Say You Will (Trust & Tequila Book 3)

6. Franki

six

Ijuggle my key card, purse, leash, and rolling luggage as I escort Oliver from my hotel room with a half hour to spare for Henry’s nine a.m. pickup time. Backing up, I nearly run into a housekeeper’s cart and turn with an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

The housekeeper, a woman with dark hair highlighted with natural silver and scraped back into a tight bun, looks my way. “No problem.”

“I—Oh my gosh. Nanny?” I stare in joy and confusion when I finally look into her eyes.

Her own brown eyes widen as she takes me in. After a moment, her shoulders lower, and she asks tentatively, “Franki?”

“Yes!” I reach to hug her, and she folds me into her arms, hugging me back fiercely. “Oh, my girl. How have you been?”

“How have you been?”

We ask the question at the same time, then both laugh.

I don’t want to come right out and ask her why she’s working in housekeeping rather than in childcare. Maybe it’s a side gig or she became burned out. It’s not my place to intrude.

She smiles. “I’m hanging in there. Look at you, all grown up.”

“It’s nuts how that happens, huh?” I grin. “Things are good for me. I tried to find you on social media when I got older, but I couldn’t remember your last name and ‘Nanny Lisa’ didn’t help.” I laugh.

She puts her hand on my cheek. “It’s Bedford. Lisa Bedford, honey, but . . . I don’t use social media. You don’t need to bother looking me up.”

She pulls her hand back and glances behind me, looking for something. “Are you here alone?”

“I have Oliver.”

She leans down to pat him. “He’s a cutie.”

Oliver yips, and I crouch beside him, looking up at Nanny Lisa. “Would you let me take you to lunch sometime? I’d love to catch up.”

She hesitates. “It won’t cause problems with you and your mother?”

I shake my head. “Whatever went on with you and my father is ancient history and none of my business. She’s on the West Coast, anyway.”

Lisa grimaces and huffs. “Nothing went on with me and your father.”

We both straighten, and I try to make sense of her words. “Mom said you and Jonny—”

At Lisa’s look of distaste, I stop short. “Mom fired you because she was jealous about something that didn’t even happen? That’s horrible.”

“Your father had nothing to do with it.”

The look she gives me is weighted, as though she wants me to connect the dots. When I can only shake my head in confusion, she gives me a sad smile. “Honey, she was jealous of my relationship with you. She was gone for six months at a time on location. The last time she came home, she accused me of trying to steal you from her. She told anyone who would listen I told you to call me ‘Mommy,’ and I was pretending to be your mother.”

I stare at her in open-mouthed shock. “How could she do that?”

“I suppose she felt insecure because you appeared to be more attached to me than to her. Guinevere never seemed able to stand other people’s happiness.” She cringes. “I shouldn’t have said that. The truth is, I don’t know why she did it.”

The original shock of her statement fades quickly. The only thing truly surprising about what she said is that she managed to stay employed as my nanny for eight years. Mom cycles through employees faster than the recommended time between dental cleanings. “Difficult to get along with” is an understatement. She’s very good at convincing herself that she’s been wronged, like the way she accused me of stealing from her. “I’m so sorry she took out her insecurities on you.”

“I’m not worried about me. That phase of my life is over. How’ve you been? That’s the important part.”

“I’m”—I shake my head—“great. I’m great. Just moved back and excited to find a new job and a place to stay.”

Lisa smiles. “You look good.”

I glance down at myself ruefully. She’s being kind. When Henry left last night after his horrible marriage proposal, I moped around for half an hour. Then I went downstairs to the gift shop, bought twenty dollars worth of chocolate, which was, sadly, hardly any chocolate at all, took it up to my room, and ate every last bit of it while watching a documentary on the Tudors. After which, I tossed and turned and rehashed every word Henry said in my head all night long.

He’s changed, and it breaks my heart. All his enthusiasm, his idealism, his softness….It’s all gone, buried under the weight of living for other people. Does his family recognize what’s happened to him? He’s given up every one of his dreams for them. Do they even appreciate the sacrifices he’s made? Did it occur so gradually they didn’t notice? Bronwyn never said a word.

Henry’s grandmother demanded a marriage, and he disliked the idea so much that he put it off for eleven months, as he attempted to find a way out of it. He’s as trapped by his family’s expectations as I was with my mother. Marrying me….Marrying anyone isn’t the answer.

I understand his thought process. He’s attempting to control his situation with logic. But the old Henry wanted so much more for his life, and he wanted more for me.

I woke with dark circles under my eyes this morning, and, too exhausted to bother with makeup, I didn’t put a single swipe of mascara on, let alone concealer. I covered my head in a Yankees ball cap and put tortoiseshell frame glasses on my nose. My clothing today is baggy and comfortable: Black drawstring pants and a soft long-sleeved white T-shirt with an oatmeal-colored cardigan thrown on top. A pair of sneakers with my two-inch lift tucked inside are on my feet. A simple compression brace hugs my left knee, out of sight but providing support.

I glance at my phone. “I’m so sorry, but my ride is going to bring his car around any minute. I need to check out, but I would love to keep in touch. If you’d rather put everything behind you and forget about me, I totally under—”

“Don’t be silly. Franki, I grieved over you. Worried over you. Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in, and you call me.”

“I’m taking running into you like this as a sign of all the good things that are in store. If I were still in California, this wouldn’t have happened. If I hadn’t said yes to being a bridesmaid, I wouldn’t have been in this hotel this morning.”

She smiles. “Always my sunshine girl. I’m glad to see you’ve held onto your optimism.”

I pass her my phone. Oliver twists in a circle, and the leash tangles with his legs, so I bend to help him while Lisa adds her information to my contacts. When I straighten, she passes it back with a smile. “Call me or text me anytime. We could have dinner? I’ll cook your favorite.”

The corners of my mouth lift. “Mac and cheese with dino nuggets?”

She laughs. “I was thinking spaghetti and meatballs, but I could pick up a bag of frozen nuggets.”

“I’ll be in touch soon. It was great to see you.”

“You too.” She looks behind me down the corridor. “You better go now while there’s not much of a wait for the elevators.”

She’s right that I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry. Traffic on Park Avenue is always a nightmare. It would be beyond rude to keep anyone who took the time to pick me up waiting, but I hug her one more time anyway.

By the time Oliver and I make it to the lobby and complete checkout, I have less than ten minutes until Henry’s scheduled arrival. Oliver and I move to stand near the far wall with a clear view of the revolving doors as I wait. The usual Sunday morning crowd mills around the lobby, perfumed air clogging my nose. I’m anxious to head back toward Long Island, but butterflies dance in my belly too.

This first meeting with Henry is going to be awkward, without a doubt. Last night, I finally managed to drift off to sleep around three in the morning, then woke to our photos plastered all over the internet. Someone took pictures of us at the wedding. In one of them, Henry is looking at me in exactly the way that had me convinced he wanted me. Seeing it and the comments about “Henry McRae in love” was vindicating, at least. I’m not the only person who thought he was giving me heart eyes. But nope. He was giving me “I want a company, and you’re just the woman who’ll help me get it” eyes.

There were other photos as well. One with his arm around me. Several of him escorting me with a hand on my hip to the elevators to go up to my room. I wasn’t the big news. It was Henry, the so-called “Prince of New York,” who has never been seen in a relationship. It took no time at all for people to figure out who I was, though.

Oliver, on a leash and wearing a black bow tie, sits patiently between my feet and our luggage, and I bend to give him a treat from my pocket for behaving so nicely in public.

If Bronwyn, Janessa, Sydney, or Clarissa see any of those photos before I text them about it, they’ll start a group chat with questions, but I wasn’t ready to talk last night, and I haven’t had time to give them a heads up this morning. When my phone vibrates, I straighten to take it from my pocket. I may have no choice in the matter.

On the other hand, it’s a far better option than if it’s my mother calling. She’s the last person I want to talk to right now. If it’s her and I don’t answer before Henry gets here, she’ll call me over and over, until I pick up. I won’t mention seeing Lisa to her. The last thing I need is to give her one more thing to rant about.

When the contact shows my father’s name, rather than my mother’s, I blow out a breath in relief. Finally.

I lift the phone to my ear and move further against the wall, turning to give my back to the lobby. “Jonny, how are you?”

He chuckles. “I’m fine, sweetheart. I’ve been really busy. You know how it is. I’m sure you’ve heard that I’ve added a home decor line to my brand.”

“Someone from your office told me you were in Paris?”

“I arrived back in New York three days ago, but I’m swamped.”

I’d called again yesterday and was told he wasn’t even in the country. “I’m in New York too. I thought we could meet. For lunch. Or, if you don’t have time for that, maybe coffee. If you can’t leave work, I could stop by your office for a few minutes to say hi sometime this week or next week. It’s been a while.” Fourteen months since I spoke with him last.

“I don’t have time this week or next, but if you’ll still be in the city in six weeks, I’m having a party. I’ll have my assistant send you the information.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’ll be good to see you, kid. I’ll send you a dress to wear from my new collection.”

No matter how many times I tell myself it doesn’t matter that he isn’t interested in me and tries to fob me off with trips, haute couture, and cash, every interaction with him turns me into an eight-year-old. “Thanks.”

“I have a little favor to ask of you.” He laughs. “Actually, it’s more of a favor for yourself.”

“Really?”

“I have a business associate named Leo Kingston. You’ve heard of Kingston Hotels. He’s interested in commissioning my decor line for his luxury hotels. Worldwide. It’ll be a spectacular launch of my brand.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“You know what else is amazing? He saw your photo online and asked for your phone number. Your mother is a bitch, but there’s no denying she’s beautiful. You’ve got her bone structure, and you’ve grown out of your awkward teenage years. You’re Guinevere Jones if she were twenty-four years younger, had a natural body, and a decent personality.”

Ick. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really uncomfortable with this.”

“How can you be uncomfortable? You haven’t even spoken with him to know if you’ll hit it off or not. He’s good looking. Just meet the man. For me.”

“If Leo Kingston wants your new home decor stuff, that’s great. Going out with me shouldn’t have anything to do with it. Leave me out of it.”

Jonny heaves an impatient breath. “Why are you making such a big deal about giving the man a little attention?”

Oh, the irony. “Because I have zero interest in going out with some random guy whose only interest is based on seeing my photo online.”

“What can it hurt? It’s not healthy the way you insulate yourself. Always with your nose in a book. You need to get out more. You’ll have fun,” he cajoles.

A huff of laughter leaves me. “No I won’t.” There’s not a question in my mind. “I don’t even believe Leo Kingston is his real name. It sounds fake. He’s basically calling himself ‘Lion King.’ I’m not interested.”

“A lot of people use pseudonyms to create their brands. Everything works together to create an impression. An image. Don’t judge the man for making a smart business move,” Jonny soothes. “You should be salivating at this opportunity. He’ll be in New York in a few weeks, and I told him you’d entertain him.”

My lips tighten. “You can’t speak for me and expect me to go along with it.” I’m trying to keep my voice down. The last thing I need is for someone to hear any of this conversation and spread it around.

“You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. Now a man who owns some of the most spectacular hotels in the world wants to take you out. I’m not asking you to sleep with him. Just give the guy a chance.” He’s speaking to me as if I’m a child who won’t eat her broccoli, his voice equal parts exasperation and coaxing. As if the man were ever around to try to get me to eat anything.

Jonny is a shitty father. He always has been, but some part of me has always wanted to please him. When he smiles and gives me a hint of approval or remembers my birthday, it’s this unreasonable high. It makes no sense. I’ve always felt as though, if I make him proud enough, he’ll love me. But I’m not a child any longer. “I’m not doing it.”

“If you do and he signs those contracts, I’ll pay for you to finish school and put you on my health insurance.”

What is wrong with people?He’s the third person in twenty-four hours to attempt to buy me. The fact that he hadn’t mentioned a thing about school or me needing insurance before now, either, irks the crap out of me. He obviously got my messages. He ignored them until now when he thinks he can leverage the information against me. “That bribe didn’t work with Mom either. I said, ‘no.’”

“He’s calling. You’re going.” He bites out the words as he loses control of his temper.

“You’re a terrible person.” I’ve reached my limit. My reaction is cumulative frustration after speaking with Lisa. Jonny could have defended her. He could have stepped in, but he didn’t because it wasn’t something he cared about. Both of my parents are blending in a toxic miasma of assholery in my mind right now.

He scoffs. “I’m a terrible person because I want my daughter to do something other than talk about dead people? I’ve provided financial support for you for years. I’m asking for one thing, which you will enjoy once you’ve done it. And you think I’m unreasonable? When you’ve gone out with the man and the contracts are signed, I’ll pay for your graduate school.” Beep beep beep.

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the glossy screen after he hangs up. Is there a point when being emotionally blindsided becomes so commonplace that I’ll become numb to it?

I swivel to face the lobby and pocket my phone. I shouldn’t have turned my back to people in the first place. I’d only done it because Jonny’s call distracted me so much that I forgot to practice situational awareness. It’s not safe to be oblivious to what’s going on around me in a place like this.

I’ll let Leo Kingston’s call go to voicemail. Maybe he’ll text, and I can text back “New phone. Who dis?” My father’s calls, if he even makes them, can go to voicemail too. It’s what he’s done to me all my life.

Hands shaking, I tighten my ponytail under my cap and adjust my glasses. I can’t help but draw an uncomfortable parallel between Jonny’s request for me to date his colleague in exchange for his financial assistance and Henry presenting marriage as a job.

Logically, I understand that no one is perfect, but in my mind, Henry was. I hero-worshipped him, and maybe he’s right that I hadn’t seen him accurately, but even the fact that he didn’t let me kiss him that night was something to admire and celebrate. Henry was noble.

I barely recognized the man who sat across the table from me in my hotel room. When he hugged me at the door, for me, it wasn’t “good night.” It was “goodbye” to the person I lost.

My attention catches on Henry as he pushes through the revolving door. He always walks as though he has somewhere important to be. It doesn’t matter if he’s headed to the kitchen or the beach or a meeting. The only time I’ve seen him not do that is when he matches his pace to walk beside me.

Dressed more casually today, he wears black trousers and a tan sweater-vest over a white button-down. Today’s glasses frames are black. He heads directly for me, his long stride ground-eating, his expression intent.

Somehow, Henry and I coordinate with each other today, as if we stood side-by-side in front of our shared closet and said, “Let’s dress like we belong together.” Stuff like that used to happen with us all the time, and neither of us could explain it. We were both “in the mood” for a certain color on that day.

He stops approximately three feet away and dips his head. “Hello, Franki. Hello, Oliver.”

My lips twitch without my consent. He doesn’t talk to Oliver like he’s a dog. Nope. It’s a dip of his head and a “hello.” That hasn’t changed, at least.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

I give him a thumbs up. “Ready Freddy—”

“—Steady,” he finishes with me.

A couple of men, probably in their mid-twenties, stand nearby, dressed casually and checking their phones. One nudges the other, and they both zero in on me, then look back at each other.

Shit. Shit. Shit.No one was supposed to notice me. Why do people do this? I don’t even have the same color eyes she does.

One of them, trailed closely by the other, approaches and says, “Are you . . .?”

I shake my head. The two men continue to move in my direction, and I take a step back. Oliver snarls.

“From a distance, you look just like her,” the blond says.

The other guy laughs. “Dollar Store Guinevere Jones.”

Oliver bares his teeth aggressively, but they ignore him. When they get within five feet, I take another step backward, even as I paste on my smile and prepare to tell them I have somewhere I need to be. Before I get the chance, the men’s faces grow pale and they scramble away.

Henry stalks toward them even more aggressively than they’d moved in on me, and they scurry backward across the lobby. Their eyes widen as they shake their heads and put their hands up in a show of surrender. With his back toward me, I can’t hear a word Henry says or see his face, but the men look terrified. Sure, Henry has an umpteenbillion degree black belt in at least three different martial arts disciplines. The whole McRae family does, but these guys don’t know that.

They look like they’re running away from a sweater-vest-wearing astronomy professor.

“We’re sorry, ma’am. We’re leaving you alone now. We respect your privacy,” the one with the patchy beard calls.

“Sorry!” the blond shouts. “You’re not the dollar store version of someone else. You’re . . . er . . . Gucci . . . of . . . yourself.”

This time I hear Henry’s voice. “Now, run away.”

They virtually run for the lobby doors.

Henry turns toward me, and his familiar disgruntled expression settles something inside me. Last night at dinner, his eyes were cold enough to make me shiver. Anger may not be the most comfortable emotion, but it’s real. Under the circumstances, it’s reasonable. This is the expression of the same kid who once asked if someone hurt me, because if they did, he’d do something about it.

Tension leeches from his shoulders when he returns to me.

“What did you say to them?” I ask curiously.

“I told them to apologize to you or I would . . .” he runs a hand through his hair, then admits, “ . . . surgically remove their tongues without anesthesia.”

I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “They looked like they believed you.”

He huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and picks up my luggage. With a palm on my lower back, he guides me to the revolving front door. “Let’s get out of here.”

Oliver gives Henry side-eye and one incongruously deep bark before he patters beside me, nose in the air, head bopping side to side.

Henry’s SUV waits directly in front of the hotel, blinkers on, and a man stands beside it. I recognize the posture and the black suit of a McRae bodyguard from my years spent with them. Henry opens the door for me, himself. No chauffeur in sight.

“Oliver’s car seat is in my suitcase.”

He stops and eyes Oliver. Then he glances back at me. “Of course. The main compartment?”

“Yes, but I’ll—”

Henry has already unzipped my bag and reached inside for Oliver’s fleecy, blue car bed. As he drags it out, I cringe as stretchy lace in a variety of colors clings to the fleece.

The two fabrics together create a staticky combination.

Henry’s face is utterly blank as he takes in the sight of Oliver’s lingerie-covered bed.

Heat starts somewhere around my belly button and shoots all the way up and out the top of my head.

I make a grab for the bed. Before I manage to get ahold of it, Henry pulls a scrap of lace off the fleece. A zap of visible electricity sparks, and the lace clings as he lifts it between two fingers and his thumb.

I see the exact second Henry realizes what he’s holding in his hand. His face goes so red that between his white shirt and blue eyes, he looks positively patriotic.

Henry blinks. “Panties.”

I hiss, “Don’t say ‘panties.’ I don’t like that word.”

His eyebrows lift. “What word do you prefer?”

I snatch the other two pairs off the dog bed. “Just call them underwear,” I mutter under my breath.

Face still red, his fist clenched around the fabric in his hand, he says, “These are not underwear. If you want to see underwear, I’ll show you underwear. They’re made out of cotton. And they are white. Sometimes, they are black or navy. They are not . . . not . . .”

He waves the scrap of red lace in the damn street, and I shoot a concerned glance around to be sure no one has a camera out.

“These are panties, Franki,” he whispers.

“Call them what you want, then. But stop waving them around. Put them away and let’s go.”

He nods brusquely. “Put them away,” he repeats. Then he shoves my underwear in his pocket.

“Henry?”

He runs a hand through his mop of hair. “Yes?”

I planned to tell him to take my underwear out of his pocket and put them in the suitcase where they belong. But he’s so embarrassed, and so am I.

If I tell him what he did, it’ll just prolong it.

And he’s my Henry. We’ve both been through things, and he’s clearly struggling. But this flustered man in the sweater-vest is my friend. I saw it in the way he spoke to Oliver. In the way he smiled with his eyes, not just his mouth. The way he defended me so ferociously, and, yes, in his flustered reaction to my underwear. He’s still in there. He may be buried, but he’s not dead. Not gone. He needs someone in his corner who sees him. No matter how frustrated and angry his proposal made me.

So, I don’t tell him he put my underwear in his pocket. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.

Instead, I say, “Let me strap Oliver’s car bed in, and we can get on our way.”