Chapter 22
The bathroom’s pale light made the room feel like it was submerged in a fishbowl.
Or maybe that was a side effect of the migraine she was currently nursing.
It had been years since she’d had one, but it had also been years since she’d drunk red wine, so she only had herself and her cousin Angelo’s wife, Athena, to blame.
Frankie braced her arms on the counter and squinted at her reflection, tracking the bloom of redness across her cheekbones.
She’d never figured out how to do “subtle” with her feelings, internally or externally.
If she was mad, embarrassed, anxious, turned on, or jealous, she went lobster.
Right now, she looked like she’d just run a marathon, all flushed and wild around the eyes.
She splashed her face with cold water and let the droplets collect at the end of her nose.
The throbbing in her head was making it difficult to focus on the details of the evening, her brain worked overtime untangling every moment like the knots in her wired earbuds.
When Liam, in a white button-down shirt and slacks, entered the restaurant, the atmosphere shifted in the room.
Even the back view was sexy, with his broad shoulders and the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.
And when he saw her, she’d gotten the reaction she’d hoped for.
He looked at her in that dress like he’d been struck by God himself.
Then nothing. He’d steered clear of the rest of the night, third-degree duck-and-cover, not even glancing in her direction during dinner where she strategically sat herself in his direct eyeline.
He had to actively avoid even an accidental glimpse at her, and he did.
She checked her phone again. No calls. No texts. Nada. He’d gone from messaging her multiple times per day up until a few hours before the rehearsal dinner, to nothing. What had happened? Why was he avoiding her like the plague? Had she done something?
The situation was uncomfortable, sure, but she thought that they both were going to try and make the best of it.
Maybe he was regretting the night they’d spent together.
Or maybe he was distracted by the busty bartender who rubbed up against him like a cat in heat.
The blonde with cleavage for days who looked like the villain of a love triangle in a CW show.
Frankie felt the old, familiar rage cramp in her gut, tight and mean.
It was the same feeling she had growing up every time she’d seen a steady parade of girls sneaking in and out of Liam’s room.
She braced her hands on the counter and exhaled, hoping it would shudder the feeling out of her. Two large drops of water dripped onto the marble counter. She dried her face, and her phone buzzed.
Looking down, she saw that a message from Zion came through.
Zee: How’d it go with Doctor Hottie?
She thumbed back:
Frankie: Dinner was fine. He was fine.
Before she set the phone back down, another message alerted.
Zion: Sounds so hot.
She rolled her eyes, but the flash of affection at his predictability made her smile.
Frankie: We didn’t even talk. He left early.
Not missing a beat, Zee replied.
Zion: You want me to slash his tires?
She snorted, then felt a pang of guilt. Zion was fiercely loyal. He was “joking,” but if she gave him the green light, she knew that Liam would be buying new tires.
Frankie: No crimes necessary, but TY.
There was a lull, then his next message came through.
Zion: Got ahold of VV. She’s IN. She’s working on a duet with KB, so she asked if she’d like a two-for-one.
Frankie’s heart did a weird trampoline bounce. She bit her lower lip and felt the corners of her mouth scrunch up like a bad poker face as she held in a scream of joy and ran in place doing a victory dance.
Virginia Valentine was going to sing at her mom’s wedding.
She was her mom’s number one artist on Spotify Wrapped, for the past ten years, since her debut album.
It was well known that Virginia didn’t do private events for money, so even though Mr. Sterling could buy her mom the world, this was a gift that even he couldn’t give her, but Frankie could.
Well, technically Zion could, but it was Frankie via Zion.
And the fact that it was going to be a duet with Karina Black, made it even better. This was going to be a crossover event.
The first and only person she wanted to tell was Liam, but she was not going to text him, no matter how badly she wanted to.
Instead of doing the victory dance that she knew would only aggravate her impending migraine, she forced herself to walk it off, taking a slow, measured lap around the bathroom, shaking out her arms and breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, and then sitting on the edge of the tub to collect herself for a second.
She texted Zee a string of exclamation points and told him he was her favorite person. He replied with a poop emoji and then a heart, which was his way of saying goodnight and that he loved her.
While her heart rate came down, she scrolled through Instagram and somehow ended up on Pine Ridge General Hospital’s page.
She would have ended up on Liam’s personal page, but he didn’t have one.
Within just a few seconds she landed on a grainy close-up of Liam’s face from the previous summer.
He was smiling—really smiling—at something off-camera, and for a second, the ache in her chest was so strong, she clasped her hand over it.
It was ludicrous how deeply she missed him.
It wasn’t just the physical, although she did miss that…
so much. It was talking to him. Laughing with him.
Or even just sitting beside him silently. She just missed being in his presence.
She wondered if he was home, downstairs, lying in the bed where she’d been beside him and under him, or if he’d been called in for an emergency.
His Range Rover wasn’t in the driveway, but he’d been keeping it around the side of the house so there was more parking available for all the extra guests, so she honestly had no clue whether he was there or not.
Her eyes studied the photo of him in scrubs. She pictured him with a patient, all serious and focused, saying something in his low, professional voice.
She let herself fantasize for ten more seconds, then stood up and patted her cheeks, willing the red to fade.
She was still buzzed with the urge to share the Virginia Valentine news and figured she might as well tell Tristan.
He was a huge VV fan. She didn’t know how much he loved her music, but she knew he thought she was hot when her debut album came out and he’d been a fan since, so he’d be excited to meet her.
Frankie tugged open the bathroom door, already crafting the announcement in her head, but the room was empty. She checked on the other side of the bed, thinking maybe Tristan was laying down meditating, but discovered him out on the balcony.
It was thirty degrees and he was shirtless, in only a pair sweats, hunched over in the chair holding the phone in front of him.
As she crossed the room, she assumed he was working, but when she got closer, she saw he was speaking and realized he was on FaceTime, which took her by surprise.
Tristan hated FaceTime. Despised it in fact.
He’d never FaceTimed her during their entire relationship, even when they’d been apart for weeks at a time.
She watched as he laughed, and his eyes danced with what she could only describe as flirtation. He bit his bottom lip, and seeing it was like a punch in the gut. He was talking to a woman. She knew that much. He only ever bit his bottom lip after he said something dirty.
Was he talking to Emmanuelle?
He’d sworn that he’d ended things with her.
This entire trip he’d talked about wanting to get things back on track with Frankie.
After the talk they’d had before the rehearsal dinner, when they were on the dance floor, he’d said she was wrong, they did belong together, and he loved her.
It’s not that she believed him or that they were going to get back together—they weren’t—but she just hated lies.
She climbed into bed, and the movement must have caught his attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sit up straighter. Even in her periphery, he looked like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Pretending not to notice, she started scrolling through Instagram and pointedly ignored the sounds coming from the balcony.
The sliding glass door shuddered open, then clapped closed with a little extra force—Tristan’s signature, the same way he always slammed lockers in high school.
She didn’t look over as he reentered the room, but she heard him cross the hardwood floor barefoot, drop his phone onto the dresser, and peel off his sweats with a practiced foot flick.
The bed dipped as he climbed in, the mattress tilting in his direction. She felt him staring at her, reading the sharp set of her shoulders in out of the corner of her eye. He exhaled dramatically, then scooted closer, his chest radiating heat.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked, keeping her voice soft but perfectly flat. She didn’t want to fight—she didn’t even want to talk—but she wanted to know if he’d lie to her face.
“Huh?” he asked. “Nobody. Just Keith. He had some questions about the Thompson case.”
“Keith?” she echoed, still not looking in his direction.
Tristan and Keith were in the same fraternity, Alpha Sigma Tau, they’d instantly become best friends during rush week freshman year. Keith was the main reason Tristan wanted to open his practice on the East Coast, where Keith’s family was. Keith was a partner at the firm.