling fascination toward Franco.
“You can do a lot of things in a Porsche, Glory.”
She smiled at him. Franco smiled back at her, then looked away reluctantly. “Please, do join me, top lawman in town and makeup artist on The Rush.”
Bethany shot a look at Eli that looked like part apology, part plea. Glory could practically see the thought bubble over Bethany’s head: But it’s Franco Francone!
Eli shrugged, smiled at her, and pulled out her chair. Bethany slid into it, gazing back at him like he was Sir Walter Raleigh and he’d just flung his cloak over a puddle for Queen Elizabeth.
Glory wanted to pinch her hard, which seemed unreasonable. Or blurt, “Sure, he has nice manners, but have you seen him throw someone to the ground and cuff them?”
And a pointed little silence ensued. Glory ought to be taking everyone’s drink orders, but she kind of wanted to see what would happen next first.
Eli and Francone looked about as happy as the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote sitting together.
Bethany cleared her throat. “When I met Eli, he was wearing his uniform.” Bethany made uniform sound like crown. “I know it’s cliché, but there’s something about a man in uniform, wouldn’t you say, Glory?”
“There’s something, all right.”
Eli and Franco didn’t appear to hear this exchange. They were as silent as two boxers in opposite corners of the ring.
Wild at Whiskey Creek Page 9
