As she stomped away, Luke heard a soft giggle over the din of patrons. The young woman clearing the table across the aisle continued to laugh behind her hand as she watched his waitress leaving, then looked back at him.

Luke glanced around to make sure he was the one causing her amusement, then smiled at her. “Do you think I should give her a bigger tip for that stunt, or not leave her anything?” he asked.

The young girl tossed her rag in the bucket on her cart of dirty dishes, and walked over. “It took an act of Congress to get her into that uniform tonight,” she said. “Add to that how uncomfortable that leather bustier is, and you’re lucky she only used that pencil to close your mouth, instead of using it to poke out your eyes.” She suddenly held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Fiona.”

Surprised but utterly charmed by the beautiful young woman’s straightforwardness, Luke took her offered hand and gently shook it. “Luke Pascal.”

“Do you live here in Go Back Cove, Luke?” she asked. “Or are you just passing through?”

“I checked into the hotel across the street just a few minutes ago, but I plan to hang around awhile. I’m on sabbatical from work, and I thought I’d spend some time at the coast while I’m visiting Maine.”

“The winter ocean is so desolate and lonely-looking, don’t you think?” she asked. “Sometimes it’s just a bleak gray that softly ebbs and flows, as if it were waiting for its true love to appear, and sometimes it’s churning and angry, mad because that love is taking so long to show up,” she said dreamily, her sad smile and crystalline blue eyes making her face practically glow.

Luke decided she wasn’t charming, she was enchanting. She was beautiful, poised, and well spoken, and she reminded him of his baby half sister, Kate, who had a dramatic streak a mile wide and a romantic imagination to go with it.

“Table three needs clearing,” his waitress told Fiona as she thunked Luke’s bottle of Guinness—and no glass—down on the table without even looking at him. “If you don’t want to get fired your first night, you better keep moving.”

Completely unruffled by the waitress’s stern handling, Fiona reached in her apron pocket and handed her some money. “Here. This is from table three.”

“A buck?” the waitress growled, staring at the single dollar bill in her hand.

Fiona softly snorted. “I saw the man leave you a ten, but when he went to pay the bill, the woman with him stuffed it in her purse and replaced it with a one.”

The waitress turned her back on Luke to whisper to the girl. “I told Dave these stupid costumes would backfire on us. Go on, you better get hustling.” She started walking away with her, still whispering. “You have to stop fraternizing with the customers, Fiona. This is a pub, not a social club.”

“I’m sorry, Camry. I keep forgetting because I like meeting new people.”

Luke didn’t hear any more of their conversation as they moved away, but he did turn to stare after them.

Camry? As in Camry MacKeage? What in hell was a physicist doing working in a bar, dressed like an eighteenth-century wench?

Naw, it couldn’t be her. The probability of stumbling across Dr. MacKeage after being in town less than an hour had to be a million to one.

Not that Go Back Cove was a thriving metropolis or anything. And Fiona could even be the F person who had sent the Christmas card.

What had Grace called it? Magic? Serendipitous coincidence?

Luke picked up his beer and took a long swallow. Naw. He didn’t believe in anything but cold hard facts, and then only if he could back them up with numbers.

Still, if he found out Miss Congeniality had piercing green eyes—assuming he could keep his gaze on her face long enough to find out—then the numbers had just turned a bit more in his favor, hadn’t they?

“Here,” Camry snapped, slapping the dollar bill on the counter in front of Dave. “Put this toward the damages.”

“What damages?” her boss asked, frantically looking around.

“The damages I’m going to cause the next time one of your precious patrons stiffs me. I swear if I’d seen that woman swap my tip, I’d have chased her right out the door and stuffed that stupid dollar bill down her throat.” She tugged on the bustier, which wasn’t only cutting into her boobs but cutting off her breath, and glowered at Dave. “I told you these stupid uniforms would backfire on us. The men are leaving us nice tips, but the women with them are scoffing them up as soon as the men turn their backs. For someone who claims he’s trying to run a family pub, you seem to be moving in exactly the opposite direction. Women patrons do not like being served by wenches with escaping anatomy, and mothers do not like their children staring up their waitress’s skirt.”

Dave sighed. “Doris told me she had a similar problem with the tipping, but she also said that the unaccompanied males are leaving double what they usually do.” He grinned, shoving the dollar bill back across the counter. “So that evens things out.”

“I’ve nearly dropped three trays of food because of these stupid heels,” she muttered, shifting her weight to give her left foot a rest. “It has to be against insurance codes or something for waitresses to serve in heels. If we don’t kill someone with a falling tray, at the very least we could pop a tendon.”

“It’s not like they’re stilettos or anything; they’re only two inches high.”

“Doris is nearly sixty, Dave. She’s limping.”

He sighed again. “I already told her to change back into her sneakers, even if they do look silly.”

“You mean sillier than a grandmother showing enough cleavage to make a saint drool and enough leg to make a thoroughbred envious?”

He held up his hand. “Okay. Okay. The heels were a bad idea, and maybe the skirts are a bit short.” He shrugged. “But hey, the rest of my new theme seems to be a hit. The kids really like the eye patches and swords I’ve been handing out, and I think we burned up a blender tonight making Jolly Roger Zingers.”

He leaned over the counter toward her. “And I saw you prodding Fiona along a couple of times when she got chatty with the customers. Don’t. They like talking to her, and she’s giving the place a homey, friendly feel.”

“Did you also see that guy try to slip a twenty-dollar bill in her apron pocket?”

Dave straightened with a frown. “I thought she handled that quite well. Unlike your little stunt last month, she didn’t accidentally dump his drink over his head. She merely waggled her finger at him and scampered away.”

“My guy wasn’t trying to stuff money in my apron.”

Dave sighed louder and harder. “Tell me again why you work here?”

Camry tapped her chin with her finger. “Gee, let me think. Maybe because on Columbus Day they rolled up the sidewalks and closed the town when the tourists left?”

“Portland’s just down the road.”

“I prefer the peace and quiet of this place.”

“That’s right, Dr. MacKeage, I forgot you came here from Florida.” He snorted. “The problem with you brainy types is that you think we working stiffs don’t know how to run our own businesses.”

Camry gaped at him. “I am not an academic snob. The only reason you even know I hold a doctorate is because your stupid employment application asked me to list all my schooling.”

“To which you had to add an entire page for all your degrees.” He suddenly stared over her shoulder for several seconds, then glanced down the bar. “Betty,” he said, motioning the bartender closer. “No more drinks for booth nine, okay? All four of those guys have had enough. And if they give Wanda any trouble, you have her come see me and I’ll handle them.”

“Okay, Dave,” Betty said, returning to the blender she’d left running.

“And your point is?” Cam asked Dave the minute she had his attention again.