LITMIR.BIZ

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a morning to stay inside. Since the rolls are burned, why don’t you make some toast? You can serve it with the scrambled eggs. I made enough to serve an army.”

      Celeste made her way upstairs and Frannie bustled around the kitchen. In a matter of minutes she’d prepared two attractive plates garnished with sliced cantaloupe and fresh strawberries. She loaded them onto an antique silver tray, her stomach fluttering nervously. Taking a deep breath, she headed out of the kitchen, through the den and onto the screened-in back porch.

      The porch overlooked Blue Mirror Lake and Frannie usually found the view breathtaking, but she was too distracted by the sight of the tall, handsome man to notice the scenery this morning. Austin was settled in a rustic twig chair at a wooden table, deep in conversation with Tommy, and he looked even more handsome than she remembered. Her pulse fluttered wildly when he looked up at her and smiled.

      He rose as she approached the table. “Good mornin’. May I help you with that?” He gestured toward the tray.

      Frannie hesitated, completely flustered. She wasn’t accustomed to guests standing and offering to help when she tried to serve them. “Oh, no. Please take your seat.” She lifted a hand from the tray and gestured toward his chair.

      She immediately knew she’d made a mistake. The tray tipped and the plates slid. She watched in horror as they headed toward him, as if in slow motion. Trying to correct the slant of the tray, she jerked it upward, but overcompensated.

      “Oh, no!” Frannie gasped. A plate of scram bled eggs hit Austin full in the face, then landed back on the tray with a loud clatter.

      Frannie stared, too aghast to move. Scram bled eggs dripped from his forehead, from his eyebrows, from his nose. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

      Austin ran his fingers across his eyes, clearing a path through the yellow blobs. Setting the tray quickly on the table, Frannie grabbed a blue cloth napkin and handed it to him. He used it like a washcloth, completely covering his face and wiping the egg away.

      Frannie watched helplessly, dying a thousand deaths. “I’m so very, very sorry! Are you all right?”

      He pulled the napkin away and opened his eyes. “Fine.” Turning the napkin, he took another swab at his forehead. The corners of his mouth turned up in a wry grin.

      “It’s not the first time I’ve had egg on my face, is it, Tommy?”

      The large man across the table slapped his knee and chortled. “No, sirree. But usually you’re the one that put it there.”

      “I’m so sorry,” Frannie repeated. She grabbed another napkin and began dabbing at his shirt. His chest beneath the blue cotton knit was disconcertingly hard and warm. “Oh, dear, you’ve got it on your jeans, too.” She lifted the napkin, ready to attack his crotch, then froze as she realized what she was about to do.

      His hand closed over hers, stopping her. The heat from his hand radiated up her arm, through her shoulder and straight through her chest. She stared up into blue, blue eyes.

      His grin was blinding. “I think I’d better take over the clean-up operation.”

      “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, her voice a low, mortified whisper.

      “It’s all right. It’s no big deal.” Releasing her hand, he took the napkin from her and brushed off his lap. “Looks like you took a bit of a hit yourself.” He reached out and brushed a blob of egg from her cheek.

      The intimacy of the touch sent a shock wave curling through her. She jumped away as if he’d gigged her with a cattle prod, only to immediately realize the absurdity of her reaction.

      “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

      “You didn’t,” she lied.

      “Well, there’s a little more egg right…” He reached out his hand again. Once more she reflexively jumped back.

      Something about this man’s touch made her feel hot and bothered and breathless.

      “I’m, uh, ticklish,” she lamely explained, vigorously rubbing her cheeks. “Is my face clean now?”

      He seemed to be looking at something over her head. He pulled his eyes down to meet her gaze. “Your face? Uh, yeah.”

      “Good. Well, I’ll…I’ll go fix you another plate, then come back and clean all this up.”

      She fled to the kitchen, feeling as awkward as a three-legged chair. Quickly she made more toast, sliced more melon and plated up two more servings of eggs.

      “Here you go,” she said a few minutes later as she hurried back to the porch. She set down his breakfast and backed away from the table, unreasonably worried about getting too close to Austin. “I’ll just go get a broom and dustpan and—” She stopped short and stared at the spotless wooden floor. “You cleaned it all up!”

      Austin shrugged. “We found a roll of paper towels by the serving bar in the corner.”

      Frannie frowned in dismay. “But you’re guests, and I’m the one who made the mess, and—”

      Austin waved away her objections. “We’re used to cleanin’ up crank cases and oil pan spills. This was nothing.”

      “That’s right.” Tommy smiled, his widely spaced teeth giving his round face the appearance of a friendly jack-o’-lantern.

      But it was Austin’s amused expression that held her gaze. He was looking at her in such a strange way, as if he found her intensely interesting.

      Frannie felt her pulse race. She was used to being ignored by men, not treated as an object of endless fascination—especially not by the likes of Austin Parker. She was drab and colorless and average. She certainly wasn’t dressed to rate any undue attention; she was just wearing a faded brown sweatshirt and loose-fitting khakis. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, her hair was wound in a bun at her crown, and her glasses were firmly in place on top of her nose. Austin’s intense scrutiny rattled her down to her toenails.

      “Well, uh, thanks for the help. Can I get you anything else?”

      “I think we’re all set.”

      She beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where she tried to drown out her clamoring thoughts by loading the dishwasher and vigorously mopping the floor. She was nearly finished when Austin stuck his head inside the door fifteen minutes later. “Breakfast was delicious. Thanks. And give my thanks to your aunt.”

      She heard the men’s footsteps retreat down the hall, then heard the front door close behind them. She leaned against the kitchen wall and inhaled a deep breath, her hand on her stomach.

      Thank goodness they were gone. Austin made her feel as if her lungs were too small to draw enough air. And the way he looked at her! His gaze went so…so deep, as if he were seeing things in her that no one else had ever seen.

      “You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. Instead of standing around mooning over an unattainable man, she needed to march herself back to the computer and finish the bookkeeping. She started through the dining room on her way to do just that, then jerked to a halt as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored china cabinet.

      “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

      There in the mirror, staring back at her from between plates of flowered Franciscan china, was the reason Austin had regarded her with such fascination: a giant glob of scrambled egg was perched atop her head like a yellow rubber tiara, supported by the bun she’d pulled her hair into that morning.

      “Great. Just great.”

      Striding back into the kitchen, she held her head over the sink and dislodged the enormous lump of egg. She pulled a paper towel off the holder and rubbed her hair, heaving a sigh of disgust. Austin was the sexiest man she’d ever set eyes on, and what did she do? She acted like a hopelessly tongue-tied klutz, so skittish that the poor guy didn’t dare tell her that the top of her head

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