A Fortune in Waiting Read online

  Francesca. He’d heard the other waitresses call her that, and the name fit her. With her mass of golden hair, creamy skin and her lushly curved figure, Francesca looked more like a Botticelli muse than a waitress in a diner near Austin’s trendy South Congress neighborhood.

  “She’s taking a full course load over at the university,” Lola May continued, “in addition to her schedule here. I don’t think she’s had a day—or even an hour—off in months.”

  “Why does she take on so much?”

  “That’s her story, handsome.” Lola May picked up his empty dinner plate and pushed the pie closer to him. “I’ll just tell you she’s a great little gal and deserves better than what—” She paused until Keaton glanced up at her then continued, “Or who she got stuck with in her life.”

  Keaton watched as Francesca moved a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the muscles there. Well, if she needed a massage, he’d be glad to...

  No.

  An image of Gerald Robinson popped into his mind and he willed it away. He’d committed to a moratorium on dating during his time in Austin. It seemed easier to go cold turkey on the dating front than to have temptation constantly beckoning to him. He wasn’t going to take the chance that anyone, especially his new siblings, might confuse him with the man who’d broken his mother’s heart so many years ago.

  Still, he couldn’t seem to look away from the blonde. Just as Lola May disappeared into the kitchen, Francesca’s head lifted. Her eyes widened as their gazes clashed and sparks seemed to dance on the air between them.

  Keaton swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as his body went on alert in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. He liked women. He appreciated women. Hell, he’d been raised solely by women. He’d had plenty of girlfriends and recognized mutual attraction.

  Yet there was something different about this Francesca, and damn if he didn’t want to figure out what it was. He’d loved puzzles as a kid. Alone in the flat after school with his mum at work, he’d spent hours poring over jigsaw pieces, trying to decipher exactly where they fit to make the picture complete.

  That’s what Francesca... Bloody hell, he didn’t even know her last name. But that’s what she felt like to him. A missing piece. Maybe he’d spent too long in his own company, but he knew he’d have a difficult time walking away until he understood exactly where she fit in his life.

  He had a feeling the trick was going to be convincing her to let him.

  * * *

  Francesca Harriman slammed shut the door of her apartment above the diner and toed off one of the well-worn cowboy boots she’d been wearing all day, kicking it across the floor.

  It landed with a thud against the coffee table, and a moment later, her roommate, Ciara James, burst from the bathroom. She was clutching a towel around her, water dripping from her long dark hair, and brandishing a...

  “Is that the toilet bowel scrubber?” Francesca took a step back.

  Ciara blew out a relieved breath and lowered the makeshift weapon. “You scared the pants off me,” she said with a laugh.

  “You were in the shower,” Francesca countered and kicked off her other boot. “I doubt you were wearing pants.”

  “Give me thirty seconds before you melt down,” Ciara answered, pointing the toilet bowl brush at Francesca. She disappeared back into the bathroom and Francesca dropped to the sofa, letting her head fall back onto the cushions.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on moving air in and out of her lungs at a normal rate. She wasn’t going to melt down. She did not have time for a major freak out, or even one of the minor variety.

  So why wouldn’t her stupid heartbeat settle? The answer that appeared in her brain was in the form of pair of sinfully sexy blue eyes staring at her from across the diner.

  With a growl, she jumped up from the couch and stalked to the postage-stamp-sized galley kitchen. She stood on tiptoe and reached for the top shelf of the cabinet, sighing slightly as her fingers closed around the bar of chocolate Ciara had stashed there.

  “Hey,” her roommate shouted and Francesca whirled around, tearing off the wrapper and shoving a bite of blessedly rich chocolate into her mouth. “That’s my secret spot,” Ciara complained. “It’s hidden from you.”

  “You’ve got to do better than that,” Francesca said after chewing. “I’m a professional chocolate hound.”

  “Girl, you need more willpower.”

  “I’ve got an accounting exam the day after tomorrow,” Francesca said with a groan. “I need brain food.”

  “I left you two squares on the table this morning,” Ciara answered, “just like you told me to do.”

  Francesca sagged against the counter and handed over the remainder of the chocolate bar. “I know. I’m weak. I’m so weak.”

  With a small laugh, Ciara broke off another two squares and handed them to Francesca. “I have a feeling the emergency is related to more than your classes, but desperate times and all that.”

  “You’re a life saver, Ci.”

  “Do you want to talk about why you came slamming in here like someone had just stolen your favorite bottle of conditioner?”

  Francesca smiled. “If you had these curls to tame,” she said, pulling at the ends of her hair, “you’d take your conditioning seriously, too.” She nibbled the corner of a chocolate square—a nibble full of willpower and self-control. “It’s the Brit,” she whispered after a moment.

  Her friend blinked before a wide grin spread across her face. “The one who’s been eating at the diner every day this week?”

  “I need to concentrate,” Francesca answered with a nod. “I can’t with him lurking around Lola May’s all the time. He’s distracting.”

  “In the best way possible,” Ciara agreed. “And I wouldn’t exactly call ordering food and leaving awesome tips ‘lurking.’”

  “He’s a good tipper?”

  “Amazing. A fact that you would know if you didn’t trade tables every time he sat in your section.”

  “I don’t... It isn’t... He makes me nervous.”

  “It’s the way he looks at you.”

  “He doesn’t look at me in any way,” Francesca argued, biting down on her lip. “It’s the accent. It’s weird.”

  Ciara shook her head. “Weird is Mr. Fenke spooning his leftovers into all those little plastic bags he carries in his pockets. The accent is hot.” She leaned in closer. “The way he looks at you is even hotter, like he wants to carry you across the moors in the misty morning fog.”

  “There are no moors in Austin.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Francesca did know, and that was the problem. Keaton Whitfield—yes, she’d researched his name from one of the receipts in the register—made her wish they lived in a land of romantic moors and mist and that she was the type of woman to be carried anywhere by a man.

  More like the type to carry his bags.

  “I’m finally getting caught up on life,” she told Ciara. “I can’t afford to backslide again.”

  “Not every man is going to treat you like your ex-boyfriend. Lou the Louse was a special kind of jerk.”

  “I get that.” Bitterness welled up in Francesca at the mention of his name. She’d dated Louis Rather for almost six years, and the fact that she’d been stupid enough to think he loved her still made her mad enough to spit. She’d put her entire life on hold to cater to a man, and when she’d finally left him, it was with the bone-deep conviction that she’d never make that same mistake again. “I was a fool for Lou for way too long. I don’t trust myself to recognize heartbreak when it’s standing right in front of me.”

  “Whoa, there, cowgirl.” Ciara’s smile was gentle. “You’ve just skipped over all the fun parts and gone straight to heartbreak.”

  “That’s where I end up with men
,” Francesca muttered.

  Ciara sighed. “I heard the hottie Brit say he was only in town for a few months. He’s some kind of big-wig architect working on the Austin Commons project.” She boosted herself up onto the counter. “Think of it as short-term fun.”

  “That’s not exactly how my mind or my heart works.”

  “Come on, Francesca. You work and study all the time. You never go out. You don’t date. You’re only twenty-four, and you are the least fun person I know.”

  “I’m fun,” Francesca protested, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m a ton of fun.”

  “Prove it.” Ciara pointed a finger in Francesca’s direction. “Flirt with the Brit.”

  Chapter Two

  The following evening, Francesca untied her apron and hung it on a peg in the back hallway of Lola May’s, taking an extra moment to smack her open palm against the wall a few times.

  Since her conversation with Ciara, she’d thought of little else besides flirting with Keaton. The problem was Francesca didn’t know how to flirt. She’d only had one boyfriend in her life, and she and Lou had started dating back when they were still in high school. He was the bad boy of their class, an indie rocker who wore leather and a permanent scowl. All the girls from her tight-knit Austin community had crushed on him, including Francesca, even though she could barely bring herself to make eye contact.

  But Lou had chosen her, literally picked her out of the crowd during one of his concerts at a neighborhood festival. After that, they were a couple. No flirting needed. She belonged to him.

  At first she’d been overwhelmed and embarrassingly grateful. For a girl who’d grown up with the nicknames “Fat Frannie” and “Frizzy Frannie,” gaining the attention of a boy like Lou had felt accomplishment enough. There was no doubt in either of their minds that Lou was doing her a great favor by letting her be his girlfriend.

  For years, Francesca had shown her gratitude by taking care of him and his bandmates, which had left her more of a glorified roadie than a girlfriend. It sure hadn’t left her much inclination or opportunity for flirting, unless it was vicariously as she watched a parade of groupies throwing themselves at Lou. Apparently, that kind of overt flirting worked with some men because she’d eventually found Lou in the arms of one of those same groupies.

  So, yeah, Francesca had never had much use for flirting. Her skills at talking to men weren’t just rusty. They were non-existent, especially when the man was as handsome as Keaton. Emmalyn and Brandi, the other two waitresses who had shared yesterday’s shift with her, had no such problems.

  Maybe Ciara had imagined the way he’d looked at Francesca. What did either of them know about how things were done in England, anyway? Chances were he gave that smoldering, carry-you-off-across-the-moors look to every woman.

  She pulled her laptop bag off the hook and headed down to her corner booth. The booth didn’t exactly belong to her, but as long as the restaurant wasn’t full, Lola May let her use it to study. Francesca was such a fixture in the corner that the diner’s regulars purposely left that table empty.

  Just as she walked out, she heard a deep voice boom, “We don’t need no fancy-schmantzy strip mall clogging up the street, and we don’t need no foreigner trying to tell us how things should be built in Texas.”

  Francesca suppressed a groan and searched for Lola May in the restaurant. Johnny Keller was one of her least favorite customers. A long-time resident of the neighborhood, he was loud and brash and the stingiest tipper she’d ever met.

  She knew his opinion about the recent gentrification of the neighborhood, including the project Keaton was developing. Everyone in a ten-block radius knew Johnny’s opinion and it was always negative. Lola May could keep him in line, but Francesca didn’t see her feisty boss at the moment. Then she remembered Lola May had taken off early to go watch her grandson’s Little League game. No wonder Johnny had picked tonight to give grief to Keaton.

  She couldn’t quite make out Keaton’s quiet response, but from the way Johnny’s shoulders stiffened, it wasn’t what the old blowhard wanted to hear.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, boy,” Johnny was saying now, “but our people won the war against your people. Take that as hint, ya hear?”

  “Are you referring to the Revolutionary War?” Keaton inclined his head. “The one that was fought over two hundred years ago?”

  Johnny placed his meaty hands on his hips. “Texas never forgets.”

  Francesca stepped between the two men before Keaton could answer. “Johnny, Texas wasn’t even a state at that time.” She made her voice light and teasing. No use antagonizing him. “You know we would have been the capital of the whole dang country if we’d been around back then.”

  She darted a glance at Keaton, who looked like he was trying to hold back a smile, then forced her gaze to return to Johnny. If Keaton smiled at her she’d probably melt into a puddle all over the floor. This was the closest she’d been to him and the proximity made little sparks dance all over her skin.

  “Damn straight, honey,” Johnny agreed. “You don’t mess with Texas.”

  She put a gentle hand on his arm. “And there’s no need to mess with a man who’s just doing his job.”

  Johnny shook his head. “I’m telling you, we don’t need more highfalutin types changing up the spirit of the area.”

  “I wouldn’t let Lola May hear you say that,” Francesca warned, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Why?” Johnny leaned closer. The man had a healthy fear of the diner’s hot-tempered owner. “Don’t tell me she supports all this new stuff.”

  “She’s keeping an open mind,” Francesca said, giving a small shrug. “We all need to, Johnny. I’ve lived here my whole life, but change is bound to come and it doesn’t have to be bad.” She nodded toward Keaton without making eye contact. “He may be British, but he’s got a fantastic reputation as an architect. Our neighborhood is in good hands with Keaton Whitfield.”

  She held her breath as Johnny looked between her and Keaton. Other than the fact that he liked to hear himself talk, the man was basically harmless. But Francesca needed to get to her review sheet for accounting, so she didn’t want to prolong this conversation. Plus, she could feel Keaton’s gaze on her almost as if it were a physical touch. The man was seriously messing with her equilibrium.

  “If you’re vouching for him, Miss Frannie, then I guess I’ll give him a chance.” He shoved a hand past her and Keaton shook it. “I’ll be keeping my eyes on you and your fancy complex.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Keaton answered, each word clipped.

  “Great.” Francesca blew out a quick breath. “Brandi,” she called. “I’d like to buy these two fine gentlemen a piece of pie.”

  Johnny flashed a broad grin while Keaton held up a hand. “Generous,” he murmured, “but not—”

  The other man clapped him hard on the back. “Boy, if a beautiful woman offers you pie, don’t say no.”

  “Pecan for Johnny,” Francesca continued, “and apple for our friend from across the pond.”

  “Got it,” Brandi shouted.

  “Enjoy, fellas,” Francesca said quickly, still avoiding Keaton’s blue gaze. She hurried to the safety of her corner booth and slid in with a sigh. Crisis avoided—both Johnny making a bigger scene and her revealing what a bumbling idiot she was around Keaton.

  It didn’t take long to become engrossed in her studies. Accounting was her toughest subject and the more she looked at the numbers, the more of a jumble they became in her head. She was staring at a particularly challenging problem when she felt someone approach the booth.

  By the way butterflies zipped across her stomach, she didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

  “May I join you?” Keaton asked in his rich accent.

&nbs
p; The thoughtfulness of that question made a soft warmth spread through her. Most people at the diner just plopped down when they needed something, as if Francesca’s opinion on whether she wanted company didn’t matter.

  She appreciated having her opinion matter to someone, even in such an insubstantial decision.

  “Or not,” Keaton continued. “I can see you’re busy. Perhaps another time.”

  When he started to walk away, his mouth pressed into a thin line, she realized she hadn’t actually given him an answer.

  Add rude to her list along with bumbling and idiot.

  “Please sit down,” she called to him.

  He turned and slipped into the seat across from her.

  “How was the pie?” she asked, her words sounding embarrassingly breathless.

  “Worth enduring Johnny’s company while I ate it,” he said with a half smile. “Thank you for that and for diffusing the situation. You are the prettiest knight in shining armor I’ve ever met.”

  She was so busy watching to see if the half smile turned into a full grin that it took a minute for his words to sink in. Had he just called her pretty?

  “How did you know I prefer apple?”

  She shrugged. “Lola May’s isn’t huge. You order a slice of apple pie every night.”

  “It’s the best.” He leaned a little closer. “You also know my name.”

  “The diner caters to regulars. You’re becoming a regular, Keaton, so I know your name.”

  “I appreciate that, Francesca,” he answered.

  Lord have mercy, it was a good thing she was sitting down because the way her name sounded in his rich, cultured voice made her knees go weak.

  “You know I’m an architect.”

  She felt color rise to her cheeks but didn’t bother to deny it. “Yes.”

  “And the bit about my reputation?”

  She huffed out a soft laugh. “I guessed at that.”