Chapter 3
Marcus stood in the gravel driveway, surveying the damage done by last night’s torrential downpour, when an Uber slammed to a stop, the passenger side landing squarely beside a mud puddle that could easily be renamed Lake Gi Gi.
He stared at the car’s tinted windows and waited for the door to open. Waiting for Frankie Peterson. Ms. Birdie had warned him of her imminent arrival.
The driver’s door creaked and out climbed a wiry man who looked like he’d spent the last several hours gritting his teeth through conversational landmines.
“Rough ride?” Marcus asked.
“You have no idea.” The guy stomped to the passenger side, rapped his knuckles against the back window, and yelled, “End of the line, lady. Time to get out.”
The window slid down, revealing a woman wearing oversized sunglasses. She tilted her head in the driver’s direction, her lips curving into a smile that managed to look both polite and condescending. “Be a doll and open the door for me, would you?”
The driver jerked his thumb toward the door. “Not part of the service. You’ve got hands. Use ’em.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but Marcus didn’t miss how her nostrils flared.
“Chivalry is officially dead,” she declared, before opening the door, taking one look at the mud, and recoiling.
“Oh, no. This will not do.” Her head swiveled toward Marcus.
“You there,” she said, her voice suddenly taking on the crisp weight of a queen addressing a peasant.
“I’ll need you to lift me out. And do be careful not to cause wrinkles. This blouse is Dior.”
“And you are?” he asked, although it was clear.
“Francesca B.”
Things just got much more interesting. “Francesca B do you have a last name?”
“It is of no consequence. I’m known as Francesca B. That is enough.”
Marcus arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching against a grin.
Apparently, Frankie wanted to keep her real identity from becoming common knowledge in town, which would explain the change in her hair color.
At the fashion show, she’d been a powerhouse blonde.
Today, she wore a brunette shade and a messy bun that gave off accidental-bookstore-clerk energy.
The kind that might read banned books and destroy you with a Post-it note.
While he had no intention of letting her hide behind this name change forever, he’d play along for now.
“Well, Francesca B, scootch to the other side and climb out.”
Her mouth formed an O, and she blinked at him like he’d just confessed to kicking puppies. It took all his willpower not to crack a smile. Getting under her skin might prove to be a fun pastime.
“Does the owner of this home know you’re so rude to its guests?”
He cocked his head. “You find my suggestion rude?”
She lowered her glasses down her nose far enough to scorch him with an ice-blue stare. “Scootching is not done in my circles. Did your mother never teach you how to treat a lady?”
“A lady, yes… A princess, no.” He gestured toward the mud puddle. “In the meantime, option A awaits.” He paused, then circled to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door, dodging the smaller puddle she’d be stuck with. “Option B is on deck. Your choice.”
Her gaze flicked to the puddle, then to Marcus.
“Unbelievably rude,” she muttered, slipping her glasses back up her nose before planting her fancy bag in her lap and sliding her leather-clad legs toward the open door.
She hesitated before carefully placing one foot on dirt and stepping out of the vehicle.
Unfortunately, the dirt was soft, and her heel impaled the ground, throwing her off balance. “Save my Birkin,” she screeched as she flung it toward him while in the midst of an all-out flail.
Startled, he caught the purse upside down and gawked as she plopped into the mud puddle.
“Careful now,” he said, biting back a smile. “Wouldn’t want the princess to lose her glass slipper.”
She scrambled into a standing position and looked down at her soaked heels and mud-caked outfit.
And for one blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, her face fell.
Not angry. Not dramatic. Just…defeated.
Then her chin snapped up. The sunglasses slid back into place. Walls rebuilt.
She stopped moving and glared at him, mud everywhere. She pointed at something at his feet. “Don’t just stand there. Retrieve my items before they, too, are ruined.”
He glanced down and took inventory of what had tumbled out of her purse. A bottle of hot sauce, a tube of lipstick, a book, and a three-pack of condoms. He picked those up first. “Only three?” he asked, dropping them in the bag.
“Bite me.”
He reached for the lipstick. The lid slid off, and it began to vibrate. He stilled. Swallowed. Shit. “Is this—”
“What it is, is none of your business. Just put it in the bag.”
Grinning, he did as she demanded and collected the remaining couple of items. A travel-size bottle of hot sauce, and a small book entitled: How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole).
It took every ounce of the good manners he’d been taught growing up not to remark on that last item as he dropped it in her purse.
The driver, clearly unfazed by the spectacle, popped the trunk, retrieved her luggage, and unceremoniously dropped the monogrammed bags next to the mud puddle with a dull thud. “There you go,” he said flatly.
“There will be no tip, and you can expect a scathing review on Yelp,” Frankie informed him.
“And I’ll make sure every Uber driver in the tri-state area blocks Francesca B.” He climbed back into the car, slammed the door, revved the engine, and sprayed her with dirty water as he peeled out.
“Unbelievable.” She flung a mud-streaked hand in the air. “You’ll be hearing from corporate, you hear me? Corporate!”
Marcus suppressed another laugh and took a step closer.
She yanked her foot free with a wet squelch, locked her fiery gaze onto him, and pointed an accusatory finger. “This is all your fault.”
Marcus raised a brow. “My fault? Did I choose your footwear this morning?”
“Oh, don’t play coy!”
“Coy is not in my toolbox.”
She inhaled an exaggerated breath and exhaled it just as theatrically. “I demand to speak to the landlord.”
“I’m overseeing the renovations,” Marcus said with a straight face. “The new owner won’t take possession until they’re completed.”
“You’re living here?” she asked incredulously, as if he looked better suited to a tent on the side of the road. “Do you have a name?”
“Marcus D Grant—”
“What does the D stand for?” she interrupted.
“The D is of no consequence,” he parroted, “but since you asked so nicely, it stands for Dick,” he lied. It stood for DeLuca, his family surname.
“Dick?” She looked at him like he’d just said his middle name was Ditherbum or Dweezil.
“Don’t you like Dick?”
“I love Dick.” Her cheeks flushed the moment she caught the innuendo.
“Now that we’ve got that all cleared up, let’s try the introductions again. Marcus D Grant. At your service.”
She rolled her eyes. “Service, my ass. If you were truly at my service, you’d have carried me from the car to the porch. And now you’re standing like a dick while I’m…I’m filthy, and my shoes are ruined.”
Marcus widened his stance and crossed his arms. “Do I not get credit for saving your precious bag? Which, by the way, is why I didn’t catch you before you fell.”
“Of course I chose to save it first. That Birkin costs more than you make in a year.”
The guilt he’d felt over manipulating her life lately vanished.
Therapy had done zilch to humanize her. His messing with her was nothing compared to the way she no doubt treated people daily.
“I cleared twenty thousand last year; I doubt your purse cost that much.” Allowing her to believe he was a low-level employee of the manor would work in his favor.
“That’s all?” She sounded genuinely horrified. “How does one live on so little?” Clearly, he’d just placed himself lower on her totem pole.
“Easy. I live in the homes I renovate, so I have no overhead,” he lied. “I drive a company car.” He pointed to the used Jeep in the driveway. He’d purchased it before coming to Gi Gi’s Crossing. The fact that it was used and a little battered helped sell the disguise.
The last thing he wanted was for anyone in a struggling town to find out his real career. A venture capitalist. And God help him if they ever discovered the value of his diverse portfolio.
“I’ve even got an expense card,” he added. “Covers gas, food, and a modest clothing allowance.” He glanced down at his flannel shirt and jeans, both from the local hardware store. They were scratchy, dull, and wildly effective camouflage.
“No wonder you have no manners,” Frankie said, not with heat, but almost…pity. Or was that empathy in her eyes? “You’re poor.”
“And poor people can’t have manners?”
“They can.” She got a faraway look, as if recalling something. “But unlike the rich, it’s not a given that anyone taught them. It’s not like their families could afford charm school.”
A taunt settled on his tongue, ready to fly, but he swallowed it. Something told him her words came from the gut, not from superiority.
Besides, she was already standing in mud, soaked to the skin, and humiliated. He didn’t need to pile on. “Point conceded.” Noticing what looked like a twig stuck in her hair, he reached for it. “Hold still.” Without waiting for permission, he gave it a tug.
There was a soft click.
Then a suspicious shift.
And suddenly…her entire bun listed sideways like a ship taking on water.
“Hell.” Not a stick. Not even close. It was some kind of bobby pin that held a fake bun in place. A bun that was now sliding down her head with the grace of a cheap toupee trying to escape a bad date.
And now it was in the mud puddle.
She yelped and snatched it from the murky water. “You—you…unbelievable…barbarian!”
He took a step back. Apologizing felt dangerous.
Completely out of his depth, he did the only thing that made sense. He pivoted and strode away, giving her privacy to reassemble her dignity.
“Where the hell are you going?” she demanded.
“To start the shower,” he called over his shoulder, not breaking stride.
“Excuse me?” she sputtered. “What are you… Wait. You’ve got my purse.”
He stopped, turned, and held it up. “I’m not stealing it, if that’s what you think. Considering your hands are filthy, and this supposedly costs more than some poor saps make in a year, I was taking it inside where I could put it somewhere clean until you’re ready to handle it.”
She shook the wig in his direction. “My shoes are ruined. You can’t possibly expect me to walk barefoot to my lodging.”
“Fuck me,” he muttered. What the hell had he been thinking, bringing a she-devil to a small town?
Clearly, he hadn’t been.
“Well?” Her voice sharp enough to crash Wall Street. “Are you going to fix this, or just stand there playing mud statue?”
He stomped back toward her, grumbling under his breath, then hoisted her over his shoulder.
She weighed next to nothing, even with half the mud pit clinging to her.
“Put me down, you Neanderthal.” Her fists pummeled his back.
“Knock it off,” he growled. “It’s the only way to carry you and protect your precious purse.”
“Oh.” She went still. “In that case, fine. But don’t you dare look at my ass.”
“Your ass isn’t on my radar.” Of course, that sent his eyes straight to it. Damn it. A great ass on a woman who was absolutely not worth the trouble.
Now he understood why the Uber driver had looked like he needed a bottomless drink.
And this was Marcus’s own damn fault.
He thought back to where it had all begun. The fashion show where Lola’s big moment had been scheduled to happen. He’d arrived early and noticed Frankie the second she’d walked in. Who wouldn’t? She’d looked stunning in all black, heels in hand instead of on her feet.
At first, he’d assumed she was one of Lola’s models, waiting to slip into a pair of signature pumps. But then she’d taken a seat.
The show had started. And instead of watching the runway, he’d watched her.
That’s why, near the end, he had been the only one who saw it coming.
She’d leapt to her feet and hurled the shoe.
He’d been too stunned to duck. Too shocked to do anything but flinch as the red-bottom heel smacked him in the head.
Pandemonium followed.
Dazed, Marcus had yanked his ball cap lower over his face.
It was a disguise he always kept close during camera-filled events.
He’d slipped out before his face ended up on every social feed from Milan to Manhattan, just one wrong angle away from waking a deadly vendetta still hanging over him and his brothers
Later, he’d learned the beauty’s name. Frankie Peterson. And that her tantrum had halted the show, destroying Lola’s debut.
“Ouch,” Frankie complained as he ascended the front steps, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You’re holding me too tight.”
“Just don’t want you tumbling headfirst down the stairs,” he muttered, loosening his grip.
At first, he’d assumed her outburst had come from somewhere raw. Something personal. He’d even contacted her boss, once he realized it was Ms. Birdie, and offered to drop it if Frankie issued a public apology in the magazine she edited. She hadn’t. Not a word. Just stubborn silence.
He reached the door, a heavy, weathered thing with flaking paint and an ornate brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. The wood groaned faintly as he twisted the knob and stepped inside the manor.
Not pausing, Marcus marched through the entryway, past decades of disrepair and layers of town bureaucracy, and straight into the downstairs bathroom. He dropped Frankie, mud-caked clothes, bedraggled wig and all, into the deep clawfoot tub.
Her outraged gasp was deeply satisfying.
“Strip,” he said flatly. He grabbed a towel from the rack and dropped it onto the tub’s edge.
“Excuse me?” She clutched the wig to her chest.
“Shampoo, soap, and a robe are right there. Make good use of them.” At the doorway, he paused. “I’ll take your suitcases to the cottage.”
“You are a horrible man.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He shut the door behind him, already grinning.
The banishment of Frankie Peterson might be the best idea he’d ever had.
Or the worst.
Time would tell.