A Fortune in Waiting

by Michelle Major

  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.”

  “It was pot pie, Francesca. You didn’t light his pants on fire.” Ciara stepped forward. “Keaton Whitfield likes you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t let Lou the Louse get in your head.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your ex-boyfriend did a number on you. He made you believe you were lucky to be with him. Lou’s world revolved around Lou, and yours had to, as well. That’s no way to have a relationship.”

  “But I was—”

  “Way more than the Louse deserved,” Ciara interrupted. She wrapped Francesca in a tight hug. “Keaton sees something in you, and the man’s not stupid. Maybe it’s time you believe you’re enough just the way you are, clumsy episodes with pot pie and all.”

  Francesca let out a strangled laugh. “That might have been the single most embarrassing moment of my life.”

  “At least you made an impression. He’ll never forget you. Who knows, maybe you two will serve chicken pot pie at your wedding reception someday.”

  “Before I start with wedding plans, I should probably work on figuring out how to speak to him without losing my mind.”

  “Actually,” Ciara answered, taking a step back, “you might want to start with a shower. No offense, girlfriend, but you stink.”

  “Put those plans for a shower on the back burner,” Lola May shouted from the end of the hallway. “Our customers have been kept waiting long enough. Come on, you two. We have a full house and this food won’t serve itself.”

  Francesca followed Ciara back toward the front of the restaurant, retying her ponytail as she walked.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Lola May as she passed. “I’ll pay for the food and his dry cleaning.”

  “Let’s just get through the rest of your shift with no more accidents.” The diner owner patted Francesca’s arm.

  “You’re not mad?”

  Lola May rolled her eyes. “I’m an old woman who only recently found the courage to leave a crappy marriage behind. I’m living vicariously through your little...whatever...with Keaton. Dumping a plate of food in a potential suitor’s lap isn’t exactly the way I would have gone, but I’m curious to see where this episode takes you.”

  Francesca sucked in a breath. “It was an accident.”

  “I know,” Lola May said and gave her a gentle push forward. “But it’s also a potential opportunity. Let’s see what you do with it.”

  * * *

  Keaton rubbed his fingers against his temples as he looked up from his computer the following afternoon. He was alone in the on-site office at the Austin Commons project, having just finished a marathon meeting with the general contractor and the structural engineer.

  In the best of all possible worlds, every part of designing a building would go smoothly, from the concept to the plans to actually breaking ground. In reality his business, much like his current personal life, was rarely that straightforward.

  The contractor had asked one of the other architects on the project to tweak the roof design of the main retail space, which the junior-level associate had done without clearing with Keaton. Now the structural engineer had discovered an issue with the truss design and the load-bearing walls. It was up to Keaton to figure out a way to fix the problem without slowing the project or pulling additional funds from the budget.

  A knock on the modular trailer’s metal door had him gritting his teeth. Keaton wasn’t in the mood for any more issues today, and every time someone walked through that door it felt like more work got piled on his shoulders.

  “Come in,” he called reluctantly, because it wasn’t as if he could hide in here forever.

  His heart gave a tiny leap when Francesca entered the trailer, her wild mane of blond curls tumbling over her shoulders. She wore it up at the diner, and this was the first time he’d seen the curls in all their glory.

  He was mesmerized.

  She offered a tentative smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting something important.”

  He scrambled up from the desk chair, the training his mother had given him on standing when a woman entered the room automatically guiding his movements. “Not at all.” Striding forward, he narrowly missed tripping over the waste bin next to the desk.

  Francesca took a quick step back as he hurtled toward her, holding aloft the cardboard box tied with a piece of twine she held in her hands.

  “It’s bad enough I dumped dinner on you,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I don’t want to smash my apology pie against your chest.”

  He righted himself, feeling color creep along the collar of his oxford-cloth shirt. What was it about this woman that ma
de him as jumpy as a wet-behind-the-ears lad? Given the fact that he’d gone home last night smelling like Sunday dinner, he could at least take comfort that he wasn’t the only one affected.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” he said as she lowered the box. “Although I won’t say no to a slice of Lola May’s pie.”

  He saw her fingers tighten slightly on the box, and she gave him another shy smile. “This is actually my pie,” she told him. “It’s the chocolate pecan recipe my mom makes for Thanksgiving.” Her pert nose wrinkled. “She considers it a once-a-year treat. Little does she know I make it every time I need a pick-me-up. I call it Pick-Me-Up Pecan Pie.”

  “How did you know I needed a lift today?”

  “I knew I needed to apologize,” she said as an answer. “Pie works for that purpose, too.” She shoved the box toward him. “I’m truly sorry about last night. I’ve been waitressing a lot of years and nothing like that has ever happened. I hope you’ll allow me to pay for your clothes to be dry cleaned or replaced.”

  “No need,” he told her. “I actually owe you a thank you. My neighbor has a dog that’s been skittish with me since I moved in. They were coming back from a walk last night when I got home, and now the pup and I are best mates.” He shrugged. “My scent was irresistible.”

  She laughed softly, and the sound was just as irresistible. “I’m glad my disaster had a silver lining for you.”

  “The dog wasn’t the silver lining.” He tapped one finger on the top of the box. “You and pie are the silver lining. I hope you have time to have a piece with me?” He leaned in. “You know it’s bad luck to eat pie alone.”

  She made a sound that was half laugh and half sigh. “That might explain some of the luck I’ve had in life. I hate to admit the amount of pie I’ve eaten on my own.”

  His heart twisted as a pain she couldn’t quite hide flared in those caramel eyes. His well-honed protective streak kicked in, but it was also more than that. He wanted to take up the sword and go to battle against whatever dragons had hurt this lovely, vibrant woman.

  It was an idiotic notion, both because Francesca had never given him any indication that she needed assistance slaying dragons and because he didn’t have the genetic makeup of a hero. Not with Gerald Robinson as his father.

  But he couldn’t quite make himself walk away from the chance to give her what whatever he could that might once again put a smile on her beautiful face.

  “Then it’s time for a dose of good luck.” He stepped back and pulled out a chair at the small, scuffed conference table in the center of the office. “I can’t think of a better way to begin than with a slice of Pick-Me-Up Pecan Pie. Join me?”

  Her gaze darted to the door before settling on him. “Yes, thank you,” she murmured and dropped into the seat.

  Her scent drifted up to him—vanilla and spice, perfect for the type of woman who would bake a pie from scratch. He’d never considered baking to be a particularly sexy activity, but the thought of Francesca wearing an apron in the kitchen as she mixed ingredients for his pie made sparks dance across his skin.

  The mental image changed to Francesca wearing nothing but an apron and—

  “I have plates,” he shouted and she jerked back in the chair.

  “That’s helpful,” she answered quietly, giving him a curious look. “Do you have forks, too?”

  “Yes, forks.” He turned toward the small bank of cabinets installed in one corner of the trailer. “And napkins,” he called over his shoulder. Damn, he sounded like a complete prat.

  He took a breath, did some calculating of dimensions and slope in his head until his body was under control again. Then he pulled out two paper plates, plastic forks, napkins and a knife from the drawer.

  Francesca had taken off her pale blue cardigan sweater by the time he returned to the table. Under it she wore a sleeveless floral-patterned dress with a demure neckline.

  It was warm in the trailer, and the glimpse of the smooth skin of her shoulders caused Keaton to feel downright hot.

  Get a grip, he told himself.

  She was already jittery around him. The desire he had to kiss her senseless every time he looked at her wasn’t going to help her nerves.

  He focused on the task at hand, untying the knot on the top of the box, lifting the lid to reveal a pie that could only be described as work of art—at least to a pie aficionado like Keaton.

  “You made this?”

  She nodded. “It’s a traditional pecan pie but the bittersweet chocolate adds a bit of depth and I also add a splash of bourbon. Don’t tell my mom, but I think the flavor of my pie is one step above hers.” She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, cringing slightly. “I mean, not that I assume you’re going to meet my mom or anything.”

  “If it tastes anything like it looks,” he said, ignoring her adorable bout with nerves as he sliced the pie, “I’ll bet it’s once step up from heaven.”

  “Have you always been addicted to pie?” she asked with a laugh.

  “Addicted is such an ugly word,” he answered. “I prefer being called a connoisseur.” She grinned and all the problems that had seemed so insurmountable a few minutes ago slipped away like sand through an hourglass. “My mother’s specialty is bread pudding. She makes the occasional apple tart but not many sweet pies.”

  She held up one of the plates and he slid a generous slice onto it. “I’ll have one half that size,” she told him, “or else I’m going to end up on the treadmill for an extra thirty minutes tonight.”

  “I can’t imagine that,” he said but cut a smaller piece for the second plate.

  “I don’t eat much pie these days,” she admitted. “You know what they say—a moment on the lips means—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. The light he’d come to rely on in her eyes dimmed the tiniest bit. “Never mind.”

  “I don’t know what they say.” He took the seat next to her. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head. “Even I should know better than to talk about weight with a man.”

  “Please,” he added, both because he was genuinely curious and also because he didn’t like any saying that took away some of the brightness he associated with Francesca.

  “A moment on the lips,” she repeated quietly, “means a lifetime on the hips.”

  He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “I certainly hope you are not disparaging your hips in any manner. I don’t want to overstep the bounds of what is appropriate conversation, but your body is perfect, Francesca.”

  Two splotches of captivating pink color bloomed on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I had two nicknames when I was growing up—Frizzy Frannie and Fat Frannie. I refuse to revisit either of those.”

  He set down his fork and reached out to touch her hair. He’d wanted to trail his fingers through it since the moment she’d walked in, and the thick strands were just as soft as he’d imagined. “You have the kind of hair that would make angels jealous.”

  She blushed even deeper but gave him a smile so brilliant he felt the glow of it to his toes. “Angel hair and heavenly pie. Are all British men so charming?”

  “Not all,” he told her. “I’m one in a million.”

  She threw back her head and laughed out loud at that. “Eat your pie.” She pointed to his plate. “Pie heaven is setting the bar pretty high. I’m curious to see how I did.”

  He reluctantly dropped his fingers from her hair and took a bite. The sugary filling practically melted in his mouth and he bit down on the roasted pecans, which had a rich, smoky flavor. The crust was flaky and the bourbon added just the right bit of tang. All in all it was...

  “Heavenly,” he murmured.

  “You don’t have to say that,” she said and took a forkful of her own slice.

  “I know, but it’s true. Pick-Me-Up Pecan Pie is perfe
ct.”

  She smiled. “It’s a lot of p’s, but I like the sound of it.”

  “You’re a pie-naming genius,” Keaton said softly and was rewarded with more blushing from Francesca. She had the body of a nineteen fifties pinup girl and the full mouth of a sexy screen siren, but the brief glimpses of her innocence were what really drove him wild. Francesca Harriman was a puzzle Keaton needed to solve. “Does Lola May know you bake like this?”

  Francesca shrugged. “She makes all the pies for the restaurant. I’m just a waitress.”

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “Off and on since I was sixteen. Lola May runs the show, and she takes great pride in her pies. She’s a good boss and is willing to be flexible with my shifts based on my course load each semester.”

  “Do you have other pies in your repertoire or is pecan the pièce de résistance?”

  She smiled. “My mom taught me to bake when I was little. Rolling out the perfect crust was the first lesson. There are a few other types of pies I bake.”

  “How convenient,” he said. “Because there are plenty of other pies I’d like to try. I bet they all have creative names, too.”

  “Most of them,” she admitted.

  “Such as...”

  “There’s a triple berry pie called The Berry Bomb and I make a strawberry rhubarb pie in the summer that’s aptly named The Sweettart.” She ducked her chin and looked up at him through her lashes. “Kind of silly, but it’s fun to name them.”

  “It’s cute, just like you.” He broke off a piece of crust and popped it into his mouth. “I’m not much of a baker, but I make a pretty fantastic spaghetti Bolognese. One of these nights, I’ll cook dinner for you and you can impress me with another selection of pie.”

  Francesca’s eyes widened at the same time her mouth dropped open. She stared at him for a moment then placed her fork on the table, pulled her sweater around her shoulders and practically jumped out of the chair.

  Damn. He’d gone too far, too fast.

  “I—I should let you get back to work,” she stammered. He wanted to argue but was afraid of unnerving her more than he already had.