Fortune's Just Desserts Read Free Page B

was mingling with Red’s patrons, he always had a wide, sexier-than-sin smile on his lips.
    Despite the hectic pace during business hours, she’d managed to observe him with the customers—in particular the female patrons—and Marcos was nothing if not charismatic. He even smiled at the kitchen help and some of the other staff.
    Smiled, she thought, at everyone but her.
    Boss or not, she was determined to find out what it was about her that seemed to coax those dour looks from him.
    Wendy wasn’t used to a man deliberately scowling at her instead of going out of his way to curry her favor and approval. All of her life she’d been the recipient of admiring looks, wide grins, broad winks and a great deal of fawning.
    A lot more fawning than she actually cared for. But that was predominantly because she was her father’s daughter and the fawning person usually thought that he could flatter her into getting an audience with the famous Fortune.
    As if, she thought with a toss of her head that managed to loosen her bound-up hair a little.
    Wendy paused and sighed. That was the part she didn’t care for. She liked having her hair loose, flowing. But those were the rules. Customers, Marcos had told her when he’d handed her a barrette, didn’t like finding hair in their meals.
    When she’d asked, “Even if it’s mine?” it had been meant as a joke, but Marcos had snapped no at her, and the look in his eyes told her that he thought she was genuinely a few cards short of an actual deck.
    Obviously when God had given the man an extra dose of sexiness, He had subtracted any and all fragments of humor. From their interactions, she’d come away with the feeling that Marcos Mendoza was born without a funny bone.
    Too bad, because, aside from that, the man waspractically perfect in every way. But he fell short of the mark to ever have a serious chance at entering her daydreams.
    A man without a sense of humor was like a day without sunshine. Not really too pleasant.
    Reaching her station, Wendy smiled warmly at the people the hostess had just seated. After working here for a little more than a month, she was beginning to recognize familiar faces and learn their names.
    This particular table seated six and each chair was filled by a virile, rugged-looking wrangler who appeared as if he’d ridden up to the restaurant’s doors on a horse rather the extra-wide truck that was now parked in the front lot.
    Her brown eyes traveled from one member of the group to another, silently greeting them even before she said, “Hi, boys, what’ll it be?”
    The tallest of the men held his unopened menu before him, his eyes slowly drifting over the length of her torso. “Dunno about my friends, but I’m suddenly in the mood for a little Georgia peach,” he told her.
    Word must have gotten around that she was from Atlanta. Either that, she thought, or her accent gave her away. In any case, this certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been hit on, although it was the first time she’d been hit on at Red.
    Unfazed, Wendy’s eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Sorry, but that’s not on the menu.”
    â€œWasn’t thinking of having it here,” the wrangleranswered. His grin grew wider. “What are you doing later, after you get off?”
    â€œNot being with you,” Wendy answered, her smile just as wide, her tone just as friendly as it had been before. But there was no mistaking the fact that she had no intention of getting together with the insistent patron.
    â€œLooks like the little lady’s got your number, Dave,” one of his friends hooted, tickled. “She’s a feisty one, this one.” There was admiration in the other man’s voice.
    Dave, apparently, wasn’t quite ready to give up just yet.
    â€œYou sure?” he asked, catching Wendy by the wrist to draw her attention away from the others at the table