Chapter 10
Frankie waved goodbye to George, who’d picked the cottage lock with embarrassing ease.
Which meant Marcus hadn’t even tried.
It was like he wanted her to be miserable. The question was why. Yet another mystery on the Marcus D Grant Investigation Board.
What in the hell did that D really stand for? Devil.
Why so many scowls?
What is his secret?
Does he know my secret?
Why does he want me to be miserable?
She stepped inside Just One More Chapter, greeted by the obnoxious tinkle of a bell.
“Finally!” A pregnant woman waddled toward her, clutching a massive pink binder like it held the secrets of the universe. “Harriet said you’d be here in a jiff.” The binder was thrust into Frankie’s hands.
Stunned by the verbal assault, Frankie cycled through possible responses.
Explanatory, witty, homicidal, but kept her mouth shut.
None of them were permitted to fly. They were no better than the drivel her staff gave her when they were late to a pitch meeting or failed to come prepared with a worthy idea.
“I’m here to meet with Vivian, the owner.” She assumed this was Vivian, but assumptions had a way of tripping the under-caffeinated.
“I’m Vivian…” The woman grimaced and gripped her belly. “Change of plans.”
“What kind of change?”
“Baby’s coming. Two weeks early.” She puffed out three quick breaths.
Frankie scanned the empty store. “Who’s training me?”
“It’s all in there.” Vivian pointed at the binder.
Frankie noted the binder’s bulging pages, several already threatening to escape. “What exactly is in here?”
“Everything to run the place.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Your reference said you’re brilliant and fanatically organized.” Vivian winced again. “You’ve got this.”
“I don’t care what you were told.” Frankie held up the binder. “This is not a handover. This is abandonment.”
“Best laid—”
The bell jingled. A large man barreled in. “Darling, I’m here.” He rushed to Vivian, ignored Frankie, and ushered her straight out the door.
Seconds later, they were gone.
“I clearly said unacceptable,” Frankie muttered, flipping the sign to Closed with a dramatic flair. “This town needs a crash course in preparedness.”
A woman passed by the store window and waved.
Frankie almost ignored her and then remembered her mission. Fake niceness until her sentencing was lifted and she could return to Naked Runway.
Could this be the town’s spy, taking notes for his Royal Uptightness?
She forced a wave. It nearly sprained something.
Pivoting to the back of the store, she dropped the oversized binder onto a cluttered desk already buried in flyers. With a huff, she yanked out her phone and dialed Ms. Birdie.
“You’ve reached Ms. Birdie’s line. Please leave a message at the beep.”
Frankie scowled. She hated leaving messages. Hell, she hated making calls. That’s what assistants were for. She missed Jane. An absolute gem who never cried when Frankie forgot to say thank you.
The beep in her ear reminded her this wasn’t a pity party.
“I need a new assignment,” she snapped. “This one’s a catastrophe.” She hung up without a goodbye.
Then she stared at the binder.
Its cover was a sticker crime scene.
You had me at trigger warning.
Spread those pages like a good little girl.
Hot girls read books.
“This is what happens when you let Pinterest personalities run a business,” Frankie grumbled, cracking open the cover and recoiling at the chaos inside. But before she could process it, the damn doorbell jingled again.
“Can’t you read?” she snapped. “We’re closed.” Too late, she remembered she was supposed to be nice.
“Good morning to you, too,” came a familiar voice.
She looked up. Marcus leaned in the doorframe, amused as ever.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be cracking the whip and making sure the cottage is repaired by five.”
He didn’t flinch at her tone. “Brian took one look at the electrical box, declared it a fire hazard, and a quick fix wasn’t in the cards.”
“Well, thanks for the doom update. You may leave now.”
If he was the snitch reporting back to Mr. Uptight, she was toast. Because there was no nice left in her today.
“I’d love to,” Marcus said, “but the internet’s down at the manor. I need to borrow yours until it’s restored.”
She grabbed a sticky note off the desk and held it up. “It says the internet is for paying customers. And since we’re not currently set up to take payment, guess what? You’re out of luck.”
He chuckled. “Still grouchy, I see.”
“You’d be grouchy too if Mr. Uptight was manipulating your life.”
Marcus’s nostrils flared. Just a twitch. “I’m sorry, who’s Mr. Uptight?”
“Nobody. Forget I said anything.”
“With a name like that,” he said, brushing hair off his forehead, “he sounds like a real delight. How’d he earn the title?”
“Just a guy who ruined my life.” Of course, her therapist disagreed. According to her, Frankie had ruined her own life one poor decision at a time.
“Ex-boyfriend?” Marcus asked.
“Darling, I don’t do boyfriends. I do weekend leases.” Then, with faux sympathy, “Turns out, commitment issues and good bone structure are a package deal.” She plucked a pen from the desk, twirled it, and gave him a once-over. “You might even qualify for the express plan.”
A smile started to tilt his lips, only to flatten, like she’d triggered a memory he’d rather forget. “Like today’s wig. What’s her name?”
She gave him a cool look. “Isabella P Chance.” She touched the edge of her blonde bob.
He squinted. “Why do I feel like that’s the name of a real person?”
“It’s a pseudonym,” she quickly covered. “I wear her when I need a reminder not to trust people.
“Right. Totally fictional.” He gave a slow nod. “So…what did she do to earn wig status?”
“I once gave her an opportunity…and the twit turned it into a flaming dumpster fire of career betrayal.”
“Career? I was under the assumption you were a woman of leisure.”
“My charity work is my career,” she snapped.
“Of course. Please, continue.”
“She was an exceptional volunteer. After a major event, I offered her a permanent position. The kind people would trade their favorite Chanel for.”
“And she turned you down?”
“Oh, not just that. She rejected the offer, then resurfaced in a lesser role at a competing charity.”
“And that was your career humiliation?”
“I mentored her. Thought we were friends. Her actions shouted she’d rather take a career demotion than work for me.”
“Brutal.”
Frankie gave the wig a final fluff. “That’s why I named this one after her. When I feel myself trusting someone, I pop her on and remember to trust no one.”
“She’s like your emotional armor.”
“Exactly. She pairs well with revenge and red lipstick.”
He settled at a nearby table, opened his laptop, and started typing.
“What are you doing? I said the internet is for paying customers only.”
“Just a quick check-in,” he said, eyes on the screen. “Then I’m off to Manhattan.
That got her attention. “You’re going to the city?”
He nodded, still not looking at her. Still definitely stealing the Wi-Fi.
“I’m going with you.”
“What. What?”
“You heard me.” Ms. Birdie would be impossible to persuade over the phone, but in person? Frankie had a chance.
Marcus snapped his laptop shut and stood. “No, you’re not.”
“You’ll love road-tripping with me,” she said, already texting Jane to schedule coffee with Ms. Birdie. “I sing. I snack. I only threaten murder if someone changes the playlist without permission.”
“You have a job.”
She grabbed her purse and opened the door, then turned and waited for him to accept the inevitable.
Let him try saying no. She’d already decided he didn’t get a vote.