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.
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
