Nell scribbled and fled.
Back behind the counter, Norma gave her cheek an approving pinch. “Good start! Not what I told you to say, but he sure took notice! No, don’t look now. He’s still looking. Practically staring! For goodness’ sake, look nonchalant. Look busy!”
“Yeah. Like, play it cool,” Monica advised.
“Leave me alone. You’re embarrassing me to death. Monica, would you take over his table? I can’t face him again,” Nell begged.
“Not in a million years,” Monica said, heartless. “All yours, babe.”
“I’ll dip up his coleslaw,” Norma said in a businesslike tone. “Put the roll in the grill, and tuck that hair behind your ears. Monica, get a bowl of soup, and pass me those veggies!”
Norma and Monica smartly assembled his lunch and passed the tray into Nell’s nerveless hands. The black-haired man pushed his computer to one side of the table and watched as she laid the dishes down. His gaze on her face made her skin tingle and burn.
Nell straightened her spine and forced herself to look into his eyes. “Will that be all?” Her voice was embarrassingly tremulous.
His eyes traveled down her body. Slow, cool, assessing.
She wished desperately that she hadn’t called his attention to herself. If he kept looking at her like that, she was going to melt, burn, fly into a million pieces.
“For now,” he said simply.
She fled again, and behind the counter, Norma and Monica hooted and cheered in whispers. “He’s eating you with his eyes, honey! Don’t look! Get the coffeepot and do a round of refills,” Norma directed.
“Yeah, chica, you did good. Tomorrow wear something sexier. Say, like, a tight ribbed turtleneck. Sleeveless, ’cause you got good arms. If you don’t have one I’ll lend you one of mine,” Monica offered.
“Ladies, do you mind?” Nell hissed, grabbing the coffeepot. She did as Norma suggested, refilling coffee cups to steady her nerves.
She didn’t really have much experience with men. She’d dabbled in college, but this guy was in another league from the unthreatening, callow literary types she’d discussed poetry and philosophy with.
It was embarrassing. Such a brief, inconsequential encounter, but look at her. She’d almost had a seizure.
The moment he had finally taken notice of her, a primitive emotion stabbed through her, part excitement, part naked fear. She couldn’t tell if the feeling was pleasurable or not. She had never felt so vulnerable, or so female. And all he’d done was ogle her.
Oh, no, no, no. She would be hopelessly out of her depth with this man. She was backpedaling. Like the dithering scaredycat coward that she was.
She went back to the counter to refill the coffeepot and assayed a sidelong peek. Yup. Still looking at her. Fixedly. Hungrily. Scorching dark eyes. Her stomach jumped up and crowded her lungs. Oh dear.
Norma presented her with a plate of apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream. “You’ve got to see it through,” she said sternly.
“Norma, I can’t. I just can’t.”
“You must, or I’ll fire you,” Norma threatened.
“Go ahead. Do your worst,” Nell said, putting the coffeepot on the warmer and putting her hands over her very pink cheeks. “I don’t care.”
“Chica, if you don’t do it, I’ll start talking real loud about how you have this huge crush on the guy by the window. I swear. I’m not kidding,” Monica said, her voice rising perceptibly in volume.
Nell shot her a furious look and took the plate. She approached his table and laid it carefully beside his computer.
“You didn’t ask if I wanted the usual dessert,” he said. His resonant voice sent a shudder of excitement down her spine.
“I’ve taken enough risks today,” she said, gathering up dishes. “I haven’t given up hope of persuading you to try the pecan fudge brownies, though.” She scurried, feeling his hot gaze against her back.
He got up, dropped a banknote on the table, and walked out. When the door closed behind him she exhaled and sank down onto a chair.
Monica punched her shoulder. “Good job, chica. That’s some flirting to be proud of.”
“I wasn’t flirting!” Nell dropped her face into her hands. “I tried to persuade him to order something new and failed.”
“Right. If it was no big deal, how come you’re hyperventilating?” Monica asked.
“Because I’m stupid, okay?” Nell yelled back. “Is everybody on board with that assessment? Anybody need more clarification?”
“Calm down, Nelly.” Norma bustled over and patted Nell’s cheek. “Monica’s right. I couldn’t have done a better job myself. He is obviously intrigued. Come in early tomorrow and let me fix your hair.”
“Norma, please!”
“Oh, honey, indulge a fond old lady, do!”
“I’m gonna bring that shirt tomorrow. And I’m gonna put some makeup on you, too,” Monica said, looking her over with a critical eye. “You need a new look. What’s your shoe size? Got any spike heels?”
“For waitressing?” Nell asked, aghast. “You’re insane!”
“One must suffer in order to be beautiful,” Monica intoned.
Nell jumped to her feet. “I’m going out for a cigarette break.”
Monica looked perplexed. “Uh, you don’t smoke.”
“If I did, I would take a cigarette break now.” Nell marched out the back door without taking off her apron and walked down the street through the blaring traffic, her face feverishly hot.
How could she be so susceptible, so flustered? She was almost thirty. All she’d done was serve him lunch. Imagine if she and he actually ever…no. Better not to imagine it. She felt faint already.
It had been years since she’d had a relationship. The more time that passed, the harder it got to contemplate. Her sister Nancy at least got out there and tried. She’d been burned miserably three times before she finally landed a winner in Liam. Grit and persistence had paid off.
But Nell hadn’t had the stomach to run that kind of risk. She wasn’t willing to face the chill, the sad ugliness she knew was waiting if she made a wrong move. Getting used. Getting hurt. Ugh. Brr.
Elena, Nell’s birth mother, never had any fear of men. Elena Pisani had been a beautiful woman. She’d used her beauty as currency, being a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession. She’d always looked perfect, no matter what the circumstances. Sexy clothing, makeup, and hair, those were the tools and weapons of her trade. Probably that was why Nell had always avoided makeup and wore baggy dresses and nerdish glasses, she reflected. Dressing down blurred her startling resemblance to her mother.
Nell herself had been an unpleasant surprise to Elena, a pregnancy that her mother had unaccountably decided to bring to term. For the first ten years of Nell’s life, she’d watched her mother being kept by a series of rich men in various lavish apartments around the country. When it was convenient, Elena brought her daughter along. When it was not, she stayed in a series of boarding schools.
Nell had just been old enough to start to understand the nature of her mother’s arrangements with this long string of “uncles” when Elena died suddenly, of an undiagnosed brain tumor. It had taken ten days, from the onset of the crushing headaches to her death under the surgeon’s knife. There were no relatives. No life insurance. Her mother had not had any friends to speak of. Her lover had swiftly disappeared from the picture.
Nell had entered the foster system. She’d been ten years old.
Three very dark years followed, years that she tried hard to forget, before Lucia found her. Those years, and having watched her mother ply her trade—they were reasons enough to be reticent about romance.
Not that she was fishing for an excuse. She flinched away from self-analysis. She vastly preferred to study books rather than herself, books being so much more interesting. One thing was for sure, though. Her childhood trauma had forged her into a hopeless romantic. Book junkie. Poetry addict. Her choice had been simple: romantic escapism or brutal cynicism. Romance was better. It was comforting to wallow in the highest, purest sentiments of which human hearts were capable. So what if it was all blather and bullshit. It was beautiful blather and bullshit, and she would dedicate her life to reading it, studying it, and teaching it. To hell with them all.