12. Franki
twelve
Icheck the time on my phone before sliding it into my bag and taking a sip from my sweating water glass as Penelope Stanton breezes into our breakfast date thirty-two minutes late. At my finger wave, Pen flips her honey-blonde hair over her shoulder, sashays over, and leans down to give me an air kiss. “Mwah.”
I smile. “How are you?”
My former boarding school roommate seats herself with a swish of expensive ivory fabric and strong perfume. “I’m very well.” She holds out her left hand, and a flashy diamond sparkles on her finger.
I squeal, mostly because I know that anything less will disappoint her. “That’s so exciting. You’re getting married.”
She nods. “The date is set for six months from now. Brock Randall.”
Pen’s green eyes flare wide when says her fiancé’s name, as though it’s someone I should recognize. Maybe he’s a pro athlete or something. I smile and try to appear impressed. “Cool.”
“Amazing, right?” With a shake of her head, Pen gives me a smile. “But look at you. I almost didn’t believe it when I saw your photos online from that wedding. You’re a whole different person.”
With effort, I smile and manage not to squirm. “I guess.”
“And to land one of the McRaes? Well-played. I always thought they saw you like a weird little cousin or something.” She crosses her legs, lifts her chin, and snaps her fingers at a server before pointing at our table.
“I’m not trying to land anyone. Henry isn’t—”
“Smart. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Everyone saw the way he was looking at you at that wedding. He’s completely gone for you. Just don’t let it go so far he gets bored.”
I shake my head, but our server, a young woman with a harried smile, stops by our table for our order. I mouth “Sorry.”
She winks back. “What can I get you?”
“A yogurt parfait and a glass of lemon water, please. I only have half an hour before I have to leave.” If I’d realized Pen would be so late, I’d have factored that into my plans. I need to get back to the penthouse, give Spencer, who’s become far more pleasant since Henry spoke with him, instructions for petsitting Oliver, pick up my prescriptions at the pharmacy, and pack before Gabriel arrives to carpool with me to Blackwater.
Pen gasps. “You’re leaving already?”
I flinch. “I’m sorry, but I’m heading out of state. I wouldn’t have needed to rush, but”—I fidget with the napkin—“you’re a little late.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, these things are not set in stone. When someone says breakfast at nine, they mean nineish.”
“Yeah, sorry. I forgot about that.”
She gives the waitress her order, and when the woman walks away, she flicks her fingers at me. “Reschedule.”
I huff a laugh. “I can’t throw off everyone else’s plans for my own convenience.”
She frowns in confusion, like I spoke a foreign language. Finally, she readjusts in her seat and leans forward, rampant curiosity in her eyes. “So. Is it true you’re living with Henry?”
I freeze. How would she know that? “For the moment. We’re working together.”
Pen’s eyebrows lift, and she smirks. “Cozy. There were paparazzi photos online of you walking a dog together. Very domestic.”
“We’re friends,” I say.
She snorts. “Y’okay.”
My yogurt arrives, and after thanking our server, I dig in. Pen’s lack of consideration is the reason I have no time, and I need some kind of food to fuel me.
“What have you been up to?” I attempt to bring the conversation around to Pen.
She waves her hand. “I’m busy with wedding planning and redecorating. That sort of thing. How about you?”
“I’m working as a translator.” If I sound proud when I say it, I can’t help it. I love this job and the independence I’m building with it. Technically, I don’t actually work for Henry. At his suggestion, a separate company hired me, then contracted my services as a consultant. At the moment, Henry is my client. He made a joke about public relations, but I definitely get where he’s coming from. Our history, friendship, and living arrangement muddy the waters. It’s not a perfect solution, but it helps, as does the paperwork we both signed acknowledging our personal relationship.
Pen wrinkles her nose. “I can’t imagine doing something so boring, but you always were weird about that stuff.” She waves a hand. “Whatever. Okay, never mind jobs. You. Look. Amazing.”
I spent every one of the years since I left boarding school being groomed by my mother. The love bombing and the My Fair Lady makeover of the first three months were exhilarating. The remaining years were exhausting.
I smile. “Thanks.”
“No really. You did the whole ugly duckling into a swan thing. All you need now is to have a little more work done.”
There’s no covering the small huff of disbelief that comes out of my mouth. My real friends would pull their own fingernails out with pliers before they said something judgmental about the way I look, then or now. My face and body are no one’s business but my own. She sounds like my mother gave her a script.
“Freaky Franki,” she muses. “Unbelievable.” Pen laughs and waits for me to join her.
When she realizes I’m not, she gains a belligerent expression. “What?”
“You know I cried over that nickname. Why would you use it now?”
For a moment, Pen looks like a deer caught in headlights, unable to process the fact that I called her out. Then she collects herself and gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t think it would still bother you. You don’t look like that anymore, and I’m sure you grew out of lying on floors and doing that weird self-hypnosis.” She says the last part in a reassuring voice.
A hard, soundless breath punches out of me. Has she always been this rude? Maybe she was. In comparison to the girls who bullied me, she seemed nice at the time. “I’m not a different person because I had surgery and learned how to do a smokey eye. The self-hypnosis is meditation I learned in therapy to manage stress. I haven’t ‘grown out of it.’”
“No need to get sensitive.” She smiles brightly and indicates my outfit. “That’s from your dad’s new fall collection, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” I say, tone flat.
“So cool that he always sends you those pieces. Does he still make you give them back at the end of the season?”
“Yes.” Technically, one of his people sends them. I’m certain it’s nothing more than a standing order on the calendar for someone else to perform. Like an oil change.
My mother told me I was an idiot not to realize that an assistant was the one sending birthday and Christmas gifts from Henry in the same way. That turned out to be a lie. One among many.
When we were in school, I never explicitly gave Pen any of the clothing my father sent. She borrowed them, though, and never returned several items. I’d had to make up stories about damaging them accidentally. It’s really too bad Jonny asks for them back. I could have sold one of his purses online, in season, and covered Oliver’s vet bills.
She huffs. “Your father is so controlling. Good thing your mom is so nice.”
Pen grabs her phone and signals for the server. “We need a photo.”
I shake my head, but when the young woman hurries over, Pen hands her the phone, anyway. “Take a pic for us.”
Pen immediately strikes a pose and leans into the table toward me. “Come on, Franki.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I need it for my IG,” she wheedles. “Don’t be a party pooper.”
Determined to get it over with, I carefully drape my body the way my mother taught me to do and manufacture a small smile. The server snaps the pic, hands the phone back to Pen, who approves it, and slides the gold case into her bag.
Pen watches me with a knowing look. “How would you like to be one of my bridesmaids?”
I pause with my yogurt almost to my mouth. Lowering my spoon, I shake my head. “That’s kind of you to include me, but I don’t know what I’ll be doing in six months.” My job is keeping me busy at the moment, and travel is a real possibility. Mostly, though, I’d rather lick a New York City subway turnstile than be a bridesmaid in Pen’s wedding.
Her expression turns sly. “Are you thinking you won’t be available to be my bridesmaid because you’re moving back to California with your mother?”
It’s the hopeful tone more than anything else that clues me in. “What is my mother giving you to spy on me?”
She stills, her eyes wide before she recovers and glances to the left. “I’m not spying on anyone. I saw your photo, realized you were in New York, and decided to reach out. I don’t remember you being so paranoid.”
Stand up. Say the words. Then walk out with dignity.One more boundary. A bridge in flames behind me.
I set my spoon on the table, drag my bag over, take out my phone, and check the time. I could chat for at least fifteen more minutes.
I won’t be doing that.
Removing forty dollars from my wallet, I drop it onto the table and stand. I pull out my mental shield. “Fuck ’em, Franki.”
“Don’t call me again. We’re not friends.” I manage to say the words without shaking. Her status as the least horrible roommate I had at boarding school doesn’t qualify her to be in my life now.
Pen leans back, expression stunned, before she manages to sputter, “You’re in no position to act like a bitch to me.”
I place both hands on the table and lean over into her space. “I don’t care what you think.”
I turn and walk away. My knees and hips ache, but I control my expression and my limp as I leave the restaurant. When I “dressed the part” this morning, I chose fashionable shoes that look great with this outfit but do a horrible job of “shoe-ing.” At least for me. They’re pretty torture devices I willingly subjected myself to.
I keep walking, faster and faster. As the crowd mills and shoves around me, I come to a standstill to catch my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t believe I cut her out of my life like a scratchy tag in a piece of clothing. My breaths grow easier as the stress surrounding our conversation subsides.
I snort. She was so shocked that I’d stood up for myself that she didn’t even know how to respond. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that her late arrival was a power play. It’s something my mother does to make people feel at a disadvantage. I gave Pen the benefit of the doubt, but the longer she talked, the more obvious her attempts at manipulation became. I guess I am different than the girl she knew in boarding school, because I read her like a book.
“Francesca?” A male voice sounds behind me, deep and unfamiliar. Warily, I turn to look.
“I thought that was you.” The thirty-something man, wearing a blue suit tailored to perfection, stands a couple of inches shorter than Henry, with dark blond hair and sharp green eyes.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Smiling, he puts out a hand to shake. “I’m Leo Kingston.”
Yikes. He was supposed to text, and I was supposed to pretend he had the wrong number. I also thought he was going to be my dad’s age.
I ignore his hand, pretending I have to fidget with the straps of my purse to avoid it. When he’s dropped his own, but still retains his charming smile, I say, “Jonny mentioned you. It’s nice to meet you. This is awkward, but my father didn’t know when he spoke to you that I was seeing someone.”
It’s a lie, but I’ve found over the years that it’s far safer to provide a “mystery partner” than outright look a stranger in the face and say, “No thank you. I’m not interested.”
Some men respond to rejection with good grace, but there’s no way of knowing for certain whether Leo will be one of those or one who gets angry and aggressive. It’s why when the men calling me “Dollar Store Guinevere Jones” approached me at the hotel, I’d smiled while they insulted me.
Leo’s expression turns rueful. “I saw photos of you with McRae, but you never know what’s real when it comes to social media.”
I wrinkle my nose and laughingly shake my head. I hadn’t wanted to put a name to my fake boyfriend.
Leo’s attention zeroes in on my ring finger. “He hasn’t locked you down yet.”
This guy gives me the creeps.
Leo’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he puts his hands in his pockets, leaning toward me. “You’re not married, Francesca. Why not explore your options? I won’t tell if you don’t.”
My mouth turns down in disgust.
He leans back, his expression charming, but, somehow, predatory. “Not much of a talker, are you? Dr. Henry McRae has you wrapped around his little finger, then?”
I snort. If I disagree, he’ll claim I’m available. If I don’t, he’ll make a crack about breaking free from my “controlling” relationship. Leo Kingston has nothing on Guinevere Jones’s skill at manipulation. He’s a rank amateur in comparison.
He smirks. “Nice. I had it backward. Henry McRae is your puppy.”
I tense in case he retaliates and stare him down. “You’ve clearly never met him. No one manipulates or controls Henry.”
He runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “A loyal woman. I thought those were a myth. I imagine Henry would be a very sad boy if anyone took you away from him. I imagine he’d do almost anything for a woman like you.”
“I have somewhere I need to be. Excuse me.”
“Of course.” He stretches out his hand and slides a thick black acrylic business card with a lion’s head logo printed on it in gold into the front pocket of my purse. “This may seem a little off topic, but your father mentioned you have a history degree. I’ve recently purchased an older hotel in Chicago, and I’d like to restore it as faithfully as possible. I’d love for you to take a look at it.”
I blink stupidly, frozen in fear, while I process how close he came to me and his change in tactics. Belatedly, I step out of his reach.
He nods toward my purse. “It’s a paid position. If your boyfriend turns out to be more Beast than Prince Charming after all, or you need a great hotel room,” he laughs at his own sales pitch. “Or anything at all,” he dips his head to the card and winks. “The QR code will load my private number into your contacts. I’m not stingy.”
Leo smiles and gives me a salute. “Until we meet again, sweet Francesca.”