to ask about it, but the toddler in the booth behind him knocked over her juice, so Francesca quickly grabbed a pile of napkins to help clean up the mess.
A few minutes later, Keaton’s pot pie was ready. She picked up the plate from the pass through between the kitchen and the front of the restaurant. There was no way she was going to get a break before closing, so she thought about asking Keaton if he could stick around until her shift was over. She wanted to spend time with him, but the very thought of it made her heart hammer and her palms sweat.
Sweaty palms and carrying a porcelain plate were not a good combination apparently. When Keaton looked up and flashed another one of those sexy half smiles, the plate started to slip out of Francesca’s hand. She leaned over the booth, trying to will the plate to land on the table, which it did. But it had so much momentum that it skidded to the edge and tipped off, dumping the entire hot, steaming mass of pot pie into Keaton’s lap.
He made a choked sound and Francesca gasped. She’d been waiting tables since she was sixteen and had never dumped food into a customer’s lap.
The next few minutes were a blur. The only thing she was sure of was that she’d never been more humiliated. She bent toward him, reaching for his lap at the same time Keaton straightened from the booth. The top of his head clipped her chin, and she gave a tiny yelp as she bit down on her tongue.
“I’m sorry, luv,” he said immediately, but she was intent on cleaning up the mess she made.
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.”
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