Fortune's Cinderella. Karen TempletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
get their attention on the big-screen TV.
Two more handsome young men ferried inordinate amounts of luggage into the building, piling it near the exit to the airfield. One lobbed a quick smile in Christina’s direction before heading back outside. The highlight of her day, she thought morosely, only to mentally smack herself.
Overhead, thunder complained as the skies poured even more rain across the glass wall, hard enough to nearly obliterate the small single-engine plane on the other side—
“Excuse me? Could I get an espresso, please?”
With a start, Christina jerked around, running into a pair of bronze-ish eyes. Ah. The One in the Leather Jacket. The pissed One in the Leather Jacket, apparently.
Christina shrugged, apologetic. Tried unsuccessfully to ignore the mouth. And the cheekbones. Holy moly. Not only did this family have, if the scuttlebutt was to be believed, more money than God, they had a gene pool to die for. “Sorry, all I’ve got is regular. Or decaf.”
“You’re not serious?”
Okay, the man was easily the best-looking guy she’d ever seen in her entire life—how she wasn’t blinded, she did not know—but still. A pain in the butt is a pain in the butt.
This ain’t Starbucks, Bucko, she wanted to say. But she didn’t. Partly because she didn’t have the energy, and partly because, along with his iPad, the guy was toting a silly little pink bakery box. Which for some reason tickled her no end.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “which isn’t much, I’ll grant you, I’ve been after my boss to get an espresso machine ever since I started working here. He ignores me. So.” Overhead, hail pummeled the steel roof, the sudden din making her jump. Outside it looked like God had dumped out His snowcone machine. When she turned back to Leather Jacket Dude, he was glaring at the deluge.
“It’ll let up,” she shouted over the barrage. Although why she felt compelled to reassure him, she had no idea. He turned the glare on her, and she sighed. “Regular or decaf?”
The man grimaced. And he hadn’t even tasted the coffee yet. Forget an espresso maker, Christina couldn’t even get Jimmy to spring for a decent Colombian brew.
“Regular,” he grumbled. “Black.”
Christina opened her mouth, then shut it again, thinking Just give the man his coffee, honey chile. She poured it into a foam cup, smooshed a plastic lid on top, then set it on the black granite counter, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans to keep from messing up her apron, which was a bear to get clean. “That’ll be a dollar fifty. The flight attendant said you’re all family?”
He barely glanced at her before reaching inside his jacket for his wallet, the slight move releasing a very pleasant scent. Probably not something he picked up at Walgreens. “Yes. We were here for my sister’s wedding.”
“Oh, that’s nice. From Atlanta, right?”
He frowned slightly, like he couldn’t figure out why on earth she was talking to him. Well, tough. Talking to people was what kept her from going insane, giving in to the loneliness that sometimes felt like it would suffocate her. Gumbo was a great dog, but his conversational skills were limited. “Yes,” he said, looking up when the hail stopped, as abruptly as it had started.
“See?” Christina said. “Told ya. You watch, the sun’ll be out before you know it.”
For a moment their gazes touched, his a bit disconcerted as his cell phone rang. Almost like he heard the distinct twannnnng in Christina’s midsection. Uh-oh. Distractedly he hunched it to his shoulder, mumbling, “Scott Fortune,” as he handed her a twenty, then started to walk away.
Must be nice, she thought as the twanging died out, to be able to treat twenties like quarters. “Wait! You forgot your change—”
A deafening, blood-chilling roar drowned out her words, raised the hairs on her arms. Scott turned, the startled look in his eyes tangling with hers a split second before the glass wall exploded and Hell rained down around them.
Chapter Two
The woman’s scream pierced his brain, rudely dragging Scott back to consciousness. His heart pounding hard enough to hurt, he lay motionless, his eyes still closed, his ears still ringing, trying to regain his bearings … until she screamed again.
“For the love of all that’s holy, stop that.”
After a beat or two of blessed silence, he heard, “I thought you were dead.”
That raspy voice … ah. The waitress. “No. At least I don’t think so—” The last word ended in a cough; yanking his jacket collar over his mouth and nose, Scott opened his eyes. Panic cramped his chest: through the occasional shaft of dust-clogged light eking through the rubble, he realized he’d come damn close to being buried alive. He fumbled for his phone, only to realize it had apparently fallen out of his pocket. Damn.
“Um, are you okay?” she said. “I mean, c-can you help me? I’m stuck.”
Adrenaline spiked through him. “Hold on …” Debris clattered as Scott tried to heave himself upright, only getting as far as his knees when his right temple gave him hell. Flinching, he quickly brushed his fingers over the spot—no blood, thank God. “Where are you?”
“Close enough to think you were dead, obviously. I can see you, though. Kinda. Keep going, you’ll find me.”
“How long was I out?” he asked as he cautiously crept toward her.
“Not long. Couple minutes, maybe? You remember the tornado hitting?” she asked when he reached her, barely six feet away. Propped on her elbows, she lay back against what he assumed was the counter base, her legs imprisoned beneath a pile of rubble. Even through the haze he could see the grim set to her mouth.
“Yes,” Scott said quietly, knowing he’d never forget the wind’s brutal, relentless shrieking, like a million furious demons. “Guess I blacked out right after, though. Does it hurt?”
“I don’t think … no. Not really. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I can’t move, but at least I don’t feel like I’m being crushed. But something—” Grimacing, she strained to pull herself free; Scott’s hand shot to her shoulder, stopping her.
“Stay still. Do you hear me?”
Not looking at him, she nodded. “Just … hurry.”
“On it,” he muttered as he snatched away the lighter stuff—wood lathing, plaster chunks, shards of glass. But despite having lifted weights for years, Scott was no match for the granite slab pinning her to the ground. He tried another angle, his back and shoulder muscles burning like a sonuvabitch, but no dice. Sitting back beside her, he punched out an exasperated breath. “Why the hell did they use granite for the counter?”
Her head fell back, her eyes shut. “And yet,” she said through faint, rapid breaths, “no espresso maker. Go figure.”
More dust sifted down beside them, the sound like scurrying ants. “Call me crazy, but this seems like an odd time to crack jokes.”
“It’s that or s-scream again. D-deal.”
He groped for her hand in the dim light, found it; her fingers tightened around his, kicking his heart into overdrive. “Take some deep breaths before you hyperventilate. There, that’s better,” he said when she complied, then gently squeezed her hand. “You scared?”
A snort preceded, “Yeah, fear is kinda my go-to emotion when I think I might die.”
“We’re not going to die.”
“Oh? Last I heard, death couldn’t be bought off.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her