Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
DIXIE
T he coffee shop was buzzing with conversation and the whir of espresso machines when I walked in, my overalls smeared with splotches of pale blue paint. I had stained a vintage dresser earlier that morning and my hands were stained as well. I was used to the look, but I knew people saw me and wondered why I didn’t wash my hands.
I did. A lot. I even wore gloves, but stain was meant to penetrate and it managed to get through my gloves every time. I had special cleaner at home which I used at the end of the day. But it was harsh and I didn’t want to use it all day every day. And I didn’t care that my hands looked dirty, even though they were technically clean.
I tugged the strap of my bag over my shoulder and scanned the crowd until I spotted Frankie in the corner, looking effortlessly fancy as usual. She was uptown and I was the thing people found living behind the fridge.
She was a vision in her tailored navy pantsuit, her sleek bob perfectly framing her face. Frankie had always been the polished one between us—the golden child with a clear career path and the kind of wardrobe that made our mom beam with pride. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d just rolled out of a flea market.
Frankie waved me over, her grin as bright as the sun streaming through the window behind her. “My favorite artist-slash-carpenter.”
“And my favorite corporate queen,” I shot back, sliding into the chair across from her. “How was work?”
Frankie’s eyes sparkled as she launched into a story about her latest triumph at the pharmaceutical company. She’d closed a huge deal and landed a promotion, complete with a raise and a company-paid trip to Costa Rica in June.
“And,” she added with a triumphant little smirk, “I just signed the lease on a new apartment. Moving in next month. It’s gorgeous, Dixie. You’ll have to come help me decorate. Maybe you can create a couple of pieces for me.”
“Frankie, that’s amazing! I would give you a hug?—”
“Don’t you dare!” she said with a laugh.
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” she said, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I haven’t told Mom and Dad yet. I’m waiting for dinner tomorrow night. Don’t spill the beans, okay?”
“My lips are sealed.” I smiled, though a familiar pang of envy ached in my chest. Something was seriously wrong with me, always feeling inadequate. I was genuinely thrilled for Frankie, but part of me couldn’t help feeling like an underachiever.
While she climbed the corporate ladder, I was elbow deep in sawdust and old furniture, hoping to scrape together enough to cover my rent. Frankie had always been the one to breeze through life. She was a cheerleader in school and very popular. She got good grades and participated in all the clubs.
And there was me. I was the rebel without a cause. I never found my niche. I was mildly athletic but not great. I got decent grades but wasn’t a genius.
Frankie’s voice pulled me back to the present. “Anyway, enough about me. What’s new with you? Have you heard from your sexy mystery man from last weekend?”
A rush of warmth spread through me at the mention of Hayes. I’d been thinking about him all week, replaying our night together like a favorite song on repeat. I hadn’t told Frankie his real name yet—I’d been calling him Paul, the name of the guy Pamela had set me up with at the party. I texted her about him the day after. I had to tell someone. Frankie was my best friend. I told her everything. She was my little sister, but the sister thing was a bonus. We were as close as two people could be.
“I’ve heard from him,” I admitted, trying to keep my voice casual. “He’s been texting me all week.”
Frankie’s eyes widened with interest. “Oh, really? And what’s he saying? Does he want you to sand down his wood?”
“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not a sexy image.”
She looked puzzled. “What do you mean? By wood, I meant?—”
“I know what wood is. It’s the sandpaper part I’m cringing at. It’s like the opposite of lube.”
“Okay, well my metaphors aren’t perfect but you know what I mean,” she said.
“Yeah, well there hasn’t been any saucy texts. He’s mostly checking in, sending me pictures of venues for his dad’s upcoming wedding. Playfully complaining about having to do all the legwork.” I couldn’t hide my smile as I spoke. “He’s… endearing. And funny. And sweet.”
Frankie leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Sounds like you’re into him.”
I laughed, though my stomach fluttered at her words. “It was just a one-night stand. It’s not going anywhere.”
“Why not?” Frankie challenged, tilting her head. “You clearly like him. And he’s obviously interested if he’s been texting you all week. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“It’s complicated. I don’t even know what he wants out of this. And I don’t want to get hurt. He’s the kind of guy you don’t forget.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” she said.
“No, but I don’t know if we’re really compatible.”
She giggled. “From what you told me, compatibility doesn’t seem to be an issue. How many times?”
I felt my cheeks burning. “I lost count after five. Hell, I forgot my own name after three.”
Frankie burst out laughing, her corporate professional demeanor completely dissolving. “Oh my god, Dixie! Five times? In one night?”
“Six, actually,” I corrected, then immediately clamped a hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe I just told you that.”
“Details,” Frankie demanded, leaning forward. “Every single one.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not happening. Some things stay sacred.”
“Sacred? Please. We tell each other everything.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Like how many times?”
“Frankie!” I laughed, throwing a napkin at her. “You’re worse than my high school friends.”
“Someone has to live vicariously,” she said dramatically. “My love life consists of Zoom dates and awkward office happy hours.”
“Sounds thrilling,” I teased.
“Tell me about him. I need to know the details of this man.”
“He’s tall. Really good shape. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Like blue and green and brown all at the same time.”
“Hazel,” she said dryly.
“Yes, but dark. I can’t explain it. And he has really full lips. God, those lips.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “You’ve got it bad. What does he do?”
“He runs a nonprofit with his brothers,” I explained. “Something about addiction recovery. But he didn’t talk about it much. Seems pretty low key about it.”
“Hmm,” Frankie said, stirring her latte. “And where does he live?”
I hesitated. “A penthouse. Like, an actual three-story penthouse in Manhattan.”
Frankie nearly choked on her drink. “A three-story penthouse? Are you kidding me?”
“I know.” I laughed. “It’s ridiculous. He has a ballroom. A literal ballroom. Who has a ballroom in their house?”
“Rich people,” Frankie said.
I groaned. “And this is why I know this thing is never going to last. We are just too different. I’m enjoying the ride, but I know I have to be careful. I can’t let myself get caught up with him and his world. I’m a temporary thing. A fling. He’s interested because I’m not like him.”
Frankie’s expression softened. “I get it. Believe me, I’ve been there. Remember that guy I was seeing a few years ago? I was head over heels for him. I had our wedding planned in my head. But when he ended things, it crushed me. Took me forever to move on. Still, I don’t regret putting myself out there. At least I don’t have any what-ifs haunting me. It just wasn’t meant to be. But one of these days, I’m going to make more money than him and we’re going to be at the same swanky party. I’m going to tell him to kiss my ass. I’m going to be unattainable.”
“Good for you.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun while you have Mr. Six-Orgasms.”
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to have any what-ifs either.”
“Then go for it,” Frankie urged, her smile encouraging. “Text him. See if he’s free tonight. Don’t put it off. He might forget how hot you are and move on.”
I pulled out my phone, my heart racing, and typed out a message to Hayes. Hey, any chance you’re free tonight? Plans changed. I’d love to see you. My thumb hovered over the send button for a moment before I pressed it.
The response came almost immediately. For you? Always. Give me a couple hours to move some things around. I want to see you.
A giddy laugh escaped me, and Frankie raised an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”
“He wants to see me tonight,” I said, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“Of course he does.” Frankie grinned.
I took a drink of my coffee and couldn’t hide my smile. “Know anywhere nearby with openings for a Brazilian wax?”
She choked on her coffee. “Damn, girl! He’s already been down there.”
“I know, but I feel like I need to tidy up.”
She pulled out her phone. “Okay, I know a place. They can get you in within the hour. But are we talking full Brazilian or just a little maintenance?”
“Full Brazilian,” I said. “I want to be smooth as a baby seal.”
“Gross.” Frankie laughed. “Now who’s bad at metaphors. But I’ll text them now.”
As she typed, I couldn’t help but giggle. “I can’t believe we’re planning my bikini area grooming for a booty call.”
“Not just a booty call,” Frankie said, looking up with a serious expression. “This sounds like it could be something more.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. He’s rich, I’m… not. This is a fun fling and nothing more.”
“Sure, Jan,” Frankie said.
A few minutes later she looked up. “They can get you in at three. But you cannot wear that getup to the salon. I will never be able to show my face there again if I send you like that.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She was my favorite person in the world. Despite our differences, she always knew exactly how to make me feel better.
“Anytime. When do we get to meet this guy… what’s his name?”
I wasn’t going to admit who he was. Everyone knew the Bancrofts. If Frankie knew I was having sex with one of them, she would demand a double date with one of his brothers.
“Paul,” I said.
She scrunched up her nose. “How old is this guy?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask to see his license.”
“Is he old?”
“No! Why?”
“That’s an old man’s name,” she said.
“He’s not old. I would say late twenties.”
“Hmm, probably a family name,” she mused aloud.
“Yeah, probably.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“Something sexy but not trying too hard,” I said, thinking about my wardrobe options. “I want to look effortless.”
Frankie snorted. “You? Effortless? Please. Every outfit you own looks like you wrestled it out of a donation bin.”
“Hey!” I laughed, throwing another napkin at her. “I have style. Vintage chic.”
“Vintage chic is just a fancy way of saying ‘I found this at a thrift store and hope no one notices the moth holes,’” she teased.
“You’re terrible,” I said, but I was grinning.
“Come by my place. You can pull something from my closet.
“Frankie, no,” I protested. “Your clothes are way too fancy for me.”
“My clothes are hot. And trendy. And not covered in paint.”
“But they’re not me. I have a dress in mind. And yes, I did buy it second-hand from a consignment place but it’s really sexy.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a cute skater dress style, with a small cutout over the belly. Short sleeves.”
She sighed. “That’s not sexy. That’s so you .”
“I’m not sexy?”
“You could be if you dressed like a woman and not a skater.”
I laughed. “I’m not dressing like a skater. Hold on, I think I have a picture of it.”
I quickly pulled out my phone and found the picture I had taken of it when I tried it on.
“Okay.” She nodded. “I like it. But heels. Don’t go wearing some Converse or something.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Oh, but you would,” she said with a sigh.