Operation Prince Charming by Phyllis Bourne Page A

appearance lesson,” she said. “You obviously don’t need it.”
    The hunger pangs started up again and he reached for his menu. Reading the descriptions of food, any food, only made his empty belly cramp in protest, so he snapped it shut.
    “I heard the salmon is excellent here,” Ali offered.
    Hunter nodded politely, knowing there was no way fish would appease his appetite. “I’ll go with the steak.”
    After what seemed like hours, but was in reality only a few minutes, their tuxedo-clad waiter arrived. Only he wasn’t the waiter.
    “Sir, I’m the wine steward,” he said. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
    Hunter glanced over at Ali. He did remember her explaining some formal restaurants had wine stewards or sommeliers to help with wine selection.
    Meanwhile, the guy talked on and on about red, white, dry, the perfect complement to fish, poultry, meat, but his words sounded like blah, blah, blah to Hunter’s ears.
    Hunter looked enviously at diners near their table and wished he were eating. Couldn’t they at least bring out some bread? Especially if this guy was going to yap about wine half the evening, he thought.
    He took a deep breath and willed himself to be cool. After all, the man was just doing his job.
    By the time the waiter showed up, Hunter’s hunger pangs had migrated to his head and into a dreaded, hungry headache. His fingertips drummed on the tabletop as he waited for Ali to make her selections.
    “Is everything okay?” She paused, her eyes zeroing in on his impatient fingers.
    Realizing what he was doing, Hunter halted the impromptu percussion solo. “Sorry,” he muttered.
    When it was his turn, he quickly rattled off his order. He resisted the temptation to offer the guy a hundred bucks to get his dinner on the table in under a minute.
    “So tell me about yourself?” he asked Ali, hoping conversation would take his mind off food as well as satisfy his curiosity.
    She shrugged, and for the first time he noticed how her sleeveless black dress accentuated her shapely arms.
    “There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “I’ve only been in town a few months.”
    He took a sip of water, preferring not to drink wine on an empty stomach. “So, what brought you from Florida to Nashville?”
    “How did you know I was from Florida?” She stiffened.
    “I read it on the back of your book when I was in your office the other day.”
    A bit relieved, she answered, “I’m here to help my aunt out at the school.”
    It didn’t take a detective to figure out there was more to the story. Why would an author and big-city newspaper columnist want to teach in an old school that was practically falling apart?
    Hunter had started to ask her another question when the sight of their waiter bearing soup and bread caught his attention. Thank God, he thought. He could practically feel his belly button sinking into his spine.
    The waiter set the bread in front of him, and Hunter’s appetite overwhelmed any thoughts of manners. It was as if a checkered flag had been waved in front of his stomach, signaling it to go .
    Reaching past the watery bowl of soup, Hunter snatched a roll from the basket. He ripped it apart with his hands and shoved half of it into his mouth.
    Then he caught Ali’s narrowed gaze.
    He opened his mouth, intending to explain he hadn’t eaten all day, but his hand stuffed the other half of the roll into it.
    Her eyes widened.
    Okay, one more, he thought, and then he’d simply tell her he was hungry, really hungry . Only by the time he’d eaten another roll and then another, their entrées had arrived.
    He looked down at the miniscule steak. His plate looked as if someone had spent hours painstakingly decorating it with various sauces. The side vegetables were also artfully arranged.
    It wasn’t much, especially considering hismammoth appetite, but he grabbed the closest knife and fork and dug in. Two minutes later, he was done and wondering how many of these plates he’d