Bybiteshe literally meant a bite. It was about all she would eat.
Unless she took a bite out of Britt, which was what J. T. was worried about.
And byeveryoneshe apparently meant the world. Rebecca assumed the entire world was documenting and interpreting her every move.
She wasn’t far wrong.
“Worst. Idea. Ever,” J. T. said unequivocally. “And I’ve already eaten. Eat something here before you head out, Becks. There’s celery in the bin.”
Franco yawned and stretched. “I’m pretty hungry. While you two are thinking about it, I think I’ll just go down to the Misty Cat and get my own table.”
He stood and grabbed his keys and was out the door in a flash.
Bastard.
“You should open with ‘I have a Porsche,’ Franco,” J. T. shouted after him. “She’ll love that.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He froze indecisively, staring after Franco.
There was no hope for it. He swiped at the bowl where he usually tossed his truck keys.
It was empty.
“Where the hell are my keys?”
“Right here.” Rebecca dangled them. “Let’s go get some brunch, J. T.”
He nearly groaned. Rebecca was a liability. He could hardly abandon the highest paid actress in the world, both because of the script, and because, like it or not, he had manners.
But J. T.’s reflex was to be wherever Britt was.
He snatched the keys from Rebecca and bolted out the door, and she followed him.
Franco walked into the Misty Cat Cavern grinning as though walking into the Misty Cat Cavern was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And paused in the doorway, as if all the bemused diners who paused to stare at him were red-carpet photographers.
He’d never been subtle or shy about making an entrance.
Sherrie froze where she was hovering near the grill.
And then a smile split her face and she all but skated over to him across the clean linoleum floor.
She blasted him with her usual warmth and welcome. “Oh, mygoodness, you’re Mr.Franco Francone! You must be in town to visit Mr.McCord! Gosh, I hope you’ll sign a menu for my little granddaughter. She’ssucha fan of your show. As am I, hon.”
“I am, indeed, Franco Francone. McCord speaks very highly of this establishment. And to whom do I have theextremepleasure of speaking?”
“Well, I’m Sherrie Harwood, and the pleasure is all mine, Mr.Francone. My husband, Glenn, and I own this fine establishment. If you come with me we’ll give you our best table.” She winked, given that the tables were all Formica, approximately thirty years old, and came in two sizes. It was pretty much a table democracy at the Misty Cat.
She got him settled in and waylaid Britt, who was darting across the room with two plates in her arms.
“You got yourself another famous handsome customer, Britt. Friend of J. T.’s.”
Britt paused and looked in the direction of Sherrie’s chin nudge.
Boy, Sherrie wasn’t kidding about the handsome part. Francone was in jeans and a white button-down shirt. He was unequivocally gorgeous, with waving black hair, deep-set melting-chocolate eyes, and cheekbones so artfully chiseled they wouldn’t look out of place in the Louvre.
She wondered if Rebecca had collected one ofhisshirts.
“You don’t have to go wait on him, Britt,” Sherrie whispered. “If it’s too... you know...”
