Chapter 9
Frankie stood in a drafty third-floor bedroom of the dilapidated manor, arms crossed tight, watching Marcus drop logs into the fireplace.
Her cheerful little ‘I’d be happy to stay in the manor’ line now looped in her head like a cursed meme she couldn’t swipe past. At the time, it had seemed like a good plan. Better to crash under the roof of the town’s reluctant handyman than beg for a bed with the local knitting coven.
But now?
Now, she was stuck in a rickety house and with the guy who’d clearly tried to sabotage her small-town acceptance tour. Sure, the Uber driver had threatened payback, but he didn’t know this town from a bad contour job. Marcus did. What a little gossipy bitch he’d turned out to be.
She narrowed her eyes at his back. “How do you think the whole town found out about the Uber thing?”
“Hard to say.” He kept feeding the fire.
“Hard…or was it you?”
Marcus turned, brows knitted. “Say again?”
“Who but you would have known I didn’t tip my driver?” She planted her hands on her hips.
“I didn’t tell anyone.” Maddeningly calm.
“Really? Because walking into that town meeting felt like someone had circulated a newsletter titled Reasons to Hate Francesca B.”
He shrugged. “News travels fast. Especially in towns with their own gossip column.”
“It can’t travel until someone spills the beans.”
“Maybe your driver stopped at the diner. Could’ve mentioned the encounter over a burger and fries.”
“I’ve already considered him. He’s out. End of list.”
“Are you sure about that? He did swear revenge, and it would explain why Poppy took an instant dislike to you.”
Ouch. “She did not dislike me instantly, and I’m telling you it wasn’t the driver.”
“If not him, then Harriet the Spy’s your best bet.”
“Harriet’s a spy?”
“Not a good one, but yes. She probably saw the whole exchange through binoculars and spread the word before your Uber hit the four-way stop.”
“She has binoculars?”
“Multiple pairs. And at least two treehouses. She claims it’s for birdwatching, but most people think she’s Miss Informed’s top source. I’d wager you’ll make next week’s column.”
She groaned. “Fine. I withdraw my accusation. Temporarily. Pending further evidence.”
He stared at her, expression unreadable, long enough that he caught her wince when thunder cracked overhead.
He tilted his head. “You okay with storms? They’re forecasting a big one tonight.”
“The thunder just startled me. That’s all.
” Not true. In her head, she was back on that threadbare living room carpet, rain pelting the windows like it had a score to settle.
She could still smell the burnt dinner, hear the sharp clap of thunder that came right before her father said, “If you’d given me a son instead of a sniveling daughter, none of this would have happened. ”
Her mother hadn’t cried. Just stayed quiet, contained, like she knew showing emotion only made things worse.
Frankie had cried. Demanded he take it back.
He hadn’t. He’d stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand, jaw like concrete. “Apologies are for girls. For the lily-livered.”
Then he’d left. No forwarding address. No birthday cards. No phone calls.
She’d been eight.
And she’d decided if she acted more like a boy, he might come back. So she stopped crying over skinned knees. Quit playing with dolls. Quit believing in fairy tales. She learned how to cut with her words and never apologize. Just like him.
Thanks to Mr. Uptight’s meddling, and the therapist she now grudgingly respected, she could finally admit that part of her had been forged in that moment. Not all of her. But enough.
Thunder rumbled again. She barely suppressed the flinch.
“Good to know,” Marcus said, not sounding convinced.
“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked as he moved toward the door.
He turned, leaning on the frame. “Depends on which version of you we’re talking about.”
“There’s only one.”
“I’m not so sure. There’s the charming, breezy, probably-owns-more-lipstick-than-books version who had the town eating out of her perfectly manicured hand. And then there’s the one who glares like she could set drywall on fire.”
“Let me guess, you prefer the charming one?”
“Honestly? I find her exhausting.”
“And the other?”
“The prickly one’s interesting.”
People had called her a lot of things. Interesting wasn’t usually one of them.
“The prickly one,” she said, managing a smile, “is just the breezy one when she’s tired. It makes her grumpy.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. Eight hours of sleep and a strong espresso, and I’ll be back to my usual charming, chaos-resistant, Marcus-exhausting self.”
He didn’t argue. Which meant…he agreed.
She turned away like she didn’t care. Like his opinions didn’t land harder than they should. But her stomach was tight. Her chest felt prickly. Was this what emotional indigestion felt like?
I do not care if he likes me.
And yet.
“I’ll have to call in sick tomorrow,” she muttered. “No way I’m showing up in what I wore tonight.”
Marcus’s lips twitched. “I’ll text George. Ask him to come early and see if he can get into the cottage without breaking anything. If he’s successful, you’ll have time to primp.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “You mean if he manages what you couldn’t?”
He didn’t answer.
“He seems the type who’d try everything before leaving a woman without her things for even one night,” she added, watching closely.
“You think George is sweet?”
“He’s what my mom called a kind soul. The kind of man a woman should fall for. Dependable. Warm. No drama. Not the kind who disappears when things get hard.”
Marcus’s jaw flexed. “I’m sure his girlfriend appreciates that about him.”
Frankie looked up, half expecting to see the tiniest flare of jealousy. Instead, his expression stayed flat. No heat. Just…information.
Which somehow made her want to throw something at him.
Or kiss him.
Or both.
She eyed the large, creaky bed. “Why give me the master?”
Marcus smirked. “What makes you think I’m giving it up?”
“You’re expecting me to share?” Her voice hit full shrew mode. “Are you out of your flannel-wearing mind?”
He held up both hands. “Relax. I was joking.”
“Well, don’t. Surprise cohabitation jokes aren’t funny.”
“They are in romantic comedies.”
“And you know this how?”
He shrugged. “I got roped into joining last month’s romance readers’ book club. It’s a town rule, everyone has to belong to at least one.”
“I had to read twelve romances last year because—” She stopped short, catching herself before blurting her connection to Naked Runway. “I was on a committee throwing a soiree that auctioned off twelve book boyfriend tropes.”
“Book boyfriends?”
“Real-life guys who embody a book boyfriend trope. Like, George would be a small-town beta hottie.”
“I see.”
He looked smug, which irritated her. Sure, she’d judged the whole thing ridiculous when she’d first heard of it, but she had the right to. He had no right to judge anything she told him about her past.
She gave him an airy smile. “It was a huge success. The charity raised a ton of money.”
“I can’t imagine volunteering to be auctioned off in front of a bunch of rowdy women.” He squinted like he was trying to picture it.
Which made her imagine it too.
Unfortunately, the image came far too easily. A shiver ran through her. She crossed her arms to mask the traitorous pebbling of her nipples. “Brrr.”
“If you’re cold, I’ve got an extra pair of pajamas,” Marcus said, heading toward the dresser.
“I’m sure they’ll be far too large.” Her imagination, still in full swing, conjured a scenario where he offered her the top, kept the bottoms, and they shared a bed in some twisted forced-proximity romcom. She shook the thought away as he pulled something red from the drawer.
“They’re warm,” he said, shaking them out.
Frankie blinked at the one-piece thermal monstrosity. “Those are a hate crime. Against fashion. And passion.”
“They’re not sexy,” he admitted, lifting them to his nose. “But they’re clean. Smell like the general store shelves. They’re called long johns.”
“Charming.”
He smirked. “Suit yourself. But they’re warm.”
She glared at the pajamas. Huge. Hideous. Horribly unflattering. “Fine.” She snatched them. “But only because hypothermia clashes with my complexion. Hopefully, the cottage fix is minor and I can sleep there tomorrow night.”
“Agreed.” Marcus dragged a hand down his face. His stubbled, annoyingly attractive face. “One more thing. While we’re under the same roof, we might learn things about each other. If that happens, I say we keep those things private.”
How delightful. “Do you have secrets?” Of course he had secrets.
“Plenty.”
“Do they involve pajama choices or dead bodies?”
“Define bodies.”
She smirked. “For the sake of plausible deniability, I’m skipping that.”
They exchanged a beat of silence.
“Fine,” she said. “We agree to keep each other’s secrets.”
“Excellent. I won’t tell anyone you’re grumpy when you’re tired.”
She studied him. “Are you one of those men who expects women to filter their thoughts and serve them up with sprinkles?”
He raised a brow. “One of those men?”
“You know the type.” She gestured vaguely. “You frown when women use their outside voices for inside opinions.”
His nostrils twitched.
Bullseye.
“Sounds like you’ve had the misfortune of knowing the wrong kind of men,” he said.
“I’ve spent time with all kinds. None of them liked being called out. Especially by someone in heels and a bold lip.”
Marcus’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen, then gave her a look that brushed just shy of apologetic. “I need to take this.”
“Of course.” She waved a hand like she wasn’t dying to know if it was his girlfriend. And if it was, what would she say about him living with another woman? Or about whatever it was he was hiding?
He gave a crooked smile. “Salty dreams, Francesca.”
Then he was gone. Door shut. Secret intact.
“Salty dreams? What does that even mean?” she muttered, scanning the room. Everything whispered old money left out in the rain. Dusty velvet drapes, an armoire with more attitude than function, and a bed big enough to host a summit.
She stood there…silk dress, heels, thermal monstrosity in hand…feeling like a woman trapped in the wrong life.
She didn’t belong here. Not in this manor, not in this town, not in whatever rerouted version of her life this was supposed to be.
And it was all Mr. Uptight’s fault.
When she got her revenge on that man, it would light up the night.
Restless, she slipped into the hall in search of wine. At the bottom of the stairs, she spotted a faint glow beneath a door.
Marcus’s voice filtered through, low and tired.
“It was their idea. And honestly, if one of us ends up making this our forever home, then the investment will have been worth it.”
Another voice: “Not it.”
Different one: “I’ve got another year on my contract. I’m out.”
Frankie froze. What was this? A secret brotherhood? A reality show?
“It might be Mom’s final wish,” Marcus said. “Does that not carry any weight with the rest of you?”
“I’m not saying we don’t care,” someone replied. “I’m saying we need time. It would be a big ask.”
Then Marcus again: “Look, I just need permission to pull funds for the internet upgrade. Once the renovations start, I’ll need connectivity to keep the crew running.”
A chorus of unenthusiastic approvals followed.
Frankie shifted, and the floorboard beneath her creaked like a traitor.
She held her breath.
“Francesca? Is that you?”
Crap.
She bolted, racing back to the bedroom and diving under the covers.
Footsteps followed. Stopped outside the door.
“Either I heard you,” Marcus murmured, “or the manor really is haunted.”
Silence.
He waited a beat. “Remember what I said about secrets. I’ll keep yours. You keep mine.”
Then came the quiet retreat of his steps.
Frankie let out a slow breath and stared up at the ceiling.
Who was Marcus Grant, and what made him so sure she had secrets?
Because he sounded absolutely certain.