Chapter 22 #2
He sighed, leaned back in the chair. “She’s coming. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“And you know she’s going to be with him.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
“I know you’re pissed,” he continued. “But the enemy isn’t Frenchy. Or Archie. It’s definitely not Frankie.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Then who the hell is it?”
His gaze met mine, calm and steady. “At the moment? You.”
That hit harder than I expected. Not because he was wrong—but because it was too right.
“Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
“Hey, I didn’t say it to be a dick. You’re just better than this. You’re not the guy who blows up and ghosts her and then acts surprised when she doesn’t crawl back.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, but it wasn’t angry. Not really.
“Look, you are the guy who blows up and decks people. But never her. That part—that has to stop.”
Asshole wasn’t wrong.
“Just…” He stood, crumpling up his paper towel. “Don’t make her pay for the stuff you never said.”
Then he walked off.
Which was good, because I needed to breathe.
I headed for the drinks table near the corner of the pool area, bypassing the bar.
Too many damn people there. The drinks table was mostly abandoned—just a few stragglers hovering near the coolers and mixers.
I dug through the ice for a can of Coke, more for something to do with my hands than anything else.
“Still like yours flat and warm?”
I stiffened.
Maria.
I didn’t have to look to know that voice. Sweet on the surface. Razor underneath.
“That was once.” I reminded her, and it was after we’d banged the fuck out of each other and I needed a drink.
She stepped up beside me, leaning one hip against the table. “Seems like I recall it being more than once. A lot more.”
Of course she did. That was the problem with Maria. She remembered every kiss, every fight, everything I said or didn’t.
“I didn’t come over here for a trip down memory lane,” I said, trying to keep it neutral.
“Yeah, well, memory lane has better lighting than whatever brooding cave you’ve been living in.”
I turned to face her. Same glossy hair. Same sharp stare. Even her suit, a single piece sheath, fit her like blue-scaled armor. Different vibe. She didn’t look like she wanted me back—just wanted to poke the wound .
“Don’t,” I said quietly.
“Don’t what? Remind you that you used to smile? That you didn’t always look like you were two seconds from decking someone?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You haven’t been in the mood since May.” Her voice dropped, and suddenly there was no bite—just truth. “You were better when she was around. Frankie… you were softer. Kinder.”
“That was before—” I stopped. Shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Before the French guy?” she asked, her smile turned sharp like a blade. “Before she picked someone else?”
I didn’t answer.
She reached out, brushed a hand down my arm. Not flirty—almost sad .
“She’s not trying to hurt you, Jake.” Those were the very last words I’d ever expected to hear from her. “Frankie has never tried to hurt anyone.”
No, that was all me. “I am not talking to you about her.”
“You never did,” she murmured, head tilted as she gave me this long assessing stare. “But I always knew. Always knew where I fell in the line of things. Second best.” A half-snort of laughter. “Didn’t care so much when it came to sex, at least then you were focused on me.”
I fought to keep my expression neutral. “What do you want?”
“It would be easy for me to hate her.” She raised her eyebrows as if daring me to deny it. “So easy to, especially if I let myself wonder how many times you pictured it was her you were drilling when it was me.”
The barb landed. I didn’t think I had, but at the moment… Fuck .
“That wasn’t her fault then or now.” No, Maria was right. It was mine. “Her dating someone else isn’t a fault either. You’re acting like she stabbed you in the chest.”
“Feels like it.” It rankled. It rankled because she’d let him touch her. Let him take what should have been…
Maria nodded. “Then maybe stop standing still and bleeding. Do something about it.”
Then, just like Coop, she walked off before I could say anything else.
I stared at the can in my hand. I hadn’t even cracked it open.
Footsteps behind me, a whisper of sound over the music.
Then a voice.
“She’s here.”
Bubba.
Just that. Two words. No fanfare. No prep.
My pulse spiked anyway.
I turned, slow, like maybe if I took long enough it wouldn’t hit as hard.
But there she was.
Frankie.
Looking too good. Smiling like she wasn’t about to shatter every piece of me. There he was beside her, perfect posture, stupid accent, hand on the small of her back like he’d earned it.
My grip tightened around the can.
Fuck.
Coop
I heard her before I saw her.
A laugh—light, easy, familiar—and the low hum of Frenchy’s voice cutting through the music. It froze me. Like my brain registered her before my body could catch up.
I turned.
Everything else dropped out.
Frankie stepped into the backyard and it was like being on a dolly zoom in a movie, everything in me lasered toward her.
Sunlight wrapped her in this soft glow that made her skin look even warmer, like she was built from summer.
Her bikini was red— deep , bold, impossible to ignore.
The top cut just high enough to drive me out of my damn mind, with this barely there strap that wrapped around her neck and made it obvious just how much skin she wasn’t covering.
The bottoms were mostly hidden by the sarong knotted low on her hips, but that didn’t stop my brain from short-circuiting.
Her legs went on forever. That fabric slit high up one thigh, and when she shifted her weight, I caught the curve of her hip, bare skin that used to be mine to make her laugh when I poked it. Her belly, toned and smooth, caught the light when she moved.
And her hair—God, her hair —was braided down over one shoulder, thick and gleaming like gold thread, loose pieces escaping to kiss her cheeks and collarbone.
She was stunning.
Unfairly, unreasonably, end-of-the-world stunning.
I forgot how to speak. How to breathe. How to exist .
Frenchy had his hand on her back like it was natural. Like it belonged there.
Jake was stock-still near the drinks, his jaw set like stone. Bubba muttered something I didn’t catch. Archie looked like someone had just served him the best and worst surprise of the night as he drifted toward us.
Me?
I just stared. Couldn’t not. I was drowning in every inch of skin she dared to show.
I liked her covered. Loved her in jeans and her oversized hoodies. But this? This was intentional . This was Frankie stepping into the spotlight and letting the world see exactly what we’d all known for years.
She was beautiful, and she knew it.
“Coop,” Rachel said from beside me, low.
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“No shit.”
She smirked, but there was no humor in it. Or if there was, I didn’t notice.
I watched Frankie thank someone for a drink, her fingers brushing Frenchy’s arm as she took it. She glanced around—eyes searching, scanning—and I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until her gaze landed on us.
On me .
One second. Two.
Then she smiled.
Not the polite kind. Not the oh-you’re-here smile she gave to classmates, old teachers, and strangers at Target. It was small. Quiet. Personal.
My heart stuttered like it forgot its damn job.
She started walking toward us, slow steps, Frenchy beside her, his hand still on her back.
“I’m going to die,” I muttered under my breath.
“No,” Bubba said, having somehow replaced Rachel while I gawked at Frankie. “But you might wish you had.”
When she finally reached us, standing there in that barely-there bikini and smile that felt like a secret— I still couldn’t find a single, non-drooling coherent thought.