How the Playboy Got Serious

She’d seen his picture in the papers with the girlfriend of the minute, heard other women talk about him with an actual swoon in their voice. As far as she could tell, the youngest McKenna hadn’t followed in the family traditions of meaningful work or charitable organizations. Unless attending every party in the greater Boston area was considered giving back to society.

Stacey avoided men like Riley McKenna like the plague. She’d learned a long time ago that a nice smile and charming words were merely a cover for deeper flaws. Thank God she’d woken up before she married such a man. She’d known Jim for years, and fallen for his charismatic ways over and over again. He’d proposed on a Sunday and left town on a Tuesday—

With a girl he’d met the night before. She’d been fooled for so long, blind to his lies, because she’d wanted to believe in that smile. It had taken her a year to get over the betrayal, and from here on out, Stace would avoid men like that, thank you very much. And that meant avoiding Riley McKenna. And his smile.

Riley nearly always sat in her section and ordered an omelet. Not one of the dozen combinations on the menu, but always something of his own creation, which drove Stace crazy but didn’t seem to bother Frank. She knew, from the lackadaisical way he ate his breakfast and the dozens of phone calls she’d overheard where Riley discussed the latest hot party or vacuous date, that his life was about as serious as confetti.

And on top of that, he seemed to think flirting was on the menu. He teased her, smiled at her, and had asked for her number once. Typical. Thinking every woman was just going to fall at his feet.

To her, perpetual flirt Riley McKenna was just another entitled bachelor in a city teeming with them. A man whom she suspected hadn’t seen a hard day of work in his life, and never appreciated the hard work of others.

“How are you, Frank?” Riley shot them both a grin, then slid onto one of the counter stools.

“Good, good,” Frank said. “And you?”

Riley’s smile faltered. “I’ve had better days.”

“Well, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ve got apple pie on the menu today,” Frank said.

“Not today, thanks. Unless you’re giving out free samples. I’m, ah, currently between funds right now.”

“You?” Frank asked. “What, did you spend too much on a date last night?”

“Something like that.” Riley gave Frank the cocky grin he gave everyone. The grin that said he’d probably spent his night bedding yet another in a long string of blondes. Stace kept on working. And ignoring him.

Stace soaked a cloth in disinfectant cleaner then started wiping down the pale yellow laminate counter. There wasn’t much time before the lunch crowd began to filter in, and lots to do.

“I’ve been out looking for a job,” Riley said.

“I take it the job search hasn’t gone too well?”

Riley’s grin raised a little on one side. “I’m not qualified to do much.”

Frank laughed. Stace restrained herself from issuing a hearty agreement. “I’m sure you’ll find something that works for you,” Frank said.

“Actually…” Riley began.

Something white caught Stace’s eye and she raised her gaze to see what it was. She froze.

“I thought I’d apply here,” Riley said. He lifted the Help Wanted sign in his hands, the same one that had been in the window just moments before, and gave Frank a smile. “I figure I eat here enough, I might as well earn my keep.”

Frank arched a brow. “You want to be a waiter? Here?”

“Yup. Consider this my official application.” Riley slid the sign across the counter.

Frank sent Stace a glance. She mouthed “no,” and waved her hands. Frank wouldn’t dare. He’d said he’d hire someone, but surely he wanted someone with experience, someone who would be a help, not a hindrance. Someone who had a good work ethic. “Frank…”

Frank grinned at her word of caution, then turned back to Riley. “I told Miss Stace here that I’d hire the next person who walked through that door—”

He wouldn’t.

“And since I’m a man of my word—”

He couldn’t.

“You’re hired, Riley McKenna.” Frank reached over and clapped Riley on the shoulder. “Welcome to Morning Glory Diner. Stace here will be glad to show you the ropes.”

He did.

Stace plastered a smile she didn’t feel on her face, and faced her worst nightmare. An irresponsible womanizer who was going to make her life a living hell.

CHAPTER TWO

ONE day, two tops, Riley figured, and his grandmother would call him back to McKenna Media. Riley could have called in a favor with a friend, but that wouldn’t prove he could do anything other than pick up the phone. Sure, waiting tables wasn’t the ideal job, but it would do for now, and prove his point to his grandmother that he wasn’t the irresponsible man she thought him to be. He looked around the bustling diner. He’d wanted a challenge, something a little different.

And this fit the bill to a T.

So Riley donned the black apron imprinted with Morning Glory Diner on the pocket, grabbed an order pad and pen, and crossed to the first set of customers he saw. Before he could even open his mouth, that waitress—Sally, Sandy—rushed over and nearly tackled him. “You can’t take this table.”

“I’m doing it. Watch me take their order, too.” He clicked the pen, and faced the two construction workers whose broad frames nearly filled either side of the booth. Beefy guys in dusty T-shirts and jeans. “What can I get you guys?”

The first one, a nearly bald fiftyish man wearing a bright yellow hat emblazoned with Irving in thick black marker, gave Riley an are-you-an-idiot look. “Menus.”

Riley glanced down and realized he had forgotten that important first step. No problem. He’d get it right the next time. This was waiting tables; it wasn’t rocket science. “Right. Those would be helpful. Unless you just want to make up an order, and I’ll zip it back to Frank in the kitchen.” Riley thumbed toward the kitchen.

Sally/Sandy smacked his arm. “You can’t just make up food. I’ve told you that a hundred times.” Then she turned to the two men. “I apologize. He’s new. Probably won’t last long. Let me get you some menus.” She turned on her sneakered heel, and started to walk away, then thought better of it, and grabbed a fistful of Riley’s shirt and hauled him backward.

Riley’s feet tangled and nearly brought him to the ground. “Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of there before you do any more damage.” She stopped by the hostess station, snatched up two menus, then released Riley. “Stay.” She punctuated the word with a glare. “And I mean it.”

“Woof.”

The glare intensified, then she stalked off, handed the menus to the customers, and returned to Riley’s side. “Hey, all I did was forget menus. You’re acting like I committed a federal crime,” he said.

“Just stay out of my way and we’ll get along just fine.”

“I’m supposed to be making your life easier.”

“Well, you’re not.”

She started to walk away, but he caught up with her and turned her to face him. “I was hired to help you.”

“Well, you’re not.”

He eyed Sally/Sandy. He’d had the pretty blonde as a waitress a dozen times, and though he’d tried his best to get to know her, she’d resisted. Maybe she hated him. Why?

Maybe because he’d never learned her name, something he now regretted. And couldn’t remedy because she didn’t have on a name tag.

She was a beautiful woman with a petite, tight body and a smile that rarely made an appearance. She had wide green eyes, long blond hair that he’d only ever seen tied back, and a quick wit. He’d seen her friendly banter with other customers, and wondered why she’d always been cold with him on the dozens of occasions when he’d eaten here.

He’d asked her out a few times, flirted with her often, and she’d always resisted. Now he needed to get along with her—at least on the job. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care—he’d just avoid her at work or just avoid work, period. But this time, the job mattered, not just because he needed the paycheck, but because he wanted to prove himself, to Gran, to himself, and yes, in an odd way, to this angry waitress. “I admit, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here,” he said. “I’m on a steep learning curve, and that means I might get underfoot a little.”

“A lot,” she corrected.

“Okay, a lot. But I’m here to help, to take some of the burden off your shoulders. If you let me.”

She let out a sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Train me.” He put up his two hands. “I can sit, stay and even beg.”

“Just…stay,” she said now. “You’re no good to me out there. You’ll just make my job harder.”

“Why? You think I can’t write down an order and deliver it to Frank?” He’d seen her do it a hundred times. It didn’t look hard at all.

“Honestly, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because a man with manicured nails and a thousand-dollar haircut is used to giving orders, not taking them.”

Riley winced. Did people really see him that way? A useless playboy with nothing but time on his hands for mischief? And if they did, could he blame them? What had he done with his life up until now? But he was determined to change that, at least here, now, in this diner. “Frank hired me for a reason.”

“Because he promised me he’d hire the next person who walked through that door. It could have been a monkey, and Frank would have given him a job just to prove his point.”

“Which is?”

She let out a gust. “What do you care? You’re only here because you needed something else to amuse you.” The bell over the door jangled, and two more customers stepped inside the diner. She grabbed some menus out of the bin by the hostess station. “I don’t want to be part of your little ‘live like the common folk do’ project.” She put air quotes around the words.

“I’m not—”

But she was already gone, seeming to whoosh across the tiled floor like a tidal wave. In the space of thirty seconds, she had the second couple seated, given them their menus, then returned to the construction workers and taken their orders. She tore a page off the pad, slipped behind the counter and slid it across the stainless steel bar in the kitchen to Frank, calling off something Riley couldn’t understand but sounded like “flop two, over easy” and “give it wings.”

Frank garbled something back, and Sally/Sandy disappeared into the kitchen for a second.

Riley had to admit, he was impressed. He had watched her bustle around the diner, a tiny dynamo in a slim fitting pair of jeans, a hot pink Morning Glory Diner T-shirt, and a bobbing blond ponytail. Every time he’d seen her, she’d been like that, a human bee, flitting from one table to the next. She was fast, and efficient, even if her customer service skills with him were almost nonexistent. Maybe the job was more stressful than it looked. Many times, she’d been the only waitress in here when he stopped in for his morning breakfast, since lunch was almost always at McGill’s Pub with his brother Finn.

Apparently help was hard to come by, because he’d seen that Help Wanted sign often over the years, and seen dozens of waitresses who worked here a few weeks, then moved on. The only constant was Sally/Sandy—he was sure it was something with an S—she had been here every day, and always with the same brisk, no-nonsense approach to the job.

“Hey, buddy, you just going to stand there?”

Riley leaned against the hostess station, flipping through one of the menus. He’d been given the menu before, but never really looked at it. He’d just ordered what he wanted and figured if they didn’t have the ingredients, they would have told him. Now, though, it might be a good idea to get more familiar with it. Knowing Sally/Sandy, there’d be a quiz later.

“Buddy!”

Frank’s offered a hell of a lot of food for such a small place. He’d started coming here in the mornings for breakfast because it was on the way between his subway stop and the offices of McKenna Media. Not to mention the Morning Glory’s coffee was better than any he’d ever had. Riley scanned the pages of breakfast and lunch offerings, noted there was no dinner service. Working half days sounded good to him. He’d have his evenings free.

Except, the thought of spending an evening in yet another bar didn’t thrill him anymore. Maybe it was being another year older. Maybe it was the shock of Gran’s edict. Maybe it was a need for new friends. Whatever the problem was, he knew one thing.

He wanted more…depth to his days.

“Hey, moron!”

Riley jerked his attention toward the construction guys. “You can’t talk to her like that.”

“Her who? We’re talking to you, Tweedledee.” The two guys snickered, then the big one—the one with the hat that said Irving—wiggled his fingers like he was feigning sign language. “Two coffees. You know, the hot stuff in cups?”

“I know what coffee is.”

“Good. Get us some. Now.”

Bunch of Neanderthals ordering people around. Riley leaned against the hostess station and crossed his arms over his chest. Considered dumping the pot in the man’s lap, just to prove the point. “No. Not unless you say please.”

Irving’s face turned red. His fist tightened on the table. Before he could open his mouth, Sally/Sandy came sailing past Riley, two cups in one hand, a hot pot of coffee in the other. The cups landed on the table with a soft clatter, and she filled them to just under the brim without spilling a drop. “Don’t mind him. He’s not really a waiter.”

“What is he?” Irving said.

“I think you already called it. What was the word?” She put a finger to her lips. “Oh yes, moron.”

The two men laughed some more at that. They thanked her, then sat back and started talking about work.

The waitress had an ease with smoothing the customers’ ruffled feathers. He’d noticed that about her before—she’d turned more than one disgruntled frown into a smile. It was what had interested him about her before, and still did now. She was a contradiction. And that intrigued him. A lot.

Sally/Sandy returned, grabbed Riley’s shirt again and tugged him around to the other side of the counter. She was surprisingly strong for such a petite woman.

“Hey, go easy on the manhandling,” Riley said and gently disengaged her hand.

She snorted. “Manhandling. Right.”

He leaned against the counter and eyed her. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you. You annoy me. There’s a difference.” He opened his mouth to ask a question but she put a hand up and stopped him. “Listen, I’d love to talk all day about your faults—”

“I don’t have any faults.” He grinned. “Okay, maybe one.”

“But the lunch crowd will be here any second, and I have work to do.”

“So do I. Are you going to let me do my job?”

“You can’t handle this job.”

“Let me prove it to you.” He took a step closer. Wow, she had pretty eyes. They were the color of emeralds, a deep, dark green that seemed to beckon him in. “Listen, I’ve watched you work, and if you ask me, you work too hard.”

“This job demands hard work.”

“Not if you have readily available help to call on. Something I’ve never seen you do, even when the other woman was working here. I can be useful, you know.”

She let out a long breath, and Riley found himself wondering what was in that breath that she wasn’t saying. What weights sat on her delicate shoulders. “I just feel better doing things myself.”

“Asking for help doesn’t make you weak. Just smart.”

She cocked a brow. “And asking for your help, what does that make me?”

“Brilliant.” He grinned.

She eyed him for a long, long time, while the coffeepot percolated and the hum of conversation filled the air. “All right, I’ll be better about letting you help. But stay out of my way and don’t screw up. Don’t flirt with the customers, and don’t flirt with me. Just keep your head down and work.” She narrowed her gaze at him. “Because when you screw up, it costs me, and I can’t afford to let that happen. Got it?”

“Got it, captain.” He gave her a mock salute.

She scowled. “And don’t call me captain.”

He leaned in, gave her another grin. “What should I call you?”

She held his gaze for a long moment. “Stace would be fine.”

Stace. He liked that name. A short, no-nonsense name seemed to suit her.

“And you can call me Riley,” he said, putting out his hand to shake hers. “I like it a whole lot better than moron.”

* * *

Riley McKenna. The man had clearly been put on this earth—and in this diner—to drive her nuts. Stace had to stay on top of him for the entire lunch wave, which only complicated her job. He couldn’t take an order, couldn’t remember the menus, didn’t know where anything was, and delivered the wrong food to the wrong table five times.

Not to mention he moved like a turtle on Valium.

He’d told her to let him help her, and she now regretted agreeing.

Worst of all, he kept attracting her attention. Tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, the kind of guy that wore a smile like it was cologne. He had on dark wash jeans and a golf shirt, with boat shoes, even though she doubted he had been heading for a boat today. She had to force herself more than once to concentrate on her job, instead of on him.

When the lunch demand eased, Stace slipped into the kitchen. “What were you thinking?” she said.

Frank put a finger to his temples. “Uh, that my salsa dancing days are behind me, but I can still cut a mean foxtrot.”

She laughed. “You are a pain in my butt.”

“I know, and you love me for it.” Frank grinned, then wrapped an arm around Stace’s shoulders.

She leaned into his embrace. Frank’s thick arms and broad chest enveloped her like a teddy bear. She’d known Frank all her life, and even though he’d told her a thousand times that she could get a better job than waitressing for him, she stayed. Not because she loved waitressing so much, but because she loved Frank and loved the Morning Glory. Frank hadn’t just been her father’s best friend, he’d been her father, too, in every way but biology, and she couldn’t imagine not seeing his familiar craggy face every day. Or this diner, which held so many of Stace’s memories in this one small building. “Thanks for keeping me sane, Frank.”

“Anytime.” His voice was gruff. He turned to the sink to wash his hands before he got back to work slicing tomatoes. “How’s the new guy working out?”

“Terrible. He can’t take orders, can’t deliver food to the right tables, can’t pour coffee without scalding someone.”

Frank chuckled. “He’ll learn.”

“Why on earth would you hire him? He has no experience, no customer service skills and no—”

“Job. The guy needed a job.” Frank shrugged. “So I gave him one.”

Stace eyed her boss and friend. “You don’t take pity on people like that. You’re usually harder on the staff than I am. What’s up?”

Frank paused and put the knife down. The blade seemed small next to his beefy palms. “Riley’s been coming in here for a long time.”

“Years.”

“And he’s been a bit of a pain.”

“A bit? The man is an incorrigible flirt. And he’s always asking for some custom thing or another.”

“But at heart, he’s a good guy.”

“How do you know that?”

Frank considered her for a moment. “I just know. I’ll let you figure that out for yourself. You’ll see what I see.”

She snorted. “I doubt it.”

“Just have an open heart,” Frank said. “You’re a sweet girl, Stace, but your heart is closed off. Hell, you have a big old detour sign outside it.”

“I have reasons why,” she said softly.

“Don’t you think it’s past time you opened that road again?”

She glanced out the window, at the busy city that had once seemed to hold such promise, but then one day had stolen her biggest dream, and shook her head. Some days, being at the Morning Glory was so painful, she wasn’t sure she could stay another minute. Other days, she couldn’t imagine ever leaving. “Not now.”

Maybe not ever.

She had her priorities now—a nephew who had been abandoned by his mother—and that meant she didn’t have time or need for a relationship. It wasn’t about not wanting to take that risk again—

Okay, maybe it was.

Either way, she didn’t have time. Or room for a handsome, distracting man.

She pivoted toward the counter, took the two BLTs Frank had finished assembling, and hurried out of the kitchen, before the man who knew her better than anyone in the world could read the truth in her eyes.

That Stace wasn’t so sure she had enough heart left to ever risk it again.

CHAPTER THREE

THIRTY minutes into the lunch rush, things fell apart. Riley had gone into the whole waiter job with a cocky, self-assured attitude, thinking this job, while busy, was relatively straightforward. Not easy, not once there was more than one table to juggle, but at least relatively manageable. More or less.

Then he’d been assigned Table Seven.

Stace had left him to his own devices. She’d hovered over him for the first couple of tables, but then the diner filled with customers, and she’d been too busy to supervise. “If you need something, don’t be stubborn. Ask me,” she’d said.

“I did. You turned me down.”

She let out a gust. “Get your own orders, your own coffees. I’m not your personal servant.”

He had asked her a few times to retrieve things for him. He’d thought she wanted to help him, not throw him into shark-infested waters without so much as a lifejacket. “I didn’t—”

“You did. Treat this like a real job and we’ll get along a whole lot better. And most of all, don’t be an idiot.”

He grinned at her. “You like me. Admit it.”

“I despise you. Face it.” But a smile played on her lips for a split second, before she spun on her heel and headed over to take care of two couples that came in and sat at one of the square tables. A four-top or something, she’d called it.

He watched her go, wondering why he cared that this one woman liked him. Riley McKenna had dated a lot of women. Proposed a few times, then found a way to wriggle out of the impulsive question. Though he entertained the idea from time to time, at his core, he wasn’t much for settling down. He’d seen the American Dream at play in only a handful of the people in his life, and to Riley, that meant the odds that he could have the same were between slim and none.

Boston was an ocean with a whole lot of female fish to choose from, and yet, he found himself trying to make Stace smile. Trying to catch her eye. Trying to impress her with his skills. And failing miserably. He’d watched the diner’s activity rise and fall, along with her irritation level, and wondered if perhaps the low income generated by the inexpensive food had her stressed.

He’d noticed the place struggling over the last few months, caught in the same bad economy as so many other businesses. What the diner needed was a new marketing approach, one that would give it some attention in Boston’s crowded food industry. Riley pondered that as he crossed to Table Seven, another four-top, as Stace called it, which sat in the corner by the window. For whatever reason, Stace had seated this lone man at a table for four.

Before Riley said a word, the man put up a hand. He was tall, thin, with a thick graying beard that made him look like a human grizzly, a fact augmented by the thick dark brown plaid flannel shirt and the cargo pants he wore. For some reason, he looked familiar to Riley, but Riley couldn’t place the face.

“You’re new,” the man said, “so I’m going to do this quick. I don’t want a menu. I don’t want advice, and I sure as hell don’t want your opinion about the special of the day. I want a hot cup of coffee—hot, not lukewarm, not mildly hot, but hot—and a cheeseburger with fries. Don’t skimp on the fries and don’t eat any in the kitchen.”

“I wouldn’t—”

The man ignored Riley and barreled forward. “The cheeseburger better be well done. That means cooked through. Not so much as a hint of pink. Done, dead, and dark. You hear me? I don’t need E. coli as a side dish.”