One Fiancee To Go, Please. Jackie Braun

up on the seemingly endless barrage of reading assignments, but, with the holidays just around the corner, the extra tip money was too tempting to pass up.

      “Hon, I need more coffee,” the burly trucker at table ten called as she passed. She managed to sidestep him in time to avoid the fanny pat he had bestowed on her twice already.

      Three tables ahead sat the man who had ordered the chili. He was impeccably dressed in a navy wool suit, crisp white shirt and muted print tie, all of which screamed expensive. He looked as if he could be a banker or a lawyer or some other white-collar professional, not the usual sort to come into Earl’s greasy little joint. He sat alone with a Wall Street Journal spread out on the table in front of him, open to the stock page. But he wasn’t reading it. He was watching her. And the level, measuring look he gave Tess made her pulse pick up speed.

      Handsome didn’t begin to do him justice. He had a strong jaw, wide-spaced eyes the color of jade, and a nose that listed slightly to the left and gave the impression he had once played contact sports. He wore his tawny hair short, but Tess had a hunch that if it were allowed to grow long it would have a tendency to curl, much like her own.

      The crowded diner seemed to fade into the background as their gazes held. The pounding of her heart drowned out the din of patrons as she was drawn forward on legs that felt too rubbery to hold her weight. Ridiculous, she told herself, bemused by this uncharacteristic reaction to a man, but she couldn’t manage to break eye contact or to reel in her giddy pulse.

      At least not until the tyke at table four scooted off his mother’s lap and toddled directly into Tess’s path. It seemed a minor miracle that she managed to sidestep the boy at all; too many hours on her feet had dulled her reflexes, and the man claimed nearly all of her attention. But she didn’t have time to ponder the near collision or to congratulate herself for avoiding it. In the instant it took to dodge the little boy, the steaming crock of chili lost its purchase on her tilted tray. Helpless, she watched it slide off, striking the gorgeous businessman just above the breastbone with a dull thud that sent its contents spewing. Kidney beans, onions and bits of ground beef oozed down the man’s broad chest like a mini-mudslide.

      “What the…!” he broke off an oath, instinctively pushing away Tess, who very nearly found herself in his lap along with the remains of his dinner. She grabbed the edge of the table to upright herself, then stood back in mortification and surveyed the damage.

      “Oh, no!” The hand she clamped over her mouth barely muffled her cry. Unless the dry cleaners could perform miracles, the man’s very nice and very expensive-looking suit was also very ruined. What, she wondered, would a suit like that cost? She had the awful feeling she was about to find out. The tip money weighing down her pockets suddenly felt inconsequential.

      Tess peered anxiously over her shoulder, hoping Earl had not witnessed her latest debacle. In the past week alone she had given the wrong change to three customers, botched a number of meal orders, and sent an entire tray of brown coffee mugs crashing to the tiled floor. She didn’t think she could bear another lecture on how she should get more sleep or cut back on her class load. Her luck seemed to be holding. While she had captured the attention of nearly every diner in the place, the swinging doors to the kitchen remained blessedly still. She turned back to the man and gaped in horrified silence as he eased himself out of the booth with as much dignity as the situation would allow. Globs of chili dropped to the floor in a sickening chorus of plops as he straightened.

      He grimaced, attempting to hold the soiled shirt front away from his skin by pinching it between his thumb and index finger. A gold cufflink winked at his wrist, catching Tess’s attention. French cuffs, she thought with an inward sigh, and another imaginary dollar sign appeared before her eyes.

      “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said in a shaky whisper. Snatching some napkins from the table dispenser, she began blotting his soggy tie and wiping the stubborn bits of ground beef from his shirt. She hesitated when she reached the shiny buckle of his leather belt. His lap was covered with chili as well, but she dared go no farther south with the mass of matted napkins. He grasped her wrist lightly, as if he thought she might have the audacity to continue downward, and she felt a blush creep from her chin to her cheeks. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

      “You’ve done enough, thanks,” he bit out between gritted teeth, releasing her hand and grabbing the napkins from her. He swiped at the stain that had bloomed a rusty red on his shirt and turned his navy suit a dingy shade of brown. The mirthless little laugh he issued made Tess feel even worse.

      “I’ll get you some more chili if you’d like. Or anything else from the menu,” she offered, eager to make amends.

      “I’ll take my check.”

      “I am truly sorry,” she repeated. Any minute now, she thought, he would be mentioning the cost of his suit and demanding compensation. “I’m not usually so clumsy. I just didn’t see the little boy until it was too late.”

      He nodded grimly. “My check.”

      “Oh, no charge,” Tess assured him, offering a tentative smile in the hope of coaxing one out in return. “Really, I insist. Dinner’s on me.”

      Her words drew out more than a smile. Humor, unexpected but definitely welcome, danced in the man’s green eyes a moment before she heard the first deep rumble of his laughter.

      “Dinner’s on somebody, lady, but I don’t think it’s you.” To Tess’s immense relief, his irritation seemed to evaporate. He flashed a grin that showed off straight white teeth, and a dimple tugged in his left cheek. Charmed, Tess smiled fully in return. When he spoke again, the clipped, crisp tone of his voice had turned almost conversational. “I’ll take a rain check on the meal, but I don’t think I’ll be in the mood for chili for a while.”

      As the man sauntered out of the diner, leaving behind a small trail of diced onions and peppers, Tess let out a sigh of relief. Not only was the man easy on the eye, but if his casual attitude about his ruined suit was any indication, he would be easy on her bank account as well.

      Humming lightheartedly, she went in search of a mop.

      A couple of hours later, Jack Maris had showered and given the offending clothes to the concierge at the Saint Sebastian in the hope that something might be salvaged.

      Now that he had washed away the pungent scent of onions and chili pepper, Jack reclined on the room’s queen-sized bed, stacked his hands behind his head on the pillow, and tried to ignore the angry growl of his empty stomach. He didn’t want to bother with room service. His thoughts strayed to the waitress who had taken his order at the little hole-in-the-wall diner. He’d always been a sucker for long red hair, and the young woman with the gray eyes and full rosy lips had it in abundance. He recalled the way a few wisps of it had escaped the confines of the severe ponytail she wore, and he thought about the rather vivid fantasy he had been enjoying as he watched her walk to his table, her smoky gaze a mixture of awareness and uncertainty.

      What would she do if I tugged that mass of fiery hair free and ran my fingers through it until it snaked down her back? Jack had been wondering. A dousing of chili, hot though it was, had cooled his ardor considerably. Then he had felt so foolish, standing in front of her covered in soup and still slightly aroused, that he had practically bitten off her head with his remarks. In truth, his foul mood had had little to do with the pretty waitress or the unfortunate mishap. Indeed, the accident had been the perfect cap to a lousy day, he decided, his thoughts turning to the job interview that had brought him to town.

      Ira Faust of Faust Enterprises was looking for a vice president. More than just a vice president really, he was courting an investor. Someone who was willing to buy into his distributorship. Someone who would become the new head of Faust Enterprises when Ira finally retired. The man was pushing eighty, so Jack figured it wouldn’t be long. In the meantime, he would learn the business and bide his time.

      Opportunities like this didn’t present themselves every day, especially for someone as young as Jack Maris. At thirty-two, Jack didn’t doubt he could handle the responsibility of running a company. He had graduated top of his class at Northwestern University, where