Chapter 6
The diner’s lighting gave Frankie a headache.
Too bright. Too unforgiving. It made the peeling wallpaper and scuffed linoleum impossible to ignore.
Which wouldn’t have been a problem if it hadn’t dragged her straight back to childhood, all sticky booths, cheap coffee, and long hours waiting on a mother with too many jobs and never enough time.
A mother who never took the easy road. Who refused to ask her parents for help or admit she was drowning. Instead, she had scraped by and stiffened her spine, teaching Frankie to do the same.
And then she’d died. A heart attack, Frankie’s senior year of college. Before Frankie had a chance to repay her. Before Frankie could show her that the scraping had worked.
The memories soured her appetite.
Since graduation, Frankie had clawed her way out of secondhand shops and off-brand cereal. She’d built a name. A reputation. A retirement fund.
And then last year, everything cracked. With the help of an investigator, she’d found her father. Complete with a son her age. Therapy had been fun the day she mentioned that tidbit. The asshole hadn’t just left—he’d been cheating on Mom long before the door slam.
“Is here okay?” Marcus asked, gesturing to a booth patched with duct tape and the ghosts of better days.
She nodded and slid in carefully, mindful not to snag her silk sheath on the cracked vinyl. One outfit had already died a tragic, muddy death today. She couldn’t bear another.
Marcus took the seat across from her. His transformation from handyman to sharply dressed dinner companion had thrown her. Enough that he’d teased her about the cat having her tongue. As if her silence had nothing to do with his freshly shaved jawline made for seduction and judgment.
He wore a dark, tailored suit now, paired with a tie that suspiciously complemented her dress. With his scowl, the one he’d been wearing ever since the burnt dinner debacle, he looked like the cover model for Grump Quarterly, if that were a real magazine.
Everything about Marcus confused her. The low-simmering disapproval, even though she hadn’t done anything to earn it.
The polished suit that screamed money, not manual labor.
The voice that was cultured, lightly Italian.
And hands that weren’t calloused enough for someone who supposedly worked with them.
Something didn’t add up.
And she should know. She was running a long con of her own.
“You’re staring,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting like he knew exactly what his transformation was doing to her nerves.
She forced a sunny smile. “Relax. I was mentally assigning you to a middle school game: Kiss, Marry, Destroy. So far—”
“Hey, Marcus. The usual?” A waitress appeared beside them with a grin and bounce, flipping coffee cups with practiced flair.
“Not tonight,” Marcus said. “Burger, tots, coffee.”
The waitress turned to Frankie, her gaze quick and assessing. “You must be Vivian’s fill-in. Welcome to Gi Gi’s Crossing. I’m Poppy Sinclair.”
“Francesca B.” Frankie extended a hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
“I love your hair,” Poppy said. “Very…bold.”
“She’s a stage-five attention whore.” Frankie resisted the urge to pat Sugarplum. “I wouldn’t normally bring her to a diner, but she’s filling in for Cerise. May she rest in peace.”
Poppy’s mouth dropped open.
“Those are her wigs,” Marcus added, bone-dry. “They come with names. And emotional baggage.”
“Right.” Poppy handed over the menus. “Need a minute?” Her eyes never left Frankie.
“Salad. No dressing,” Frankie answered.
“No dressing?” Poppy’s horror was so genuine, Frankie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
She was about to explain, just enough to humanize herself without sacrificing power, when Marcus butted in.
“Let me guess. You adore diet food?”
There it was. That quiet, cultured jab. Polite enough to pass in a boardroom. Cutting enough to draw blood.
Frankie turned back to Poppy. “No dressing but thank you for double-checking my cognitive ability to order a salad.”
Poppy’s expression cooled to winter frost. “Suit yourself.” She pivoted and sashayed off, hips doing more talking than her mouth.
“Quick tip,” Marcus said, eyeballing Frankie over his coffee cup. “Manhattan frankness doesn’t go over well in Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“And your flirty banter with the help does?” Frankie snapped.
“The help?” His brow arched with exaggerated calm.
“You know, the people who accept money in exchange for underwhelming service and unsolicited judgment.”
Before he could fire back, a stocky man in a grease-stained cap paused beside their booth. “Marcus! Meeting’s still on for seven, yeah?”
Marcus nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The man tipped his cap to Frankie. “Evenin’, miss. Name’s Fred.”
“Nice to meet you, Fred. I’m Francesca B.”
“Welcome to our town with an identity crisis,” Fred muttered before walking away.
Frankie turned to Marcus. “Identity crisis?”
He set down his cup. “They auctioned off the naming rights after the former treasurer turned out to be less ‘math whiz’ and more ‘embezzlement enthusiast.’ The winning bid renamed it Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“Seriously?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“It gets better. There’s now a town ordinance: anyone caught saying the old name out loud gets slapped with a fine. Completely illegal, but the mayor calls it a civic donation.”
“What was the old name?” Nippleton. It was Nippleton, her brain shouted.
He gave her a knowing look. “Nice try. I like my money.”
She huffed and pulled out her phone, tapping into a locked Notes file labeled: Things to Research.
Poppy Sinclair
Fred
Marcus Grant
Marcus watched her over the coffee he held in his hands. “Texting your boyfriend?”
“Drafting Cerise’s memoriam,” she said dryly.
“The wig?”
“Obviously.” She locked her phone and gave him her attention.
He smiled, amusement flickering across his face. “So what’s your story, Francesca B? I doubt you just woke up one day and decided to bless Gi Gi’s Crossing with your wigs and wit.”
“Do you truly want to know?” she asked. “Or are you just killing time before your thrilling zoning permit showdown?”
He shrugged. “If you’re living in my backyard, I’d like to know whether you’re a storm, a squatter, or a story I’ll regret not paying attention to.”
She tilted her head, lips curling. “That’s the first interesting thing you’ve said all night.”
“Are you deflecting?”
She leaned forward, tone rich with mock sincerity. “My family’s basically the American version of Crazy Rich Asians. Daddy’s just as wealthy, just as over-the-top, and just as obsessed with controlling his adult children.”
“I’ve never seen that movie.” His face didn’t twitch. Not so much as a raised brow at her claim of generational wealth.
Again, it was as if he knew she was full of shit. “And here I thought announcing myself as an heiress would at least get me a double take.”
“You’re not my first heiress. Still not clear how your wealth status explains your sudden interest in bookstore management.”
“Long story short, Daddy decided it was time I settled down. Naturally, he hand-selected a hedge fund heir named Jeffrey. Because nothing says romance like asset portfolios and quarterly growth projections.”
Marcus tilted his head, finally showing something close to skepticism. “And you told Daddy no.”
“I packed a bag, left a dramatic note, and ran.” She smiled, proud of the fictional bravery. “My source says Daddy’s calling it a phase. He’s convinced I’ll be back within the week, tail between my designer heels.”
“And you came to Gi Gi’s Crossing to…what? Wait him out?”
“More or less.” She dropped her voice half an octave, softening the honesty inside the lie. “He’s never seen me as anything but a disappointment. This is my chance to prove him wrong.”
That truth sat too close to home. She brightened her smile to cover it.
Marcus eyed her for a beat longer. “And working the register at a bookstore is how you plan to redeem your reputation?”
“Brilliant, right?”
He didn’t answer, just gave her a look that said he was either amused or deeply concerned for her mental well-being.
“I’ll have to Google you later tonight,” he said.
She waved a hand, already prepared. “You won’t find a thing. Daddy has a cleaner. Any mention of me gets wiped off the internet faster than a drunk text during a PR crisis.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I’ll get kidnapped by some big, greedy villain who wants to ransom his only daughter for yacht money.” Her stomach turned. These lies were starting to taste bitter.
Marcus’s gaze warmed slightly. “But you’re not exactly kidnap-sized anymore. What are you, thirty-nine?”
Her eyes narrowed. She did not look a day over twenty-eight. “I’m thirty-three.”
He shrugged. “Close enough.”
Six years was most certainly not close enough when it came to guessing a woman’s age. “How old are you?” she shot back. “Fifty-five?”
He smiled. “Close. Thirty-eight.”