Karen Whittenburg - The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal

Ilsa’s smile was soft with contradiction. “I’m very taken with this restaurant,” she said, neatly shifting the subject. “The atmosphere is always so…energizing. Don’t you find it’s impossible not to enjoy your meal while surrounded by such joie de vivre?”

Adam had thought it not only possible, but a foregone conclusion. “You’ve been here before?”

“Several times, although The Torrid Tomato is a fairly recent discovery for me. The first I knew of the restaurant was three months ago, back in February.” She looked around, obviously not a bit intimidated by the noise. “But since then, I’ve developed a rather alarming craving for the artichoke dip. I’ve been too embarrassed to inquire, but do you suppose they’d sell it by the quart with the reservation of not disclosing the purchaser’s name?”

“I’ll ask our waiter, if he ever shows up.”

Ilsa raised an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge his slight show of impatience. “Archer tells me you were barely twenty-five when you became the CEO of Braddock Industries. You must have been the youngest chief executive on record.”

“Eight years ago, I was touted as something of a Boy Wonder, but that had more to do with our PR department than any real truth. With all the new technology companies that abound these days and the number of whiz-kids who start their own companies while in college or even high school, I’m practically a dinosaur.”

Ilsa laughed, a pleasant sound that was nearly swallowed up by the din surrounding them. “I can’t imagine there are many men of any age who could boast of your accomplishments.”

Adam was unimpressed with his own accomplishments. It was the next challenge, the obstacles ahead he found worthy of discussion. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear from my grandfather, Mrs. Fairchild. He’s nothing if not biased.”

“The facts do seem to support his claims,” she said with a gently argumentative smile. “Graduating from Harvard at nineteen—with honors and an MBA—starting out on construction sites so you’d have a comprehensive knowledge of the company and its employees, turning an already successful, commercial construction company into a multibillion dollar conglomerate…. I’d say, your grandfather has every reason to be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

There wasn’t much Adam could—or wanted—to say to that. “You sound like a well-informed shareholder, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“And you sound rather modest.”

He wasn’t modest. He just didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy in what he’d done at Braddock Industries. He’d simply updated the good business practices that had guided the family fortunes for over two centuries. “I’m pleased you like what you’ve learned about the company,” he said.

“Hi!” The bright voice bobbed ahead of the slight brunette who dropped into a bouncy squat beside their table. She propped her arms on the table and, with barely a glance at Adam, turned a wide, generous welcome to his companion. “You’re usually not here on Tuesdays, Mrs. If. Did you take my advice and get yourself a hot date?” Her eyes were pure blue-bonnet blue, lit with the light of mischief, and Adam felt a jolt of awareness the instant they cut to him. “Hmm,” she said, making him feel naked, somehow, under her quicksilver assessment. “A younger man. I approve.”

Adam didn’t approve at all, but Ilsa merely laughed. “This is Adam Braddock, Katie. A family friend.”

Her eyes cut to his again without a glimmer of recognition. “Hi,” she repeated, her attention returning instantly to Ilsa. “Guess what? I took your advice.”

Ilsa’s eyebrows went up in pleasant surprise. “Really? How did that work out?”

The waitress straightened with a bounce, as if she had springs on her feet, lifted her hands above her head and did a dainty pirouette…neatly sidestepping a collision with a waiter who had plates of food balanced from fingertip to shoulder. “Oops,” she said, with an unrepentant lift of one shoulder and a flash of smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Charlie.”

The waiter frowned. So did Adam. “Would it be possible to get something to drink?” he asked.

“These are tight quarters, but you get the idea,” Katie said to Ilsa.

“All that from one lesson?”

“Two.”

“I’m impressed. You may become a ballerina, after all.”

“One pirouette after two lessons doesn’t exactly qualify me as the teacher’s pet.”

Ilsa appeared delighted with the exchange and oblivious to the fact that this was a restaurant and this pixie was supposed to be their waitress.

Adam cleared his throat and pitched his voice above the conversational roar in the room…on the generous assumption that the waitress hadn’t heard his original request. “I’d like to order now, if that’s all right with you.”

She looked at him, a wisp of dark hair curling like a wayward ribbon across her cheek, her blue eyes questioning the impatience in his tone. “Well, sure,” she said. “But don’t you want to peruse the menu first?”

“I’ve perused,” he said, thinking there would be serious consequences—and rightly so—if the manager caught her pirouetting and carrying on lengthy conversations with customers instead of getting their orders. “I’ll have the chicken reuben sandwich, no chips, and we’ll start with the artichoke dip appetizer.” He smiled encouragingly at Ilsa. “What would you like, Mrs. Fairchild?”

She looked thoughtfully from him to the waitress. “I’m going to need a couple of minutes to decide,” she said.

“Sure thing,” Katie pronounced brightly. “Take your time. I’ll find John.” Her smile flipped to Adam. Cheeky little thing. He’d have fired her on the spot. “He’s your waiter. My tables are over there.” She tossed her head to indicate the section behind them. “Bye, Mrs. If. Enjoy your…dip.”

She sashayed away, the bounce evident in her light steps, a saucy swing to her hips, a dash of sass in the sway of her long, frizzy ponytail. Halfway through the maze of tables and people, she paused to exchange words with a tall, blond guy—the elusive John, perhaps—and then she laughed, the melodic waterfall of sound drifting back to Adam like the call of the wild.

“She always waits on me when I come in,” Ilsa said.

“Not today, apparently.” Adam realized with a start that he’d been staring after the waitress and brought his gaze firmly back under control. Waitstaff should be unobtrusive, efficient without encroaching, friendly, but never personal. The little elf failed on all accounts. “I take it, she’s an aspiring dancer?”

Ilsa laughed. “She said she was disenchanted with kickboxing and I suggested ballet as an alternative discipline. I’m actually quite astonished she took a class.”

“Two classes,” Adam corrected and wondered why he remembered such trivia since the little brunette was now out of sight and nearly forgotten. He seldom, if ever, paid that much attention to the wait-staff in a restaurant like this one. They were, after all, constantly changing and all too often, more intrusive than helpful. He determinedly put her from his mind. “Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Fairchild. My grandfather says you have a small business. A public relations firm, I believe, called…IF Enterprises?”

She did not seem surprised to discover he’d done his research, but then she undoubtedly knew he had employees who did nothing but ferret out such details for him. It was the way he kept abreast of the hundreds of bits of information he needed to know daily. The only way he could survive in his fast-paced, high-stakes world.

“My business is more personal relations than public, although I like to think my endeavors contribute to the overall good of society, too. Everything is related, you know, regardless of how we try to separate one thing from another. Don’t you agree, Adam?”