and elegant—she reminded him of the women in old photos. Because cameras had been so rare, those photos were usually meticulously planned, with the subjects wearing their Sunday best and standing straight and tall. Though her outfit didn’t seem fancy, he got that same sense of upright planned elegance from her.
There was a hint of New England in her voice, and her clothing looked like heavy fabric—the skirt wool, the blouse some sort of slightly shimmery thick material.
Her golden-brown brows drew together. “Do you work here?”
“Oh, right!” How long had he been standing there staring? Long enough for it to be awkward? Undoubtedly. “I do work here, I’m—”
He took a step, forgetting about the stanchions and velvet rope that blocked off the doorway on the guest’s side. Both stanchions fell over, the rope twisting around his ankle. Franco nearly fell, but managed to keep his balance, hopping on one foot.
“Let me help you.”
The woman crouched just as he bent down, and Franco knocked his head into hers. She yelped and leaned away. Franco reached to help her, stuttering an apology, and instead lost his balance. Arms flailing, he managed to smack her in the shoulder before finally surrendering to gravity.
The blonde fell back onto her bottom and Franco landed on his hands and knees, his face an inch from her breasts.
There was a pregnant pause during which he could only blink, wondering how the hell he’d managed this particular fuckup. Seriously, these things only happened to him.
Then she started to laugh. The blonde dropped back until she was lying on the floor, propped up on her elbows, laughing so hard she was gasping for breath.
Juliette peered at the half-horrified, half-bemused expression on the man’s face and a fresh wave of laughter shook her. Of all the scenarios for how this meeting would go, the current situation had never been even a remote possibility.
Pushing his too-long hair away from his face, the man crawled backwards away from her, turning to sit on his butt and unwind the velvet rope from around his ankle.
He looked like a hobo, or a frat boy after a week-long bender. Baggy jeans with holes in the knees and rips by the pockets hung limply on his hips. He wore a ratty t-shirt that may at one time have had university lettering on it and a neon-green zip-up hoodie with some obnoxious cartoon alligator on the front.
Cut his hair, put him in a suit, and this could be Francisco, but nothing about this man said “Foundation President”. If this wasn’t Francisco, it had to be someone related to him, the resemblance was so strong. Plus, who else but a member of the family would be in the museum on a day it was closed?
When he was finally free, the man rose to his feet and reached out a hand to Juliette. Rather dubiously, she accepted.
As soon as their fingers touched, a shiver of awareness rippled through her. From the way he paused, eyes widening, she wondered if he’d felt it, too. It was chemistry, pure and simple, and she’d only felt something like this one time before, in Paris.
His fingers tightened around hers and she was lifted to her feet with a surprising amount of strength. Juliette looked up into the startlingly light blue eyes of this odd man and said the only thing she could think of. “Hi.”
He cleared his throat. “Hi.”
“I’m Juliette…Juliette Adams.”
“I’m a grade-A klutz.” He tucked his hands into his pockets with a self-deprecating smile. “Francisco Garcia Santiago.”
“You’re Francisco?”
Now he was back to looking bemused. “That’s me.” He grimaced. “We were supposed to be meeting? I was working and… I’ll go find an usher, or Marcia—she’s the director and you’d be better off talking to her anyway—and if you give me a few minutes, I’ll find someone.”
Juliette hid her smile. He was nothing like she’d expected from the information in the file or what she’d found online on the flight down here.
There was a hint of New England in her voice, and her clothing looked like heavy fabric—the skirt wool, the blouse some sort of slightly shimmery thick material.
Her golden-brown brows drew together. “Do you work here?”
“Oh, right!” How long had he been standing there staring? Long enough for it to be awkward? Undoubtedly. “I do work here, I’m—”
He took a step, forgetting about the stanchions and velvet rope that blocked off the doorway on the guest’s side. Both stanchions fell over, the rope twisting around his ankle. Franco nearly fell, but managed to keep his balance, hopping on one foot.
“Let me help you.”
The woman crouched just as he bent down, and Franco knocked his head into hers. She yelped and leaned away. Franco reached to help her, stuttering an apology, and instead lost his balance. Arms flailing, he managed to smack her in the shoulder before finally surrendering to gravity.
The blonde fell back onto her bottom and Franco landed on his hands and knees, his face an inch from her breasts.
There was a pregnant pause during which he could only blink, wondering how the hell he’d managed this particular fuckup. Seriously, these things only happened to him.
Then she started to laugh. The blonde dropped back until she was lying on the floor, propped up on her elbows, laughing so hard she was gasping for breath.
Juliette peered at the half-horrified, half-bemused expression on the man’s face and a fresh wave of laughter shook her. Of all the scenarios for how this meeting would go, the current situation had never been even a remote possibility.
Pushing his too-long hair away from his face, the man crawled backwards away from her, turning to sit on his butt and unwind the velvet rope from around his ankle.
He looked like a hobo, or a frat boy after a week-long bender. Baggy jeans with holes in the knees and rips by the pockets hung limply on his hips. He wore a ratty t-shirt that may at one time have had university lettering on it and a neon-green zip-up hoodie with some obnoxious cartoon alligator on the front.
Cut his hair, put him in a suit, and this could be Francisco, but nothing about this man said “Foundation President”. If this wasn’t Francisco, it had to be someone related to him, the resemblance was so strong. Plus, who else but a member of the family would be in the museum on a day it was closed?
When he was finally free, the man rose to his feet and reached out a hand to Juliette. Rather dubiously, she accepted.
As soon as their fingers touched, a shiver of awareness rippled through her. From the way he paused, eyes widening, she wondered if he’d felt it, too. It was chemistry, pure and simple, and she’d only felt something like this one time before, in Paris.
His fingers tightened around hers and she was lifted to her feet with a surprising amount of strength. Juliette looked up into the startlingly light blue eyes of this odd man and said the only thing she could think of. “Hi.”
He cleared his throat. “Hi.”
“I’m Juliette…Juliette Adams.”
“I’m a grade-A klutz.” He tucked his hands into his pockets with a self-deprecating smile. “Francisco Garcia Santiago.”
“You’re Francisco?”
Now he was back to looking bemused. “That’s me.” He grimaced. “We were supposed to be meeting? I was working and… I’ll go find an usher, or Marcia—she’s the director and you’d be better off talking to her anyway—and if you give me a few minutes, I’ll find someone.”
Juliette hid her smile. He was nothing like she’d expected from the information in the file or what she’d found online on the flight down here.
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