4. Franki
four
The candelabras twinkle, and the music provides a romantic soundtrack as the crowds swarm through this ballroom, a bunch of little worker bees relentlessly networking under the guise of having a fantastic time. Or maybe everyone really is having fun, and I’m jaded after spending the last five years of my life on the periphery of the film industry. I’m not what anyone would call a social butterfly. Mostly I do my best to blend into the background.
The crowds press closer, and I search the venue for somewhere a little quieter. When I spot a large floral arrangement that will provide partial cover in a corner, I head straight for it. Ten minutes. That’s all I need. The corner beckons, the lighting even dimmer than the rest of the room and promising a moment where I can, at least, kick off these shoes and wiggle my toes.
The gorgeous Jimmy Choo’s are not only too small, but the design doesn’t accommodate the lift I wear to compensate for my left leg being a couple inches shorter than the right. An entire day of balancing on the toes on my left foot has become tiring. My joints aren’t happy with me either. I could stop the balancing act and lean into it. It’s slight enough that no one would notice if I did, but I don’t want to end up with my sacroiliac joint popping out of place as a result.
When I get to my rose bower of potential bliss, I reach down to slide off the icepick heels, transferring them into my left hand, and nearly groan in pleasure as the cool marble floor soothes my abused feet. Straightening, I take as deep of a breath as I can manage and press my palm flat to my stomach.
When I told my aunt I could fit into this dress without trying it on, I’d taken my size change into account, but not that the shape of my body is different. The steroids I’m currently on for my RA go straight to my middle. The corset worked to suck me in and give me an hourglass figure so the dress would zip, but it’s a cage I’d like to claw my way out of.
Straightening my shoulders, I start my mental list designed to recenter myself into a positive mindset: 1) The bride and groom appear to be wildly in love, which is, ultimately, the only thing that actually matters on any wedding day. 2) Dinner will probably be delicious.
I shift my weight and wiggle my toes as I think. I can conjure up at least three positives for any situation I find myself in. This should be a cakewalk. Ha!Cake.
3) I will be eating a delectable dessert.
“Who are we hiding from?” A masculine voice stage-whispers to my left.
Wincing at the realization that some random guy found me in a dark corner, I turn in his direction, determined to make a polite excuse and rejoin the crowd. As soon as I take in the sight of the man who’s snuck up on me, however, warm recognition floods through me, and I beam in welcome instead. Gabriel McRae stands beside me with a hand in his pocket and another holding a tumbler of amber alcohol.
I heard he showed up in Paris two summers ago when Bronwyn, Janessa, Clarissa, and I were on vacation, but I was already on my way back to Los Angeles when he arrived.
“Hey, you,” I say.
His gaze runs from the top of my head all the way down to my toes and back up again as a small smile plays at the corners of his lips and eyes. “Tell me what brings a stunning woman like yourself to a corner like this.”
I groan at his cheesiness, but end on a smile. “Family obligations. The groom is my cousin. Why are you here?”
“Same. Bride’s side. Did you bring anyone special with you tonight?”
“Definitely not. You?”
His eyebrows lift, and he chuckles. When he lifts his tumbler to his mouth, he lists slightly to the left before correcting his posture and swallowing a surprisingly large mouthful of what I assume is bourbon. “Definitely not.”
I peer at the throng. “I don’t really know anyone here beyond my aunt and cousin. My father is in Paris at the moment. It makes for a long day.”
“I’d be happy to provide some entertainment. I’d love a little company.”
I laugh. A ballroom full of people teems around us, and we’re talking about needing company. I know what he means, though. It’s nice to see a friendly face that isn’t work to talk to.
Seeing Gabriel is like running headlong into nostalgia.
Gabriel’s smile widens at my laughter. “Can I give you a lift anywhere when this little party is over? I’m happy to share a ride.”
“That’s so sweet of you. I have a room here for the night, though. So, no traveling necessary.”
His expression alters subtly, his gaze moving to my mouth. I blink, then tense when he places his hand on my lower back. This dress is the devil.
“I’m Gabriel McRae, by the way. What’s your name?”
I stop breathing.
Gabriel doesn’t know who I am. He was flirting. He thinks I was flirting back. Oh my God, he thinks I was inviting him up to my room.
If I keep holding my breath, can I pass the heck out and sleep for the next five years?
I suck in a pathetically shallow breath of rose-scented air and press my palm against my heart. I spent most of my holiday breaks in the McRae mansion from the age of eight to eighteen. How could he forget me?
My mother wasn’t wrong, then. I was the weird little girl they let hang around out of pity.
“Uh-oh. What’s that face for?” He cringes and takes his hand off my back. “I misread your cues? I apologize.”
I shake my head and laugh at the absurdity of it. “Gabriel. It’s me.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “And you are . . .?”
Henry, mouth set in a firm line, strides into my line of sight, then straight for us, his attention zeroed in on his brother.
My heart catches in my throat. He’s here.
Henry isn’t even looking at me. The fact that Gabriel doesn’t recognize me is embarrassing, but if Henry doesn’t know me, I’ll do my absolute best to sink straight into the floor.
On the other hand, when I last saw Henry, I was an awkward girl with a chronically unflattering haircut, jaw issues too significant for braces to correct on their own, acne, and glasses that slipped down my nose. Gabriel’s lack of recognition is painful, but maybe I’m expecting too muc—
Henry physically shoulders his brother out of the way and leans in to kiss my cheek.
His lips are cool against my skin, and he smells delicious, like warm bergamot and cedar and black tea and . . . jasmine?
Henry straightens to look into my eyes, and my knees go weak.
“Hello, Franki.”
My heart pounds out a staccato rhythm in my ears as I stare back into Henry’s twilight blue eyes. My hand creeps up to cup my cheek. I’m holding his kiss against me like a weirdo.
Flustered, I drop my fingers. “Henry.”
Gabriel laughs. “You’re kidding me. LittleFranki?”
“She’s barely two years younger than you are. Can you not behave as though her adulthood is some shocking discovery?” Henry places a protective arm around my shoulders.
Gabriel lifts his eyebrows. “Okay.”
“Would you like to dance, Franki?” Henry asks.
“Not really. Thanks, though.” The fact that I’m turning down a dance with Henry when this would have once been a Cinderella dream-come-true moment for me is almost tragic in its irony, but I can’t. I’d fall flat on my face at this point. My knees and feet have had it. Maybe he’ll stay and talk, though. We could find somewhere to sit quietly. The Henry I knew would have preferred that over dancing any day.
Henry runs a hand through his light brown hair. He’s always despised sitting for haircuts and procrastinates, stretching out the time between them as long as he’s practically able to. He gets thousand-dollar haircuts so it looks good at every stage, even its current mop-like iteration. He adjusts his glasses over his lightly freckled nose, then loosens his bow tie as he appears to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. “Hmm.”
Gabriel looks at Henry, then he skims a clinical gaze over me, as though he’s cataloging my features. He snaps his attention back to his brother, an open-mouthed look of, apparently, astonishment written on his features. “Is this what I think it is?”
Henry glances at his brother. “How would I know what you’re thinking?” he drawls.
Gabriel grins at me. “You don’t happen to speak German and French, do you?”
Henry heaves a long-suffering sigh.
I frown, looking from one to the other in confusion. “Yes.”
Gabriel’s smile grows. “What did you go to college for? I’m not sure I ever heard.”
I shake my head. “I studied history.”
Gabriel claps his brother on the shoulder with a laugh. “You sneaky devil.”
“Go away,” Henry says.
Unfamiliar anticipation builds inside me with a physical wash of electric sensation. I’m hyperaware of every place Henry’s body touches mine. The weight of his arm across my shoulders. The strong, masculine hand as it rests near, but not touching my breast. Henry’s side is pressed against mine for nearly the entire length of my body.
After all this time, his scent is still warm and familiar. Henry has never worn cologne. Instead, he smells like the cedar hangers in his closet and the Earl Grey tea he drinks. That is, aside from one new, and jarring, feminine note. Henry has clearly been close to a woman other than me recently. Very close.
Gabriel runs a hand through his hair. “I’m headed for the bar. I need another drink.” He gives Henry an encouraging nod. “Good luck.”
Henry stiffens next to me.
Gabriel inserts himself close enough to put his arms around me in a hug that reeks of alcohol, though Henry never relinquishes his hold. “It was great to see you, Franki. We’ll have to catch up soon. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
Gabriel steps back and his expression gentles. “I hope the last five years were kind to you.”
None of the McRaes liked or trusted my mother. Somehow, after years in her presence, I’d almost forgotten that.
“They were educational,” I say with a rueful smile.
Henry frowns at his brother. “I believe you were going somewhere.”
Gabriel’s smile returns, and he lifts what remains of his drink, finishing it in one go. Then he turns and strides away, and I’m left standing, speechless, in the circle of Henry’s arm.
I wait in silence for him to move or say something. After several fraught moments where neither of us seems to know what to do next, Henry removes his arm, steps back, and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“You don’t like dancing, or you find the idea of dancing with me, specifically, unappealing?” Henry looks almost bored as he asks the question, eyelids heavy, expression flat.
I lift the shoes in my hand and stick my left leg out through the thigh-high slit in the dress. “It’s the heels. I can’t wear a lift with them. Nothing to do with you.”
His hot gaze lingers first on my foot, then slowly works his way up my leg farther and farther until his attention lands squarely on my eyes. I stare back, breathless with wonder. Henry has never looked at me like that in my life.
He leans in subtly closer. “How long are you staying this visit? A week? A month?”
I’ve spent my life “visiting,” so it’s a reasonable assumption. “I’m hoping it’s not a visit at all. Where I land on the East Coast permanently is going to depend on what job I can find and cost of living. I don’t suppose you know of anyone hiring someone with almost a master’s degree in history?”
Those blue eyes of his sharpen with interest. “I may, indeed, know of a job opportunity for someone with your qualifications, but I thought you wanted to complete your PhD.”
I smile in confusion. “Did Bronwyn mention that? A PhD was the plan. I suppose it’s tacky to talk finances, but the truth is that I can’t afford to finish school right now. I need to build my credit first.”
Expression intrigued, he says, “So, practical considerations have gotten in the way of your dreams?”
“That’s life. It’s time to shift gears and figure out a new plan.”
His smile is slow, and, if I’m honest, devastating to my hormones. I can barely believe the thought that keeps bouncing down to tap me on the heart, but I’m almost certain that Henry is into me.I can feel it.
A passing waiter offers us champagne. Henry shakes his head, but I give the man a smile and accept. Having something to sip is a good way to give myself a few extra seconds when I don’t know what to say next.
“Where are you staying?” he asks.
“With your parents in the Hamptons until I find my own place. I’m heading back there tomorrow.”
He straightens with a satisfied expression. “No one mentioned that to me. It’s been a long time since you were at the house.”
“If it were up to my mother, I’d still be in LA. But it was time for me to take the leap, if you know what I mean.”
He nods. “I absolutely know what you mean.”
“What have you been up to for the last five years?”
“Work,” he says.
I nod and wait for him to expound. When he says nothing, I nod again, take a sip of champagne, and glance around the ballroom as I try to think of another question that’s slightly more specific.
When I look back at his face, dawning awareness lights his features, and Henry tips his chin down and says, almost triumphantly, “I’ve also taken violin lessons and a cooking class.”
My face breaks into a wide smile. “Cool.”
He adjusts his glasses and shakes his head. “The violin isn’t going particularly well. I like cooking when I have the time, though.”
When I laugh, he frowns in apparent confusion.
“Sorry. It’s just that you’re good at everything you do. It makes you seem more human to imagine you struggling with the violin.”
His frown only deepens. “You see me as inhuman?”
“Not at all. But you’ve always seemed bigger than life to me. Above things like struggle or failure.”
His eyebrows lift. “That’s an inaccurate perception.”
“It’s the nature of hero worship, I guess. It lacks nuance.”
“I’m not a hero.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgment of his words, but I refuse to agree with him.
When we were kids, I’d told Henry everything that made me smile and made me cry. I imagined myself carrying a shield into my “adventures,” and that shield, more often than not, was the sound of Henry’s voice in my head saying, “You’re a warrior, remember?” When I became a teenager, Henry’s voice in my head also became the occasional “Fuck ’em, Franki.” He was my hero.
For Henry’s part, he told me things about himself that I wasn’t supposed to know. Never details of specific missions, but enough for me to come to a general understanding. That, alone, would have been enough for me to admire him, but, of course, there was more. His kindness. His resilience. Even the unique way his mind works.
I shift my weight and wiggle my toes.
He glances down at my feet, then back up to my face. “You’re in pain. The wedding photos are complete. What would you say to ditching this place and finding somewhere a little quieter to talk? We could go to my place. You’ve never seen my penthouse. I think you’d like it.”
I hesitate, not because I’m going to say no, but because I’m trying to work out logistics in my head.
“I’ll cook for you,” he coaxes.
“It might be easier to stay here at the hotel and order room service. Oliver is upstairs with a sitter, and I can’t leave him alone for very long.”
Henry smiles. “You brought him with you.”
Charlotte and Arden have done enough by allowing me to stay with them. I wasn’t about to ask them to babysit my dog when I wasn’t there. “I take him pretty much everywhere. My mother nearly had a stroke when she realized you gave me a dog, but he was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
“Good.”
“I should warn you, he might be a little territorial. He’s well-trained, and his behavior is perfect in every other way, but he gets really protective when men come near me.”
Henry’s lips twitch and something that looks bizarrely like satisfaction lights his eyes, but all he says is, “Lead the way.”