Chapter 8 #2
“Most of that’s true,” she said sweetly.
“I did stiff my driver. Just the tip. Want to know why?” She turned, smiling, spun-sugar sweet.
“Because I politely asked him to pull forward so I wouldn’t step into a mud puddle in heels, and he told me, and I quote, ‘Princesses shouldn’t leave the castle. ’”
Gasps. A chuckle or two.
She pointed at the cloud commenter. “And my nose? It’s in the clouds because I’m five-nine in heels.”
Silence.
Marcus leaned back.
“I’m not the easiest person to get along with,” she said. “I’m not from here. I don’t act like you. And yes, let’s be honest, I dress better.”
Scattered laughter.
“I came to Gi Gi’s Crossing to figure out who I am without someone telling me. I made a bad first impression on a few of you. I own that. All I’m asking is a second chance.” She paused, then winked. “And maybe a chance to offer some fashion advice while I’m at it.”
The room blinked at her.
Then came the questions.
“I heard you were a blonde?”
“What kind of moisturizer do you use?”
“Are your shoes really red underneath?”
“Will you pay George to be your driver?”
Marcus was impressed. Five minutes ago, they wanted to toss her out. Now they were ready to name her town fashion czar.
Frankie cleared her throat. “When I put on an ensemble, I don’t just wear it, I style it. That includes accessories. Wigs. Jewelry. Shoes with enough personality to carry a conversation.”
The room leaned in like they were watching a royal wedding on a fuzzy TV. Invested, slightly confused, and unwilling to miss a beat.
George looked faint with admiration.
“So you treat wigs like earrings?” someone asked.
“Absolutely. Wigs, lipstick, jewelry, men…each look has a mood. A personality. A vibe. Today’s required me to wear Sugar Plum.” She patted her wig. “Sugar Plum is confident and outspoken.”
More laughter.
“As for the other questions,” she went on, “yes, my shoes are Louboutins. Yes, the soles are red. And yes, they’re…financially assertive.”
A sharp inhale. One whistle.
“But I don’t think of them as shoes,” she added. “They’re an investment in foot real estate.”
Fireworks. Someone muttered it. Someone else scribbled it down.
“Foot real estate,” Lydia repeated thoughtfully.
“Don’t feel bad if it’s new,” Frankie said. “My vocabulary is fashion forward. It’s a commonly spoken language in my circles.”
“Like a knitting circle?”
Frankie sighed. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said, “but maybe it’s better if I tell you before the rumor mill turns me into a tax-evading model with a yacht and a nose job.”
“Did she just admit to a nose job?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Are her boobs real?”
Questions floated like confetti.
“I was born into a very wealthy family,” Frankie said, clasping her hands in front of her with the practiced poise of someone delivering bad news at a shareholder meeting.
“The kind of wealthy that comes with art collections, legacy schools, and fathers who still believe arranged marriages are charming.”
A few hands went up.
“When I refused the man he picked, I was given two options: marry the guy or get cut off.”
“Who’s your father?” someone called.
“It’s better if I don’t say,” she replied with a tight smile. “He has lawyers on retainer the way most people keep frozen pizza.”
“We’ll just Google you.”
“Good luck,” Frankie said, waving a hand. “He scrubs my online presence weekly like it’s part of his skincare routine.”
That earned a full laugh.
“So you’re not really Francesca B?”
“She’s my pseudonym.”
“What the hell is a pseudonym?” someone bellowed.
“An alternate identity,” Frankie replied. “Authors use them. Some more than one. And famous people when they check into hotels.”
“How many do you have?”
“A lady never tells her number,” she purred.
More laughter.
Marcus watched her work the room like she’d practiced this monologue in front of a gold-framed mirror.
“Now,” she said, pivoting, “since my temporary home is a fire hazard, and none of you are volunteering to take me in, I have a simple solution that benefits everyone.”
Marcus stiffened. Oh no.
“I propose I stay at Gi Gi’s Manor until the cottage is safe.”
“Not a good idea,” he shot back.
“I’m a delightful houseguest,” she countered, laying a hand on his arm.
“The place is a construction zone,” he said. “Contractors will start at six. Power tools. Dust. No catered breakfast.”
“But is it safer than the cottage?” she asked.
“Barely.”
Ben banged his gavel. “Settled. Until the wiring gets sorted and Marcus delivers on his internet fairy tale, he will have a manor guest…Francesca.”
“It’s Francesca B,” Frankie corrected.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“You left off the B. The B is important.”
“My bad. Francesca B will dwell at the manor until such time as the cottage is safe.”
The room buzzed.
Marcus sat there, stunned.
This was a disaster. A red-soled, rumor-prone disaster.
Ben cracked the gavel again. “Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scraped, conversations flared, and the night’s events were dissected with royal-scandal precision, every detail turned over for maximum drama.
Frankie turned to him with a too-sweet smile. “I do hope you’re okay with my moving into the manor.”
Marcus didn’t answer.
Her grin softened. “Thank you. Really.”
She turned and floated off like she hadn’t just hijacked his life.
Marcus watched her go.
This was fine.
Totally fine.
He’d just been strong-armed into playing house with Frankie Peterson. The woman he was actively lying to, drawn to, and trying very hard not to murder.
What could possibly go wrong?