anything. She had the strength and determination to make it on her own. And she would make it, too. Someday.
Bridgett bussed a table, mentally envisioning the floor plan of her own restaurant. As she nudged the kitchen door with her hip, the bells above the entrance jingled.
“Welcome to The Magpie.” Halfway through the door to the kitchen, Bridgett caught a glimpse of the man standing just inside the luncheonette’s entrance. The plates precariously balanced on her arms began to slip. He smiled at her. “Oh, my stars,” she whispered, struggling to prevent the stack from crashing to the floor.
Quickly depositing the dishes in the kitchen, she ducked down and made her way to the pass-through to sneak a peek at the man without appearing too obvious.
“What on earth are you doing?” Bert asked from the grill.
Bridgett shushed him and attempted another glimpse. The man was definitely easy on the eyes—gorgeous brown eyes—almost familiar in a way, but she was positive she hadn’t seen him before.
Crap. Lark greeted him and led him to the counter. Bridgett crouch-walked to the door, stood and took a deep breath.
“He’s just a man, sweetheart,” Bert chuckled as he plated another order. “Don’t get yourself in a state. Go on out there and act natural.”
Since when did Bert give relationship advice?
Bridgett couldn’t bear to turn around and see the expression on the cook’s face. Shoulders squared, she casually entered the dining area and strolled behind the counter.
“Thanks for your assistance before, Lark.” Bridgett touched the woman’s shoulder. “I’ve got this.
“How may I service you today?”
Please tell me I did not say that!
Mortified, Bridgett closed her eyes and vainly struggled to keep a nervous laugh in check. She failed. “Let me try this again.”
“It’s okay,” he drawled. “I’m intrigued by your offer.”
If she’d thought his eyes were gorgeous before, they were downright intoxicating up close. And his voice reminded her of a song, but she couldn’t place which one. She needed a distraction, and this sexy newcomer had just claimed top billing.
* * *
ADAM STEELE HADN’T eaten since yesterday—a day he’d rather forget. When he’d arrived at his sister’s in a sorry state, she’d taken him in. She’d cut and colored his hair from bleached blond to its natural brown, then forced him to shave off his jet-black beard. The new Adam was unrecognizable, even to himself.
“Are you in town for this weekend’s Harvest Festival?” the waitress asked. The name Bridgett was embroidered on the front of her pink-and-white fifties-style uniform, next to where the zipper began to reveal a hint of cleavage. Normally he’d pass on the whole retro vibe, but it worked on her.
“The festival’s a pretty big deal here, huh?” The main reason he’d pulled into town had been his growling stomach. He also wanted to test out his new look to see if anyone would recognize him. Bodyguards usually accompanied him and his band when they traveled. Outside of the quick shopping spree he and his sister had made to buy some normal clothes for his trip, this was his first solo performance and he needed to be sure he’d be able to travel incognito. How ironic his “disguise” was his real identity.
Bridgett’s eyes widened and Adam feared he’d already blown his cover. “You’re not a reporter, are you?” She took a step back. “Because I’ve had my fill of those lately.”
Adam inwardly cringed. “A reporter? People have called me many things, but a reporter hasn’t been one of them. Why would I be?”
“Because you answered my question with a question. It’s what they do. And I’ve endured enough questions to last forever.”
Okay, retro girl has a problem with reporters. After countless world tours and the tabloids’ constant fabrications about him and his band, they ranked at the bottom of Adam’s list also.
“No, I’m not a reporter or remotely connected to journalism. What do they want with you?”
“Corrupt mayor, political scandal.” Bridgett quickly broke eye contact, reached into her apron pocket and removed her order pad. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“The sign for the festival caught my attention and I thought I’d check it out. Can you recommend a hotel?”
“New to the area? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I’m from Katy. Three hours to the east.” Adam almost flinched at his own answer. When had he last told the truth regarding his hometown? Nine, or, ten years ago—maybe. After that long, he hadn’t expected it to roll off his tongue so easily. Tension usually surrounded the question. This morning it was absent. The fear someone would expose his lie vanished with the truth. If anyone had recognized his “true” identity in the past, his credibility in the industry would have ended. He’d managed to keep the truth from everyone, including his band. The world knew him as The Snake. It was the biographical lie his first manager had created and he’d never been able to escape it. An extremely lucrative persona had grown from that lie, playing on people’s emotions. The orphaned street kid from one of Miami’s roughest neighborhoods, discovered on a corner playing guitar. Only it wasn’t true.
It wasn’t until this last tour when he’d finally came clean with his drummer, Phil, telling his best friend how he actually hailed from Texas. Strangely enough, the story hadn’t surprised Phil. Bogus childhoods weren’t unusual in Los Angeles. But most people hadn’t gone to the extremes Adam had. He’d created a career based upon that lie. If the truth surfaced, Adam knew he’d lose all credibility in the music industry. The products he currently endorsed would take a hit, as well. Why would anyone want to be associated with a man who had not only lied to the world, but also shunned his family in order to make millions of dollars?
“We don’t have much in the center of town, except for the Bed & Biscuit—biscuit as in dog biscuit. Mazie, the owner, caters to people with pets, although oddly enough she doesn’t own one herself. But her sister, Lexi, is an equine veterinarian and... Good heavens, I’m rambling.”
Adam enjoyed the pink tinge flooding Bridgett’s cheeks. Her high ponytail enhanced her long, slender neck. He’d love to loosen those thick honey-red waves and watch them fall down around her shoulders.
Adam caught himself staring at her, neither one of them making a move to speak. Form words, Adam. You’re no stranger to women. He had certainly partaken in his fair share of the opposite sex in his younger days, but none of them had caused his heart to beat like a revolutionary war drum.
“Bridgett!” A voice boomed from the kitchen. “For the third time, order up, table seven.”
“Huh?” Bridgett shook her head and Adam wondered if she’d figured out who he was. “I need to— I’ll be— I—”
“She’ll be with you in a minute. Meanwhile, you can look this over.” The other waitress thrust a menu at him, placed her hands on both of Bridgett’s shoulders and turned her toward the pass-through window.
