Chapter 8
Marcus strolled ahead of Frankie toward town hall, housed on the third floor of the town’s defunct library.
Her heels clicked to a stop every few steps, followed by a low hum or muttered comment about signage.
He didn’t have to turn around to know she was critiquing the place one storefront at a time.
“Does Gi Gi have a Crush and Crumble?” she called out. “Because this block is screaming for one.”
He didn’t turn around. Of course she’d want a chain bakery known for breakup cupcakes and revenge text menus. Six hours in and already she had opinions.
“Nope,” he said. “But if you’re planning to stick around, maybe open one once the bookstore gig’s done.”
“Darling, I don’t open Crush and Crumbles. I inspire the ensembles worn to them.”
He rolled his eyes just as he reached the library doors.
“Wait up,” she added. “I’ll need an introduction before I start networking on your behalf.”
Fantastic. Just what he needed. Manhattan’s most fashionable grenade throwing herself into the middle of small-town politics.
He took the stairs two at a time, muttering a silent prayer to whatever local deity governed this place.
Inside, the air carried its usual blend of burnt coffee and something faintly nostalgic…pencil shavings or old crayons, maybe both.
Locals trickled into the meeting room, clustering into familiar groups with the kind of easy chatter that made the official agenda feel optional.
Marcus nodded to a few familiar faces. As far as they knew, he was the out-of-town guy hired by some uptight firm—name redacted—to renovate Gi Gi’s Manor. Technically true. But in hindsight, he probably should’ve gone with something less…corporate.
His brothers could take note.
He scanned the room. Ben Rutherford sat dead center at the council table, already scowling.
According to Harriet, Ben and a silent partner had had big plans for the vacant storefronts. Plans Gi Gi had derailed by buying them first.
“It’s time for the meeting to start. Please have a seat!” Ben bellowed, as if volume equaled power.
“Am I late?” Frankie breezed in a beat later, drawing every eye. She spotted Marcus and waved like they were lifelong friends. “I’m with him,” she said, sliding into the seat between him and George.
“Thanks for saving me a seat,” she added brightly, then turned to George with a smile that probably should’ve come with a warning label. “Hi, I’m Francesca B.”
George, the town’s most socially allergic bachelor, flushed so red Marcus half-expected steam to rise.
Marcus jumped in. “Francesca, meet George. He’s the local handyman. Helping me with small stuff at the manor while I wait on permits.”
“Nice to meet you, Francesca,” George said, voice scratchy. He glanced frantically at Marcus. “I heard you’ve got some potholes in need of patching.”
“Darling, he adores the potholes,” Frankie said, laying a hand on George’s shoulder. “They’re his get-a-lady-out-of-her-dress-quick strategy.”
Phones dinged. Chairs creaked as people shifted to get a better look at the town’s newest curiosity.
Marcus didn’t know whether to strangle her or nominate her for office.
Frankie, either oblivious or pretending to be, continued, “I, however, find them terrifying. If only there were someone willing to chauffeur me so I’m not forced to navigate them in heels.”
“I’d be happy to drive you,” George said, sweating like he’d been asked to give a TED Talk on foreplay.
“Aren’t you just the perfect gentleman?” Frankie purred. “My newest, most favorite hero.”
Marcus leaned back, letting the noise fade as he mentally flipped through his talking points. The proposal had already been killed three times. He wasn’t giving them a fourth.
“We’ll begin with the vote on the proposed manor renovation,” Chase Evans announced, scribbling into his ever-present leather notebook.
Marcus blinked. That was new. The manor usually landed dead last on the agenda. A slot perfect for delays and easy rejections.
Why the sudden promotion?
A goodwill gesture?
Or were they hoping he’d show up late and miss the vote entirely?
He wouldn’t put it past them.
“Seems unnecessary to me,” Ben grumbled.
Marcus sighed. A month in, and Ben still hadn’t warmed up. Outsider renovator, outsider money, outsider name stamped across their signs. If the roles were reversed, he probably wouldn’t trust him either.
What he didn’t get was why Gi Gi hadn’t handled it better. She had to know a small town wouldn’t take well to secrecy. Then again, she’d made the purchase just before her diagnosis. Maybe the tumor had started clouding her judgment.
He had high hopes the final envelope—once they’d all completed their tasks—would hold answers.
“Anyone want to table the discussion?” Ben asked, already hopeful.
Silence.
Marcus scanned the room. Harriet, the town’s quirky matriarch, made eye contact. She’d not yet publicly endorsed him. Lydia Park, seated next to her, and a writer for the town paper, gave him a nod. Vanessa Price, orchard owner, followed suit after a whispered word with Harriet.
No one raised a hand.
Relief settled low in his chest. One hurdle down.
“All in favor of allowing a stranger and his employer to go forward with renovations on one of the town’s most historic sites, raise your hand,” Ben said.
Six hands went up. Harriet, Lydia, Vanessa, Chase Evans, and two others Marcus didn’t know.
“Opposed?”
Three hands.
Marcus took note. He was a firm believer in keeping enemies close.
“Motion passes,” Ben muttered.
“Oh. Yay.” Frankie clapped like she’d just won a tiara.
“Thank you,” Marcus said.
“Next on the agenda: Book Club Festival,” Chase announced without looking up. “Vivian couldn’t be here, something about Braxton Hicks, but assures us her temporary replacement is more than capable.”
Lydia Park was already standing.
In five town halls, Marcus had learned Lydia treated town traditions like religion. And the Book Club Festival was the holy grail.
“Vivian handpicked her substitute,” Lydia declared. “A young woman with extensive event experience, particularly with charitable causes and high-profile gatherings.” She turned and stared at Frankie. “She’s with us this evening.”
Frankie frowned. “Are you referring to me?”
“You’re Francesca B, are you not?”
“Are you saying Vivian volunteered me to run a festival?”
“Not just some festival. The Book Club Festival. We have thirteen active clubs. It’s our most cherished event. Last year’s pop-up café was a hoot. People still talk about the Mocha Dick.”
Frankie glanced at Marcus, clearly asking, is this real life?
He shrugged.
“You had a pop-up where Mocha Dick was the headline?” Frankie said, her lips twitching.
“Explain what that is,” someone called from the back.
Lydia pursed her lips. “Honestly. It’s a mocha coffee inspired by Moby Dick. The double entendre was purely accidental.”
Marcus didn’t believe that for a second.
Frankie shook her head like she’d reached her limit. “Sounds lovely, but maybe someone more familiar with the festival should take the lead—”
“I believe Vivian left you notes in her binder,” Lydia cut in. “Why don’t you review them and give her a call? She’s the only one who can select her replacement. It’s in the bylaws.”
Frankie blinked, then turned to George. “Can you pick me up at 8:50? Apparently, I’ve got duties beyond my contract.”
George blushed and nodded.
“Moving on,” Chase said, flipping the agenda sheet. “Any new business?”
Marcus rose. “Requesting permission to begin electrical work on the caretaker’s cottage.”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “What kind of work?”
“The lights shorted out minutes after Francesca moved in. She smelled smoke. Probably bad wiring, but I won’t know until I bring someone in. Either way, it’s not safe.”
Ben snorted. “Convenient timing. You rent it to her, and now it needs an overhaul.”
Marcus held steady. “Housing’s limited. She needed a place, and I said yes. Figured it was the neighborly thing to do.”
The lie tasted worse every time he said it. Offering her the cottage had been about keeping a close eye. But standing here now, pretending to be some well-meaning contractor? Yeah. That was going to bite him.
“Or maybe you’re trying to bypass the required thirty-day waiting period,” Ben said, puffed up with self-importance. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to slip one through.”
“The problem happened tonight.” Marcus kept his voice level. “I’m bringing it to you at the first opportunity.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Ben leaned back, tapping the table like he was weighing how petty to be. “Have you cleared this with your ‘boss’?” He did air quotes around the word.
Marcus sighed. “If you mean the owner of the renovation company, then yes. I’ve got the power to make the request.”
“And just who would that be?”
“As I’ve said, my boss wishes to remain anonymous.”
Ben shot a smug glance at a fellow dissenter. “Tell you what. You want rewiring? Tell your boss to bring this town real internet. Fiber, not this dial-up-in-a-dress we’ve been stuck with.”
A low murmur rippled through the room.
Marcus clenched his jaw. He could handle negotiation, but this was blackmail dressed in small-town folksy.
“And if my boss agrees, can the team start tomorrow?”
Ben scoffed. “Not until we see the results.”
“Where exactly do you suggest Frankie sleeps in the meantime?” Marcus asked, only now realizing he should’ve figured that out before.
Ben scanned the crowd. “Anyone willing to take Francesca B in?”
Silence.
Then came the gossip explosion.
“I heard she made her Uber driver cry.”
“Didn’t even tip him.”
“She yelled at him for not opening her door.”
“Sounds like someone with her nose in the clouds.”
Beside him, Frankie went still. Her shoulders pulled back like a storm was brewing.
Marcus braced for impact.
But instead of blowing, she rose and smoothed her skirt like she was headed for the podium.