Rossi’s was packed that Friday night and Kira Bancroft’s over-time shift was a non-stop killer.

She raced back and forth from her assigned tables to the kitchen, then to the drink serving area, ringing up tickets at the cash register, and finally to the kitchen to pick up dinner orders. Just to start all over again. All with a smile and—hopefully—food that was still hot. At least the plates were. She was nursing a burned finger but refrained from sticking it in her mouth to cool off.

Kira re-tied her white linen apron tighter and threw a conspiratorial eye-roll at Jan, the head server at Rossi’s. “Is the president in town or something? My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling.”

“Not yet,” Jan quipped. “But we have an envoy of politicians and pundits with reservations coming in an hour that we have to be nice to.”

“Ha! You’re telling me very subtly that I won’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow because I will have pulled every single muscle in my body.”

“You won’t be able to count those sore muscles, girlfriend. Not even crutches will help you. But I’ve got a wheelchair for rent.”

Kira sucked in a breath, the words hitting her like a hockey stick to the chest. Water splashed over the rim of the glasses she was filling. Her co-worker was only joking, of course.

She knew Jan wasn’t trying to remind her of her own father whose trucking accident in his 18-wheeler had put him in a wheelchair two years ago, but she had to take deep breaths to keep the sudden emotion from spilling over. She blinked hard. It was merely fatigue—and worry for next month’s rent—as usual. She’d been helping her parents make their mortgage payments the past few months and now she was stretched tight for her own rent. Maybe her mother was right and she should move back home, but the thought of it was worse than getting a tooth pulled.

Jan’s shoulders slumped, her face stricken. “Oh, Kira, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—your father—that was really stupid.”

Kira put a smile on her face. “Hey, I know we’re joking around. Slip of the tongue.”

“It was thoughtless, please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Kira said, heading to Table #3 with a tray of sodas and water. “See you later when we bump into each other at the counter grabbing our tickets.”

Jan blew her bangs off her perspiring forehead. “I just hope we get to eat leftovers. I’m starving.”

At the mention of food, Kira’s stomach growled, too. “I think I’ve burned five hundred calories in the last hour. No chance of leftovers, I fear. This place is so packed we may have to start turning people away.”

“Mr. Rossi would never let that happen.”

“Of course not, he’s the epitome of perfection.”

“And he’s staring at us right now,” Jan warned in a low voice.

Kira pressed her lips together and pretended that she and Jan weren’t chatting. Quickly, she scooped up a handful of snowy white cloth napkins rolled with silverware and began to lay out one of her tables that had just been cleared and sanitized.

“Catch you later,” she murmured while Jan went the opposite direction with two water pitchers clinking with ice.

None of the customers would realize they’d been surreptitiously talking, but Mr. Rossi would. The man seemed to know everything. Kira swore he sometimes knew what she was thinking.

The restaurant owner wasn’t unkind. He just ran a tip-top establishment and liked perfection on the tables, grace and manners from his servers, and the best food in Denver from his chefs.

About eight-thirty there was a slight slowing down. A family birthday party from her largest table finally emptied. Most of her other tables were perusing the menu for dessert, and another young couple was sloooowly getting their credit card out to pay while making eyes at each other.

Her smallest table was a lone, older man who came in like clockwork on Friday nights. Mr. Gene Bickels had been dining at Rossi’s since it opened forty years ago. The gentleman had to be going on eighty years old. Widowed for the last decade, Jan had once informed her. All the staff treated him with deference and loving attention.

Kira enjoyed serving him, not only for his sweet personality, but the gentleman always left a generous tip and seemed to prefer sitting at one of Kira’s tables. The tips were so very welcome and helped keep her afloat in rent and groceries.

“May I get you anything else, Mr. Bickels,” Kira said now. “More coffee, tea?”

“A shot of whiskey,” the older man said with a sly grin.

“The bar is closed, I’m afraid,” Kira said, teasing since they both knew Rossi’s served wine and beer only.

“I’ll just have to find a woman to accompany me to a local bar,” he shot back. Which was also a joke since Mr. Bickels still mourned his wife and was never seen with another woman.

Still, people often had secret lives, Kira mused. Except her. Kira was positive she was the most boring person on the planet. At least in Colorado.

“You wouldn’t care for a nightcap, Miss Bancroft?” he said now with a wink, slipping a gold American Express card on the table for Kira to finish off his bill.

“I’m afraid I have the breakfast shift in the morning.”

This was their usual conversation, too.

“I’ll just have to go home and watch the boring news,” Mr. Bickels said with a sigh. “Or read a book. Does anyone still crack open books these days?”

“I do every night. Although, I usually fall asleep over my Kindle. But I know perfectly well that you have a big group of poker friends over every Friday night.”

“True. And I always win.” He grinned while Kira cleared his empty cheesecake plate and went off to slide his credit card, bringing back the slip for Mr. Bickels to autograph.

Just as she returned, Jan hissed in her ear, “Looks like you’ve got incoming, girl.”

Kira’s chin jerked up. Sure enough, Sally, the hostess was seating a group of young men at her large, empty table. So much for this Friday night quieting down. She sighed. Her calf muscles were really starting to ache. If only she could afford a massage. That sounded heavenly. A massage and a hot bath. Unfortunately, those luxuries would have to wait until the afterlife.

She bid Mr. Bickels goodbye and greeted her new group as they shrugged off well-made leather jackets, black overcoats, and cashmere scarves, hanging them on the back of their chairs.

All five of them were talking, rearranging themselves, glancing around the restaurant, oblivious to her as she placed menus at each chair. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, straightening a couple of napkins. “Welcome to Rossi’s.”

When she glanced up, one of the young men was staring at her. Pointedly staring. As if he’d seen a ghost. She glanced behind her, but no ghosts were lurking—as far as Kira could tell.

“Can I—I…ahem,” Kira cleared her throat and tried again. “Um, I mean—what can I get you to drink tonight? I understand from the maître ‘d that the white wine is terrific. We also have beer on tap.”

She lifted a hand, brushing at her face, wondering if she had whipped cream on her nose. Without meaning to, she glanced down at herself, hoping there wasn’t a mustard stain on her blouse or uniform apron.

Kira tried to cover up her confusion, fumbling with her pencil and order pad. “Tonight’s special is the slow roasted beef and Yorkshire pudding. Our chef’s English cousin is in town and it’s to die for. Served with roasted potatoes, glazed carrots, and lots of homemade gravy. We also have a wonderful baked salmon with asparagus, an herbed baked chicken with broccoli and au gratin potatoes.”

She stopped relaying the specials because she realized that they weren’t paying much attention, still shifting around in their seats, talking to each other as if they were long lost friends who hadn’t seen each other in ages.

Then Kira noted that they were actually mixing a smattering of personal with business. Phrases like “factoring cost” and “Hong Kong markets” and “Rate of Return” interspersed their dialogue.

“Drinks first, sirs?”

“Water all around,” one of them said, a broad-shouldered guy with dark hair. Looked like an ex-football player.

“And we’ll take your best beer on tap,” another added, eyes glued to the menus. She could have been three hundred pounds for all they cared. Kira had never been one to attract wolf whistles, but these guys must be starving.

“Coming up in two minutes. I’ll take your orders when I return.”

She headed straight for the drink serving area, feeling eyes on her.

Glancing back, she noticed it was the same young man, surreptitiously giving her glances. What was up with him? It was odd and Kira felt a little paranoid.

Careful to keep her head down, she filled tall glasses with ice water and a lemon wedge, checking him out in return. Was she supposed to know him? He didn’t look one iota familiar to her.

Before she forgot, she stuck Mr. Bickels’ bill into the register and wiped down the spray of water she’d left near the bar sink.

Placing the ice water on a tray to carry over, she could slyly give him a once over without appearing to gape.

He was actually extremely good-looking now that she was over her stuttering and had confirmed she was wearing a clean apron. Clean-shaven, straight white teeth, and startling blue eyes. His hair was a rich chestnut color, curling around his ears, and brushing in wisps along his coat collar. Tousled in a casually messy way that was devastatingly attractive, and sending a peculiar tingle up Kira’s neck.

Something about the group was slightly familiar in a long-ago way, but she knew she had no idea who they were. She’d never seen them before. Perhaps they were just reminiscent of the many parties of men who came in on the weekends to eat and then go gaming or off to a late-night bar to try out pick-up lines on women.

This group seemed a bit more purposeful, but Kira couldn’t quite pin it down.

Aha, she had it. Their earlier conversation when they sat down was a giveaway. They were in business together—or worked in the same area of business. Perhaps she had served them at some point in the past, but her memory was faulty.

“Okay, what can I get you?” she said, clicking her pen. “Any of the specials sound good?”

The group of men suddenly turned silent at her appearance... Five pairs of eyes fixed on hers and a sudden shiver ran down her legs. Their expressions were disconcerting. It was as though they had just been gossiping about her and instantly snapped their mouths shut when she walked up.

“Is something the matter?” she asked. “Did you order beer and I forgot?”

The tallest of the group with the broad shoulder—the football linebacker guy—gave her a crooked smile. “You don’t recognize us, do you?”

Kira’s gaze went from face to face. The blond with the sunburned nose. The dark-haired man pulling his tie loose and stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. “I have to admit, you all look slightly familiar, but not recently. I must have served you on a previous occasion, correct?”

“I think I’d remember that,” the man seated at the far end with a dark, almost brooding face said.

He reminded her of a character from Wuthering Heights, and Kira had a vision of a silhouette of a man standing on the Yorkshire moors, the wind blowing at his hair. Maybe it was just that visiting English chef in the kitchen with the lovely British accent causing her imagination to run away.

“You all must be from out of town.” It occurred to Kira that they had the air of people who’d just flown in. They were wearing business casual. Two of them had briefcases tucked under their chairs.

“Nope. Born and bred right here in Denver,” the blond said cheerfully.

“Okay, spill it,” Kira said, and then cocked her chin at them with a grin. “Or order your food. You pick.” Goodness, was she flirting now? She hadn’t intended to.

The man who had stared at her from the moment she’d seated the group didn’t speak, although she wished he would. What was up with him?

The line-backer said, “I’m Troy Thurlow. You attended Southfield High, didn’t you?”

Kira felt a jolt in the center of her chest. “How did you know?”

“I think we all went to school together. Did you graduate about ten years ago?”

She nodded, heat rising up her face. “Yeah, ten years last spring.”

“I think we had Biology together.”

A flash of memory flooded over Kira. “Oh my gosh, that’s right. I’m sorry I didn’t place you right away. You all look—so different. So grown up.”

“Ten years does that to you.”

Kira let out a small laugh. “I guess it does.” These men had a worldly air about them. Well, not in a negative way. Successful, confident, and sure of themselves.

She hadn’t known many boys in high school like that. Those long-ago teenage boys had been nerds, band geeks, drama weirdos with their own specific lingo, or sports stars who strutted about like they owned the school.”

“It’s a good thing we grow up, huh?” Kira pressed down so hard on her order pad she tore the sheet. Ten years after high school and she was still a waitress. She didn’t even get to finish her graduate degree having to work so she could get caught up on her student loans that had been getting out of hand. Her dream of a music career had vanished the day her father was struck by the semi-truck.

Dad had been changing a tire on his own 18-wheeler one snowy night in the middle of Nebraska, and the impact had shattered his back and legs. Ten surgeries later, what little hope she and her mother had held on to disappeared. Her father was paralyzed forever.

Now Kira’s beloved piano sat at her parent’s home, mostly unused now. Every Sunday after church she had dinner with her parents and dusted the black upright, like a ritual

Her mother would serve her husband his dessert and coffee in the recliner and beg her to play Chopin or Rachmaninoff.

Kira indulged them—and herself—but her fingers were growing stiffer with every passing month she hadn’t studied with Vivian Ashcroft, the university professor who had taught her until she was forced to leave.

Sometimes she had to hide the tears of longing and remorse. Getting on her knees to polish the piano’s legs with lemon oil so her mother wouldn’t see the pain she carried and feel even more guilt than she already did.

There was too much guilt to go around at her folk’s home.

And now here was Troy Thurlow smiling at her, not stuck up or obnoxious at all, although she couldn’t really remember him from high school. They moved in completely different circles at Southfield.

“I’ll have the roast beef special,” he said, waking Kira from her state of reverie.

Kira scribbled it down, trying to focus despite five pairs of male eyes gazing at her. Her senses had gone on high alert from their overwhelming deep voices and spicy aftershave fragrance. Good grief, why was she so discombobulated by them?

She tried to laugh off her nerves. “Guys I’m sorry I don’t remember you.” She turned to the next man. “Please remind me of your names when you order and then maybe I won’t feel like an idiot.”

“Adam Caldwell. I’ll take a sirloin, medium rare, baked potato and veggies. And,” he added wryly. “I actually graduated a year after you. No classes together, so no guilt.”

Kira let out her breath. “Thank you for making me feel better about my latent memory.” She moved clockwise around the table, stepping closer so she could hear better over another noisy party coming up behind her to be seated in Jan’s section. “Yes, sir, what would you like to order?”

“Brandon Haltom. Baked chicken, French fries, lots of ketchup.” He handed over his menu and sipped his water. The other guys groaned. “You should graduate to fry sauce at least. You’re not in middle school anymore.”

“Hey, I like my ketchup. It’s Heinz, right?” he asked Kira, a cute boyish plea in his blue eyes.

“Always Heinz,” Kira assured him. “Next?” she asked, studiously avoiding the man that continued to gaze at her two seats away. He glanced away every now and then, but then his gaze would slide back towards her as though he couldn’t stop himself.

“Ryan Argyle. Give me your best burger, please. With all the trimmings. And mustard. Onion rings on the side.”

“Good All-American choice,” Kira murmured.

“A burger?” Troy said, giving Ryan a hard time. “When you could have prime rib at Rossi’s?”

“Hey, I’ve been eating beans and tortillas in Peru for the last two weeks. I want a juicy, sloppy hamburger.”

“Peru . . . that sounds exciting.” Kira said. She’d never traveled out of the country and hearing about exotic places just made her long for a different life than the one she’d been dealt. Which only caused her to feel guilty because it certainly wasn’t anyone’s fault that her parents were in dire straits medically and financially.

“Business,” Ryan said with a shrug. “Not that exciting. But the women were pretty.”

That got a laugh from a couple of the guys while Kira pretended not to hear the last part of his comment. “Okay, last one,” she said brightly—her curiosity rising. Who was this last, final guy with the mesmerizing eyes?

“Caleb Davenport,” he said, his voice low with a smooth tenor of seductive sweetness.

Caleb Davenport. Their eyes locked, and Kira experienced a definite shiver rocking her from her head all the way down to her toes inside her sensible black work shoes.

She was supposed to know him from high school, just like the other men, but did she? Nothing about him looked familiar.

“Right. Caleb,” she said, keeping her face down to avoid those dreamy, intense eyes.

He sat up straighter, leaning forward, his arms resting along the edge of the table. “So you remember me?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Guess I was trying to pretend.”

“Don’t pretend,” Caleb said. “You don’t need to, Kira.”

He spoke her name tentatively, but eagerly, as if he’d been waiting years to say her name out loud. The peculiar reaction she was having toward him confused Kira even more.

“What can I get you Mr. Davenport?” she asked softly.

“Just Caleb.”

“But you’re the boss of this group, aren’t you?”

His eyebrows rose upward. “How can you tell?”

She shrugged, and then laughed self-deprecatingly. “I don’t know, I’m a good guesser.”

Troy laughed. “Good one, Kira. You must be giving off vibes, Caleb.”

Giving off vibes, that was for sure. Kira started to close her notepad and walk away. Flushing, she halted, nearer to Caleb’s chair now. She could smell the faint scent of a clean spring day, as if he’d just taken a shower. “I’m sorry; I forgot to take your order, Mr.—Caleb.”

He spread the menu open while Kira studiously focused on her order pad, ignoring this guy’s nice hands.

“I’ll have the roast beef special, too. Even though I’ve been to England several times for business, I’ve never had Yorkshire pudding. Is it good? Does it come in chocolate?”

She was amused. “I’m afraid not. It’s not actually pudding. A thick bread baked in the oven in oil. You put gravy on it. It’s terrific.”

“Can’t wait.” He handed her his menu, and their fingers touched. She swore it took him longer than necessary to release the menu into her custody, even though it was a fraction of a second.

“So, Caleb Davenport,” she said, gathering up her courage to ask. “Did you and I ever have classes together?”

“Yep,” he said softly. “English. And Algebra one semester when we were freshmen. Maybe American History?” he added.

“That’s ancient history—pun intended.”

He smiled, his teeth so white and straight Kira was sure he’d had an excellent orthodontist. Or good genes.

Ryan spoke up, raising an empty glass, which Kira filled. “We were just talking about our ten-year high school reunion. Did you get an invitation?” he asked. “We’ve been debating about whether to grace everyone with our presence,” he added with a wink.

“Um, no, I didn’t actually. Maybe it’s in the pile of mail at my folk’s house. I’ll look.”

“You don’t need the official invitation,” Brandon said. “We’re all inviting you right now. Can’t leave out a local classmate. The more, the merrier.”

A high school reunion wasn’t exactly high on Kira’s priority list. She’d rather be back at school in New York, frankly. “When is it?”

“Hotel Monaco. Next Friday at seven,” Ryan answered.

“Dinner, a live band, a slide show with old pictures so we can all laugh at each other,” Troy added. “Hey, we’ll even take turns giving you a spin around the dance floor.”

“Won’t you be bringing your wives—or girlfriends?” Kira teased.

The guys all shook their heads, lifting their left hands up in the air in a mocking fashion. No wedding rings, although that didn’t always mean anything.

“Will you come?” Caleb said, reaching out a hand as though he was going to touch her arm, but quickly dropping his fingers back to the table instead.

“Sure, why not?” Kira answered flippantly. It was easier to say yes than explain her reasons for staying home. “Okay, gotta get your orders in before the kitchen closes.”

She strode across the carpeted floor toward the kitchen, wondering if she had anything besides waitress uniforms in the back of her closet. No dress was certainly a deal-breaker when it came to a fancy evening out.