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Andrew arched a brow. “Now what do you need?”
She grinned and wiggled her bare toes in the carpet. “My shoes. They’re under the desk.”
“Billionaire bachelor alert.” Miranda Jones looked up as Darcy, the young waitress who shared the breakfast and lunch shift with her at the Starlight Diner, swept into the kitchen and gave her a teasing grin. “And he’s sitting in your section. Again.”
Andrew Noble.
Miranda’s concentration dissolved. If a list of the world’s most eligible bachelors existed, Andrew’s name probably appeared at the top of it. The Noble family was the equivalent of American royalty and Andrew, the prince. The media loved him, even if all they could report were the details of his latest adventure in some exotic locale or the name of the woman who happened to be at his side for one of the Noble Foundation’s many fund-raising events.
He’d come into the diner earlier in the week and Miranda guessed he was visiting his cousin, Rachel Cavanaugh. Why he’d chosen the Starlight instead of one of Richmond’s swanky, award-winning restaurants, she had no idea. And now he was back. Three days later.
“You can wait on him,” she murmured. “I have to deliver this order to the boys at table five before they waste away.”
Darcy’s gum snapped in surprise, but then she grinned. “I’m not going to turn down that tip. Or the chance to stare into those dreamy eyes.” She sighed dramatically and put one hand over her heart.
“What about Greg?” Miranda felt compelled to bring up the name of the young deliveryman Darcy had been mooning over for the last two weeks.
“Greg? Greg who?” Darcy winked and straightened the collar of her pink polo shirt—the standard uniform of the diner waitstaff. She sashayed out of the kitchen, humming “Someday My Prince Will Come” under her breath.
Miranda exhaled in relief. Maybe she had just given up a generous tip but something about Andrew Noble flustered her.
You mean, other than the obvious, a voice in her head mocked. That he’s incredibly easy on the eyes and wealthy enough to live a life of leisure?
Something a working girl like her couldn’t begin to fathom. She’d never had a problem dealing with a customer before but, when Andrew had walked into the diner, her heart had responded with an unsettling kick. Darcy would welcome his attention. Miranda wished he’d find another restaurant.
“M.J. Snap out of it! Order up!” Isaac Tubman’s exasperated shout echoed around the kitchen. And probably the entire dining room. But no one would blink an eye. The regulars were used to the gruff old cook and his occasional tirades.
“Sorry.” Miranda scooped up the tray of hamburgers and took a step toward the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area.
“Don’t forget the garnish!” Isaac thundered, stopping her in her tracks.
“You’ve been watching Emeril again, haven’t you?” Miranda smiled but dutifully dropped a sprig of wilted parsley onto each plate.
Miranda heard Isaac chuckle as he turned back to the grill. She’d worked at the diner for four years, both as a waitress and a bookkeeper, and she’d learned right away that Isaac’s bark was worse than his bite. When her son, Daniel, had developed bronchitis shortly after Sandra Lange had hired her, it was Isaac who’d shown up at their apartment one evening with a container of homemade chicken noodle soup and his wooden checkerboard to entertain the little boy, giving her a much needed break.
In spite of Miranda’s reluctance to accept help from anyone, the simple gesture had endeared her to the old cook. As a single parent, Miranda had gotten used to doing everything on her own, But Daniel, her thoughtful, wise-beyond-his-years son, had taken to Isaac immediately.
Two years later, Isaac still kept the checkerboard behind the soda fountain for the times Miranda had to bring Daniel to work with her.
Balancing the tray in her hands, Miranda pushed through the doors, no longer feeling as if she were passing through a time warp when she stepped out of the modern kitchen into the 1950s-style dining area. “Rock Around the Clock” blared out of the juke box, not quite drowning out the cheer from the teenage boys who saw her approaching with their burgers.
The commotion snagged Andrew Noble’s attention. He glanced up and their eyes met.
The pictures of him that frequently graced the society page of the Richmond Gazette didn’t do him justice. Black ink might have accurately captured the color of his hair, but it didn’t give a hint that his eyes were a warm, sunlight-in-the-woods shade of hazel. The lazy half smile he directed at the cameras—the one that gave him an air of mystery and drove the gossip columnists crazy—was even more potent in real life.
She could attest to that because at the moment it was directed right at her.
Miranda quickly averted her eyes and broke the connection.
She refused to act like a starstruck groupie. Men like Andrew Noble wielded too much power. And she knew from bitter experience that men could use their position and power to hurt other people. Hal had taught her that lesson and she wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. Not when the wounds he’d inflicted had yet to heal.
At table five, eager hands reached for the tray. They reminded Miranda of Daniel and she smiled. “Patience, boys. The burgers aren’t going to walk off the plates.”
She divvied up the order and went to the soda fountain to refill their drinks. The boys came in every Friday for lunch and Miranda knew them by name. She also knew the grand sum of her tip would be the handful of change they pooled in the center of the table before they left. They meant well, although a dollar tip wasn’t going to have a significant impact on her meager savings account. Over the past few months, Daniel had sprouted like Jack’s beanstalk, outgrowing all his clothes from the previous summer. Which meant a trip to the mall in Richmond was needed.
Miranda tried to suppress the wave of discouragement that threatened to crash over her. She’d find a way. Sandra was always willing to let her pick up another shift if she needed it.
“Andrew!” As if conjured up by Miranda’s thoughts, Sandra’s lilting voice swept through the diner. She made a habit of chatting with each and every customer who came into the Starlight.
Sandra gave Miranda’s arm an affectionate pat as she breezed past and paused to talk to Andrew. “It’s nice to see you again. I figured you’d be long gone by now.”
“I’m afraid Chestnut Grove is stuck with me for a while.” Andrew’s New England accent was clipped but pleasant, and Miranda resisted the urge to look at him again, to see if the smile she heard in his voice was reflected in his eyes. “Rachel’s been feeling a little tired lately so I’m going to keep an eye on things at the Foundation.”
Which meant he wasn’t just passing through town. Miranda felt a strange mixture of relief and dread bubble up inside of her. It was the relief that disturbed her.
“Rachel and the baby are all right, aren’t they?” The concern in Sandra’s voice stilled Miranda’s hands as she waited to hear Andrew’s response. Rachel and her friends had been coming to the Starlight for brunch every Sunday after church for as long as she’d worked at the diner.
“She has an appointment with her doctor this morning, which will give us a better indication about what’s going on.”
“Please tell Rachel I’ll add her and Eli and the baby to my prayer list,” Sandra said.
“She’ll appreciate that, Ms. Lange.”
“Sandra,” she said, correcting him. “This is the Starlight Diner, my dear, not the Ritz.”
“I’ll remember that, Sandra.”
The warmth in his voice somehow made him seem more approachable. Miranda could almost imagine he was just another one of the diner’s regulars.
In Armani.
“Sandra! Order up!” Isaac’s voice boomed above the music and the steady hum of conversation.
“Someone should remind that man I’m the one who owns the place.” Sandra laughed and maneuvered her way back through the maze of tables, greeting people by name on her way to the kitchen.
Miranda double-checked the bill before she presented it to the boys and then turned to slip away.
Andrew Noble was looking right at her. Again.
Miranda couldn’t blame the jolt that coursed through her on Isaac’s high-octane coffee. She’d only had one cup since her shift had started.
“I’d like a refill when you have a minute—” his eyes drifted to her name tag “—Miranda.”
She nodded but it didn’t feel like a normal nod. It felt like she’d suddenly turned into one of those bobble-headed dolls. “I’ll tell Darcy.”
Where was Darcy?
Feeling slightly panicked, Miranda scanned the diner but there was no sign of the girl anywhere.
“I think she’s busy with a cleanup on aisle six,” Andrew said helpfully.
Miranda lowered her gaze and sure enough, Darcy was crouched next to a portable high chair, mopping up a waterfall of fruit punch cascading over the side of the tray.
So much for avoiding Andrew Noble.
Chapter Two
Miranda.
Andrew watched her stop and chat briefly with an elderly gentleman who sat alone at a table. She was smiling again but it wasn’t the distant, polite one she’d bestowed upon him. No. This one was natural. It momentarily transformed her entire face, softening the curve of her lips and bringing a faint blush of color to her cheeks.
He’d noticed her the first time he’d come into the diner a few days ago. And he wasn’t sure why. With her hair secured in a severe twist at the nape of her neck and not a speck of makeup on her face, she obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who tried to court attention.
In fact, it seemed as if she’d gone out of her way to avoid him.
And she was doing it again.
Which—he hated to admit—chipped at his pride a little. He wasn’t used to women running in the opposite direction when they saw him.
For crying out loud. Get over yourself, Noble.
“Excuse me.” She returned with the coffeepot and Andrew pushed his cup closer. He tried to make eye contact but she didn’t cooperate, intent on searching for something in the pocket of her apron rather than looking at him.
“Cream or sugar?” She finally glanced up, long enough for him to glimpse captivating flecks of gold in her autumn-brown eyes.
“Cream. Thank you.” It was all he could come up with. Andrew wanted to bang his head against the table. He’d had dinner with heads of state and vacationed with celebrities, but a slender waitress with soulful eyes had suddenly reduced his vocabulary to that of a three-year-old. A very shy three-year-old.
“M.J.!” Isaac poked his head out of the pass-through between the kitchen and dining room. “Where are you? The cheese on this burger is aging. I’m going to have to raise the price if it sits up here any longer.”
Andrew saw Miranda bite her lip to hold back a laugh and took advantage of the moment to draw her out. “What does the J stand for?”
Wariness instantly replaced the laughter that backlit her eyes. “Jones.”
Andrew got the impression that only the Starlight’s reputation as a friendly diner prevented her from ignoring his question.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—else but she beat him to it. “If you need something, just get Darcy’s attention.”
On cue, the young woman who’d been sidetracked by the toddler’s spill dashed over to his table. Her eyes sparkled and her smile bordered on flirtatious. If her bleach-blond hair hadn’t been pulled back in a ponytail, Andrew was sure she would have given it one of those teasing, off-the-shoulder flips.
“Are you interested in dessert today, Mr. Noble?”
Andrew buried a sigh. That was what he was used to.
“Not today. The boss only gives me an hour for lunch.”
She giggled. “Me, too!” Her tone clearly implied that now they had something in common. Andrew looked for Miranda but she’d disappeared into the kitchen.
Fortunately, Sandra came to his rescue.
“Darcy!” She motioned the waitress over to the counter.
The waitress’s shoulders drooped but she gave Andrew an irrepressible smile. “If you need a warm-up—on your coffee, just holler.”
In spite of his overzealous waitress, Andrew lingered at the diner until the lunch crowd cleared out. Maybe it was because there wasn’t a single thing on the menu preceded by the words light or fat-free. Or because Isaac and Sandra treated him the way they did everyone else who came through the door—with down-home charm and a complete lack of pretense.
Or maybe it’s because you’re hoping to get another glimpse of Miranda Jones.
What was it about her that piqued his interest? She was pretty in an understated way, but something else about her intrigued him.
Because she didn’t write her phone number on your bill?
That brought back an unwelcome memory. A few years ago, one of the newspapers had taken his picture while he’d toured a coast guard cutter. A photographer had caught him off guard, capturing the bored expression on his face. It was a direct contrast to the adoring gaze of the officer’s daughter who’d latched on to his arm like a barnacle on the hull of the ship at the beginning of the tour. The tongue-in-cheek caption accompanying the photo had humorously noted that Andrew seemed to be more interested in the search than the rescue.
Andrew had developed a thick skin over the years when it came to the outrageous claims the gossip columns printed, but that one still bothered him. Especially because he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it.
He did lose interest. Quickly.
Which made him a little afraid that he was that guy. The guy who couldn’t commit. Or maybe it was because he’d never met a woman who was more interested in his life than his lifestyle.
The cell phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He would have ignored it if Rachel’s name wasn’t the one displayed on the tiny screen. They’d grown up together and, because they were only a few years apart in age, they seemed more like siblings than cousins. Which meant he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tease her when he answered the phone.
“This is Andrew Noble, temporary administrator of the Noble Foundation.”
“Not so temporary, I’m afraid.”
Andrew’s smile faded at the discouragement in Rachel’s voice. “What did Dr. Bingham say?”
“I… Here. Can you talk to Eli for a minute?” Rachel’s voice cracked.
“Sure.” Andrew sent up a quick, silent prayer that whatever Rachel and Eli were facing, God would give them the strength they needed to endure it.
“Andrew?” Eli’s voice shook a little, too. “Dr. Bingham diagnosed Rachel with preeclampsia. And he put her on bed rest until the baby comes.”
“Pre what?” Andrew tried to process the word and drew a blank.
“Preeclampsia. He said it’s not uncommon for a first pregnancy and because we caught it early, she and the baby should be fine.”
Should be fine.
“So what can Bingham do to cure it?” He siphoned out the concern he felt and deliberately kept his tone brisk; if there was a diagnosis, there had to be a cure. This was the twenty-first century….
“There is no cure.” Eli’s next words shot his theory all to pieces. “The only thing that takes care of it is delivering the baby, but it’s too soon. That’s why Dr. Bingham is putting Rachel on bed rest.”
Rachel and bed rest.
“I know.” Eli sighed, as if he’d read Andrew’s mind. “We’re on our way home now but Rachel wants to talk to you again.”
“Andrew?” Rachel didn’t sound at all like the take-charge woman he knew and loved. “I know you were coerced into running the Foundation but you had no idea it was going to be for more than a few days. I’m officially letting you off the hook. Mom and Dad can hire someone—”
