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.”
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.”