Chapter 1
“Iam not being too hard on Frankie Peterson,” Marcus DeLuca Grant replied dryly, though an annoying voice in his head muttered, Aren’t you, though?
He silenced it immediately. “Your editor-in-chief nailed me with a Christian Louboutin stiletto.” The fact the name brand rolled effortlessly off his tongue, like he knew a damn thing about women’s footwear, only fueled his desire to make Frankie Peterson pay.
Frankie’s temper tantrum during Fashion Week had ended with him wearing a designer heel in his forehead, and he had the scar to prove it.
Memes had followed. He’d made the mistake of clicking on one. An image of a masked man wearing a superhero cape with a heel in his forehead and the caption: Captain Stiletto - Fashion’s Last Defense.
Thank God he’d been wearing a disguise. As it was, no one had connected the man who’d fled the venue—heel in hand, blood streaking his temple—with anyone of importance. Just intrigue. It was the kind of spectacle that hammered home exactly why he and his brothers avoided the spotlight.
“Yes, Marcus,” Ms. Birdie Fairway’s voice crackled through the phone. “We’re all familiar with the shoe-to-face incident.”
The fact that Ms. Birdie happened to be Frankie Peterson’s boss? One hell of a coincidence. A little too coincidental, if you asked Marcus, which was why he’d scrutinized every angle before ever picking up the phone to contact the long-time friend of his late mother.
“Do you know how hard you have to throw a shoe for its heel to embed itself in a man’s forehead?
” Marcus shifted the phone to his other hand and leaned against the wobbly desk in the drafty study of Gi Gi’s Manor.
The room, like the rest of the house, was in desperate need of restorations.
Restorations he was now responsible for.
One month ago, he and his four brothers had inherited a fixer-upper of a town, and with it, a legacy they hadn’t asked for from Gi Gi, their adoptive mom.
They’d landed on her doorstep twenty-nine years ago, the oldest nine, the youngest barely three.
Only months before her death, she’d secretly purchased the renaming rights to Nippleton Falls and a hefty slice of its crumbling charm at auction.
It hadn’t been until after her death that the investment had been revealed, along with personalized honey-do lists for each of them.
Marcus’s list started with the manor. And judging by the permit disputes alone, it might end with him losing his mind.
He yanked his attention back to the call. “Did I mention the scar—“
“Damn it, Marcus, scars are badges of honor.”
Marcus repressed a chuckle. It had been a long time since he’d heard Ms. Birdie curse. Savvy entrepreneur, meddlesome matchmaker, and his mother’s former partner in running The Gi Gi and Birdie Center for At-Risk Youth Program, she’d known him since the braces-and-bad-haircut years.
“Scars clash with Armani. I’m shallow like that.”
“Please. That scar only makes your glare deadlier.”
He let out a slow breath, fighting the smirk. She wasn’t wrong. The eyebrow had always done the talking. Now the scar above it punctuated every boardroom silence like a visual mic drop.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Ms. Birdie pressed. “Frankie’s therapist says she’s ready to return to Naked Runway. What more do you want?”
He suspected Frankie had bullied the poor soul into releasing her. From everything he’d learned over the last month, Frankie Peterson didn’t sit in the passenger seat of any situation. “I want proof of change from that force of nature you call an editor-in-chief.”
“She is a force of nature,“ Ms. Birdie agreed. “A category five. A woman who’s ruined careers, and darling, yours is probably next, if she ever finds out who you are.”
“Surely, you can do better than a hurricane running your magazine.”
“The fact you think that proves you know nothing about the fashion business. I’m honestly a little worried therapy might have dulled her edge.”
He didn’t respond immediately. His thumb brushed the faint scar on his forehead. Frankie Peterson was reckless, and someone needed to hold her accountable. That’s what this was. Not vengeance. Just balance.
“This isn’t about revenge,” he said. “It’s about consequences. Frankie’s meltdown during Fashion Week ruined Lola’s moment.”
Lola Fizz, an artist who had gone viral for painting thrift-store shoes with explosive, one-of-a-kind designs, had been set to debut her latest collection right after Naked Runway‘s Real-Life Book Boyfriends strutted their fantasy selves down the runway. Lola’s tagline said it all: If the shoe fits, vandalize it.
The timing had been perfect.
Until Frankie imploded.
Her tantrum had tanked everything.
“It’s not you who should right the wrong,” Marcus said, his voice calm but final. “It’s Frankie. Someone has to make sure she’s ready before we unleash her on the masses.”
Ms. Birdie sighed. “And you wonder why she refers to you as Mr. Uptight.”
He winced. The nickname grated, but considering how hard he’d worked to stay anonymous, she wasn’t wrong to give him one. “Better Mr. Uptight than outed.”
Ms. Birdie was one of the few people who knew why the Grant brothers avoided the spotlight, which was likely the only reason she hadn’t thrown them into one of her infamous matchmaking schemes.
“Darling, the longer this goes on, the more likely your name will be revealed. Secrets don’t stay secret forever.”
“You’re the only one who knows. And I trust you.”
“Then what exactly do you want me to do with her? The therapist signed off. An idle Frankie is more dangerous than a working one.”
“You said the therapist signed off?”
“I did?”
“Interesting. Signed off makes it sound like Frankie bullied a signature out of her.”
“I have documentation affirming that Frankie met the necessary benchmarks.”
Which, Marcus noted, wasn’t quite the same as saying he was wrong. “Why didn’t you fire her after the incident?” he asked. “You could’ve done better.”
“My reasons are none of your business.”
“I disagree. If I understood your logic, it might reposition mine.”
“I’m certain it would not. Now tell me, what is it you want her to do?”
He looked out at his new view: rolling countryside, a fence, wildflowers, and beyond it, a treehouse occupied by his binocular-wielding neighbor.
He was definitely not in Manhattan anymore.
“I want Frankie to move to Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“And do what? Milk cows? Join the PTA?”
If the thought of Frankie in Gi Gi’s Crossing rattled Ms. Birdie, he could only imagine how Frankie would take it. Too bad he couldn’t be a fly on the wall.
“She needs to practice being nice. Therapy won’t stick unless she uses it.”
“Frankie would lose her mind in a town with nothing to do but smile at people. She doesn’t do quaint. She does curated chaos. The town won’t know what hit it.”
Marcus snorted. “She won’t be idle. She’ll be running the local bookstore while the owner’s on maternity leave.”
“A bookstore?”
“One of the busiest spots in town. If she’s changed, we’ll all see it soon enough.”
He could see Frankie there already. A few quiet months surrounded by friendly strangers, forced to smile and play nice.
She would chafe. And, because this was about having a friend’s back, he wanted to watch the discomfort.
Let her squirm a little for Lola’s sake.
When Lola came back from wherever she’d gone after the show, he’d tell her what he’d done. Quiet justice.
And if, by chance, Frankie took therapy seriously and actually got something out of it, by the time the exile ended she would ask Ms. Birdie to pass along a message about lessons learned and bridges mended.
He’d accept it from a distance, satisfied that order had been restored. Everyone would win. Especially him.
He waved at Harriet the Spy, who lowered her binoculars and saluted him.
“Trust me, if I can survive the town’s quirks, so can Frankie.”
“It makes my heart happy that you’re honoring Gi Gi’s last wishes.”
He didn’t respond right away. Technically, he’d only agreed to organize the renovation of the manor.
Who knew what was in the final envelope, which they weren’t allowed to open until all five of them had finished their assignments?
“I’m completing what she asked of me in the first round of to-dos. Can’t speak for future rounds.”
“I have faith.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what else you know about Gi Gi’s plans?”
“She’d haunt me in kitten heels and couture if I said a word before the will gives the all-clear.”
“Then we’re back to Frankie.”
“And you’re sure you want her running a bookstore in a bankrupt town?”
“It’s no longer bankrupt. The local gossip column calls it up-and-coming. If I can live here, so can she.”
“Live? As in permanently?”
“That’s yet to be determined.” Marcus scratched his head. “Didn’t you say you were in the know on her last wishes?”
“I thought I was,” Ms. Birdie said with a sigh. “She must’ve spruced them up.”
“My life didn’t need sprucing.”
“And yet you’re in Gi Gi’s Crossing and desire Frankie to be there, too?”
“Desire? Absolutely not. I simply feel it’s my duty as a responsible citizen to evaluate her rehabilitation before we release her back into Manhattan.”
“Frankie once petitioned Hallmark to stop making small-town Christmas movies.”
“Okay?”
“She made the female staff sign it. Called the whole 'big city career woman gives it all up for a small town guy' trope an insult to the gender.”
“And I need to know this, why?”
“So, when she says no to your plan, you’ll understand it’s not just stubbornness…it’s a deeply held belief.”
“Until I’m convinced she’s no longer a danger to innocent front-row attendees, I won’t sign off on her return. If she says no, you’ll have no choice but to fire her.”
Ms. Birdie’s laughter softened. “Oh, Marcus. You’re going to regret this.”
“I seldom regret decisions I feel this strongly about.”
But even as he said it, the voice in his head whispered, Seldom is not never.