Chapter 2
Frankie Peterson stormed into Ms. Birdie’s office, the heels of her René Caovilla pumps striking the floor like a declaration of war. Which, to be clear, was exactly what she intended.
“Why the hell was Isabella given the pleasure of informing me I’m not returning to work today?”
She crossed her arms and leveled a glare at Ms. Birdie. One that could crumble giants…if said giants were actually looking at her.
Ms. Birdie was not. Her attention remained squarely on the papers in front of her, like Frankie’s entrance hadn’t been choreographed for maximum impact.
Undeterred, Frankie pressed forward. “Out of all the staff at Naked Runway, you chose her to deliver the blow? My nemesis?”
The final word delivered with the drama of a red-carpet slap.
Still, Ms. Birdie barely looked up. It was as if she were deciding whether the outburst warranted a response. Or if she could ignore it and finish reading whatever was so damn interesting.
“Well?” Frankie refused to be ignored as an adult. She’d gotten enough of that as a child, before her father skipped town when she was eight. “Say something.”
With the slow, deliberate calm of someone who had seen many a meltdown, Ms. Birdie adjusted her pink diamond-encrusted glasses. “Close the door, dear. We need to talk.”
Something in Ms. Birdie’s tone snuck past Frankie’s armor, tamped down the fire in her gut, and caused her to hesitate. But only for a second. Frankie, after all, had right on her side.
“This had better be good, Birdie,” she snapped before slamming the door and whirling back around. “Because I’m already late for—”
“It’s Ms. Birdie,” her boss interrupted, folding her hands on the desk. Her demeanor was calm, but her voice carried the unmistakable weight of a thin-ice warning. “And you’re late for absolutely nothing.”
“How can you say that? There’s a staff meeting at this very moment, and Isabella is running it.”
“As if that’s a crisis. She’s done a fabulous job of stepping into your shoes while continuing to run her side of the magazine.”
“Of course she has. I was her mentor. I taught her utterly everything she knows.” In a very unFrankie-like action, she flicked an imaginary speck from the sleeve of her cream silk blouse like a Nervous Nellie. She quickly clasped her hands behind her back where they couldn’t betray her.
“Then why the concern?”
“Don’t be dense.” Frankie winced. Her tone, sharp enough to draw blood, made her sound less like a misunderstood genius and more like an unredeemable bitch.
Exhibiting yet another nervous tic, she adjusted the oversized sunglasses perched in her hair like a crown.
A movement that usually soothed her frayed edges.
“Isabella and I are enemies,” she added, as if that excused her bite.
“She doesn’t return the sentiment,” Ms. Birdie said, her voice cool.
Frankie decided to shift gears. Isabella had been the woman’s favorite from day one of her employment at Naked Runway. “Why am I not being allowed back at work?”
“We’ve arranged for you to head to Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“We!” We meant he had once again manipulated Ms. Birdie into doing his anti-Frankie bidding. “If Mr. Uptight thinks he can send me away to some sort of anger management rehab facility—”
Ms. Birdie raised a hand, silencing her mid-rant. “Gi Gi’s Crossing is a newly minted small town with a delightfully colorful past. You’ll run a bookstore there while the owner is on maternity leave. Perhaps you’ve heard of the town under its rather unfortunate birth moniker… Nippleton Falls?”
For one brief, horrific moment, Frankie’s ability to verbally slice and dice failed her.
She blinked while her vocal cords fought their shackles.
Realizing her legs still worked, she stormed across the room.
“You cannot be serious. Nippleton? I don’t do small-town anything, let alone a Nippleton bookstore.
” Everyone had heard of Nippleton, and not just because of the name.
Years ago, a viral listicle called “10 Towns You’d Move to If You Hated Yourself” had featured it at #3.
Frankie had reposted it with a caption: “Honestly, #3 feels generous.”
Ms. Birdie’s expression remained unchanged. “It’s Gi Gi’s Crossing now, and you don’t do small-town manners either, Frankie. And that’s exactly the problem.”
“I beg to differ. The problem is you’re under the ludicrous assumption I’ll willingly go to Nippleton and run a bookstore.”
“This isn’t negotiable,” Ms. Birdie continued, her tone immovable as a glacier. “You threw a stiletto that hit a man in the head. And while your reason had merit, that kind of behavior doesn’t just blow over in this industry. Therapy was step one. Gi Gi’s Crossing is step two.”
“For the love of all that’s holy during Fashion Week, will this torture ever end?!” Frankie snapped. “I endured the torment of spilling my guts to a stranger, and now you’re exiling me to some backwater town to babysit books?”
“Think of it as a chance to prove you’ve changed. A chance for you to practice being kind to people.”
Fuck nice. It was for wimps and Santa Claus enthusiasts. “And if I refuse?”
Ms. Birdie’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t crinkle the corners of her eyes. “Then I’ll have no choice but to let you go.”
The words hit Frankie like one of her dad’s backhanded slaps. For all her bravado, the threat cut deep. Her iron-clad contract with Naked Runway didn’t cover stiletto throwing…no matter how altruistic the action had been.
Still, the idea of being banished to Nippleton, rebranded or not, made her stomach churn. A shiny new name couldn’t scrub away the decades of late-night punchlines it had endured. What the hell did newly minted even mean when it came to a small town? Weren’t they all older than Roman sandals?
“And what exactly will my time there look like?” she asked, her voice low, wary as she tried to cave with dignity.
“You’ll run the bookstore and its book clubs. Make friends. And most importantly, practice kindness without looking like you’re plotting someone’s demise.” Ms. Birdie, to her credit, spoke in a matter-of-fact tone devoid of smugness. “Consider it a social experiment.”
“A social experiment?” Frankie grabbed at the bone. “For whom? You? Mr. Uptight.”
Ms. Birdie glanced away.
“This is his idea,” Frankie growled. Mr. Uptight. Mr. Anonymous. Mr. Idiot, who couldn’t be bothered to duck when a shoe came flying across the runway right at him, was behind this latest turn of events.
Frankie had not been aiming at him. Hell, she’d not been aiming at anyone. A situation had been at hand, and a diversion had been needed. She had created the distraction. Unfortunately, circumstances kept her from leaking that truth bomb.
Honestly, she’d never even gotten a glimpse of Mr. Uptight. During the madness that had followed, he’d taken the mate to a pair of one-thousand-dollar stilettos and vanished.
“Think of this as a creative retreat,” Ms. Birdie said.
Frankie shook her head. “I’m done being his puppet. Let him sue us. You can sue him for blackmail.”
“My agreement to this arrangement isn’t because I had no other option,” Ms. Birdie said. “It’s because he was right. Your temper needed to be addressed. Besides, he gave you an out. He offered to drop everything if you issued a public apology via Naked Runway.”
Frankie’s jaw clenched. “And you know exactly why I didn’t.”
Frankie Peterson didn’t do public apologies.
Or private ones.
Or performative groveling to appease people who didn’t matter.
Apologies were for the lily-livered. People who couldn’t stand by their choices.
She would bet her black soul he had known her stance, and that’s why he’d offered the compromise. Not as a peace offering, but as a poison pill. An out she’d never take.
It hadn’t been a real choice. It had been a setup.
As if dealing with a child who never ceased to fray her edges, Ms. Birdie shook her head. “Frankie, if you value your position at Naked Runway, you will go to Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“Of course I value it. That’s why I went to therapy.” She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and lowered her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “But before I agree to be exiled to some rehab called Gi Gi’s Crossing—”
“Not a rehab, a small town. A quiet place where you can practice the skills you’ve been working on in therapy.”
Frankie gritted her teeth. “When my therapist released me, she said nothing about my needing to practice niceness before returning to work.”
“A simple yes, I’ll do it, or no, I quit, is all the response I need from you.”
Frankie gave a painful nod. This was a fight she wouldn’t win. And not a hill to die on.
As if reading her mind, Ms. Birdie smiled. “There’s one more thing. One of the town’s residents will report back on how well your therapy has…taken.”
“Taken?”
“Think of it as performance art.”
Frankie scowled. “Is that Mr. Uptight’s idea or yours?”
“Mutual.”
Frankie gestured wildly. “If word gets out that I’ve been banished to Nippleton Falls—”
“Gi Gi’s Crossing,” Ms. Birdie corrected.
“—I’ll be a laughingstock,” Frankie finished.
“Then don’t go as yourself,” Ms. Birdie replied smoothly.
Frankie stilled. “What are you suggesting?”
“If you’re worried about your reputation, go as someone else. A rich heiress, perhaps. Someone…eccentric. I suggest you keep it simple. You could introduce yourself to the town’s people as Francesca instead of Frankie. Or Francesca B.”
“Tell me more,” Frankie forced herself to say.
“By keeping a version of your name, it will be easy to remember to answer it when someone calls out to you.” Ms. Birdie sounded slightly flustered.
“I explained why I threw the shoe,” Frankie said, still hoping for a reprieve. “And you said it was an understandable action.”
“Understandable doesn’t make it okay. One might murder a cheating spouse, which is understandable, but it’s not okay.”
“A good lawyer could get me off on a cheating spouse murder charge.”
“Frankie, this discussion is over. If you allow yourself, I believe you’ll have a fine time playing the part.
I suggest you take a few wigs and bold outfits to sell the character.
As far as Gi Gi’s Crossing is concerned, you’re a wealthy socialite looking to…
immerse herself in small-town life. When you return, you can write a piece about going undercover to see for yourself the appeal. ”
“So, you want me to go undercover as a Birkin-bag-toting heiress who reads Jane Austen by candlelight for the sake of an article?” she pushed, not hating the way the assignment was being massaged into something much more palatable than a forced banishment.
Ms. Birdie smiled faintly. “Not Jane Austen. You should pretend to read something far more outrageous than that. For the sake of a fabulous article, go all in and make the experience as entertaining as possible. Just don’t forget the being nice part of the assignment.”
“Eccentric but nice.” Frankie’s mind whirred, already calculating possible actions she could take to play up the role. “If I’m doing this,” she said after a long pause, “I’ll need to borrow items from the closet.”
The closet in question wasn’t just any closet. It was an archive of haute couture, a treasure trove of fashion history. It would have everything she needed to immerse herself in her new identity.
“Fine, fine,” Ms. Birdie said.
“I’m taking the entire Birkin collection.”
“Of course,” Ms. Birdie agreed. “Oh. And one other thing. I’ve arranged for you to stay in a small cottage located on the grounds of a lovely manor.”
Frankie perked up. A town with a manor couldn’t be all bad. It suggested at least one affluent local. Someone she could practice her cover story on. “That will do just as long as the manor’s chef is prepared to cook meals for myself as well as that of the household’s occupants.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange that,” Ms. Birdie said, a twinkle in her eyes. “But I should mention, the manor is undergoing renovations. Its owner is not living there. According to my sources, it’s currently occupied by the contractor.”
Six hectic hours later, Frankie stood in her condo, surrounded by an explosion of fashion chaos. Wigs, leather, and two half-packed suitcases littered every available surface. Not to mention two trunks that would be sent to her new address by the end of the week.
She held up a pair of sky-high stilettos in one hand and a ballet flat in the other. “Am I supposed to blend in or stage a coup?”
The flats hit the discard pile. She packed the stilettos inside the nearest suitcase after wrapping then in tissue to keep the leather from scuffing.
Frankie opened one of the five borrowed Birkin bags she was taking with her—because a runaway heiress would never abandon her collection—and began filling it with items worthy of its buttery leather interior.
A vibrator disguised as a lipstick. She did not do small-town guys.
A small bottle of hot sauce. Some people didn’t understand seasoning, and she refused to suffer blandness.
A package of condoms. It was better to have them and not need them than fuck and get pregnant.
She picked up a small hardcover and turned it over in her hands: How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole). A parting gift from her therapist.
Charming.
The only reason she hadn’t tossed it was because… Well, she liked the title. It was refreshingly honest. Brutal, even.
Hell, if she were forced to run book clubs during her banishment to Gi Gi’s Crossing, she might just make this the pick and invite Mr. Uptight, via Ms. Birdie, to join in. No way in hell he had many friends…if any.
She shoved it into the bag. She might be exiled to small-town purgatory, but she wasn’t about to go quietly.
And as for Mr. Uptight?
She’d peel off his mask, ruin his reputation, and do it all without smudging her lipstick.