Chapter 7
Marcus took a sip of his coffee and watched chaos, disguised as a woman, sitting across from him. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were busy tracking and calculating as if constantly rearranging chess pieces no one else could see.
If he didn’t know who she really was, would he believe her wild Francesca B story? Would he like her?
And why was it, knowing everything he did, that he was still intrigued?
Appalled, he could understand.
Unimpressed, he could understand.
But intrigued… That pointed to an entirely different emotion.
Intrigued hinted at hopes of uncovering the good side of Frankie Peterson. Which meant he thought she had one. Nothing in his research supported that belief.
He pushed the thought away. Frankie Peterson did not deserve a free pass. She’d earned her judgment day. Friends don’t let slights go unanswered. It was the DeLuca way, stamped into him long before a new name tried to wash it clean.
“Here you go.” Poppy placed their food on the table and walked away before he could voice a thank you.
Frankie sighed.
He glanced her way. “Everything okay?”
“What’s your story?” she asked, before taking a bite of her salad.
“Not nearly as exciting as that of a runaway heiress.”
“Try me.”
He shrugged. “I oversee renovations. Manage the crew. Keep everything on budget.”
She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Do you do any hammering or sawing or wiring?” The question was asked in an accusatory tone.
“None of the above.”
“Then why do you wear the flannel shirts? Isn’t that like the construction worker’s MO? Their ticket to getting the big city girl to fall for them?”
The statement caused him to recall Ms. Birdie’s story about Frankie’s views of the small-town, big city girl, romance trope popular at Christmas time. “Did you move here in the hopes of falling in love with a local?” he teased.
“So, you’re not the brawn…or the brains?” she asked, ignoring his comment.
“Is that your way of getting me shirtless to prove I have muscles?” he pushed.
“You said you made twenty grand last year,” she countered. “Your suit suggests otherwise.”
Even though it shouldn’t have, her observation surprised him. He’d not given it another thought when he’d changed into one of his suits to take her to dinner. “It was my uncle’s,” he lied. “We were the same size. My aunt gave them to me when he died.”
“What’s with the accent?” she pushed.
He snagged a tater tot and dipped it in ranch, and a memory blindsided him. Those first months with Gi Gi, when a tutor came daily to sand down the Italian edges from her boys and stuff their mouths with idiomatic English. “I didn’t know I had an accent.”
“An Italian one,” she pressed. “It’s faint, but it’s there.”
“I spent some time in Italy on a project. Must’ve picked it up then.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m to believe you make twenty thousand a year, you’re a project manager, you wear a dead man’s suit, and you don’t have an ounce of Italian blood running through your veins despite having the stereotypical appearance of an Italian leading man?”
“Which one? Could you be more specific?” The words came out automatic, one of those stock phrases hammered into him as a kid for when anyone noticed something. Distract, deflect, never confirm.
She pursed her lips like she was debating whether to reply or stab him with her salad fork. “Forget I asked.”
“All your questions cause me to wonder if you’re really the charming heiress you claim to be. Convenient, isn’t it, that your dad has someone scrubbing you off the internet?” Too bad his father’s crimes couldn’t be erased from his enemies’ memories as easily.
If Marcus hadn’t been watching her closely, he would have missed the flicker of panic in her eyes before she fluttered her long black lashes and gave him a sugary smile.
“Oh my gosh. You are a doll for calling me out like that. I just opened my mouth to ask you one tiny question, and Daddy’s interrogation skills poured out of me.
You see, any time I brought a guy home to meet Daddy, he would subject them to brutal questioning.
As you can probably imagine, none of them were ever good enough for his little girl…
until Jeffrey. Daddy practically swooned. ”
Marcus opened his mouth, but another voice cut in before he could reply.
“Marcus Grant.” Harriet stopped at their booth and scowled. “Your loud shenanigans scared off the owl I was hoping to see tonight.”
“Glad to see you got down out of the tree safely,” he said.
“I’ll try to be quieter next time.” He glanced at Frankie, who looked a little shell-shocked.
“Francesca B, I’d like for you to meet Harriet the Spy.
Harriet, this is Francesca B. She will be living in the cottage while filling in for Vivian at the bookstore. ”
Harriet turned to Frankie, gave her the full head-to-toe scan, then harrumphed like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “Do you drink bourbon?”
“On occasion,” Frankie replied.
“Good,” Harriet said. “You’re going to need it living in that haunted house.” She walked off without another word, like she’d just passed along the weather forecast.
Frankie turned to Marcus. “Haunted? Was it a ghost looking through the window at me?”
He shrugged. “That is as good an explanation as any.” This wasn’t the first time he’d heard mention of ghosts in Gi Gi’s Crossing. He’d be worried if he believed in them. “Every small town has a haunted something. In Gi Gi’s Crossing, it happens to be the cottage you’re renting.”
“Good thing I happen to have the Ghostbusters on speed dial,” Frankie deadpanned, surprising him with a sense of humor.
“Who you gonna call?” he quipped.
They both smiled. Like they’d glimpsed something real in each other, and neither quite knew what to do with it.
He checked his watch, reminding himself that liking anything about her was dangerous. “We should go if I’m going to make the meeting.”
She slid out of the booth and smoothed her dress like she was prepping for a red carpet, not a town hall meeting in a creaky library knock-off. Then she turned that Francesca smile on him again. Bright. Polished. And just fake enough to make his teeth itch.
“I’ve never been to a town hall meeting. Do they serve champagne? Canapés?”
Marcus pushed to his feet. “Neither.”
“Oh,” she said, as if truly startled by the response. “Perhaps I’ll make a motion to change that. Can I make a motion?”
“You cannot.”
“I think I will anyway.”
As they headed for the door, Marcus knew without a doubt tonight’s meeting would be anything but dull with a fake heiress in town.