Chapter 11
Marcus drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, his carefully orchestrated plan having unraveled quicker than a contractor’s quote in the hands of a homeowner with a Pinterest board.
How had she done it? One minute, he had been in control. The next, he was hauling two newly delivered designer trunks like an underpaid bellhop.
Her request to “swing by the manor for a quick wardrobe change” had turned into thirty-two minutes and eighteen seconds of waiting while she checked the contents.
The door finally opened.
And out came Francesca, because no woman in that outfit could be called Frankie, with the kind of confidence usually reserved for Bond villains.
Her wig was now a sleek, raven bob. A silk scarf wrapped around her head like she was about to flee the paparazzi.
She wore a crisp, form-fitting white shirt that tucked neatly into black leather pants that looked like they required a team of assistants and a prayer to shimmy into. And those red stilettos? They clicked down the sidewalk like a warning bell. Or a challenge.
He swallowed hard.
Apparently, he had a type. Runway assassin with espionage flair and zero respect for boundaries. The sunglasses were the only letdown. Oversized and opaque, hiding the sharp eyes he’d started to find…dangerously compelling.
“See?” she said, sliding into the passenger seat like she’d been invited. “Told you I’d only be a sec.”
He cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. Or at least his pulse. “What was wrong with the wig you were wearing?”
She shuddered. “Darling, please. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Isabella P Chance in Manhattan.” Then she fastened her seatbelt and gave him a once-over behind those absurd shades. “And stop acting like I’ve wrecked your whole life. I told you, I’m excellent road-trip company.”
Marcus nearly laughed. Excellent wasn’t the problem. Dangerously distracting was more accurate. Especially when every glance from her threatened to knock one of his secrets loose.
He sighed, resigned. “How so?”
“You’ll see.” She flashed him a smile that was blinding, unsettling, and entirely too genuine. “Now, if you’re done wasting our time with questions, let’s get the hell out of Gi Gi’s Crumbling excuse for a zip code.”
Marcus stiffened at her slight to the town’s name.
Sure, Gi Gi’s Crossing wasn’t Manhattan.
It lacked flash, five-star dining, and functioning Wi-Fi.
But the town had a charm, a kind of stubborn authenticity that had begun to grow on him.
Not that Frankie would ever notice. To her, it was exile with ancient plumbing.
“Careful. Rumor has it, people who mock this town are cursed to live here forever,” he said, pulling out of the driveway and turning on the wildflower-lined gravel road that led to the highway.
Frankie laughed. “Please. It would take more than a curse to keep me here.” She reached for the radio. “You’re not one of those men who only listen to jazz or silence.”
“I like good music.”
The jeep filled with peppy pop.
And then she started singing.
He grimaced.
She glanced over. “What? If you didn’t want singalongs, why invite me?”
“Is that what I did?” he asked, stunned. Singing. Frankie sang. It was cheerful. Human. Kind of adorable. Definitely concerning.
Was this part of the Francesca B act?
She leaned back in the passenger seat, smug and composed. “Face it, Marcus. I’m an acquired taste. But give it time, and you’ll be addicted to the unexpected.”
He shook his head, biting back a smile. God help him if she was right.
“What's this wig’s name?”
“Celestia.”
“Another nemesis?”
“Celestia, because when I wear her, I’m channeling my divine right to sparkle.”
He arched a brow. “We’re still talking about you…right?”
She folded her arms. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“Hard not to when I am.”
Frankie waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. The sparkle disappears the second the wig comes off.”
“And the singing?”
“When the road trip is over.”
And just like that, he was glad she’d come. He’d hate to think he might have missed this version of her.
As the skyline sharpened and traffic thickened, Marcus felt a flicker of relief. Manhattan. A city that didn’t ask him to donate to bake sales or fake interest in book club politics. A place he could blend in, not stand out as the odd man everyone noticed.
He pulled into a crowded garage and turned to her. “I’ve got paperwork to sign. Try not to get lost while avoiding anything remotely productive.”
Frankie adjusted her sunglasses with a snap. “Please. I’ll be three cappuccinos in and ten IQ points higher before you finish arguing with a city clerk.”
“Just don’t end up on the evening news.”
“No promises.”
He watched her disappear into the crowd, Manhattan’s newest claim, her smirk and invisible middle finger aimed straight at him.
She was going to incinerate something before the day was over. Probably on purpose.
Inside his office, Marcus made the call to expedite the internet upgrade for Gi Gi’s Crossing.
The rep launched into a breathless monologue about topography, permits, rural grid limitations.
Marcus half-listened, letting the bureaucratic ramble fade into white noise while his mind drifted to Frankie.
She was likely terrifying a barista over the difference between foam and froth.
His phone buzzed as he stepped into the hall.
Ms. Birdie.
He sighed. “Before you say anything, I didn’t break her.”
“Didn’t you?” she replied. “Because I got a voicemail that sounded like it was recorded mid-nervous breakdown. Something about a wig-murdering mudhole, a maternity-leave handoff with zero training, and a binder held together with expired coupons and despair.”
“Her arrival had a few hiccups, and the bookstore owner went into early labor. Nothing this Francesca B persona can’t handle.”
“And yet she’s calling me, demanding immediate reinstatement at Naked Runway, and using words like ‘untenable,’ ‘cruel,’ and ‘possibly litigious.’”
“Relax. It’s part of the character she’s playing. You do know she’s pretending to be someone else while she’s here?”
“Yes. Of course I know. That’s not the point.” Ms. Birdie sighed the kind of sigh designed to fold grown men into submission. “The point is, I’m considering pulling her. Convince me not to.”
Marcus exhaled. “Look,” he said, quieter now. “She’s flailing, sure. But that doesn’t mean she’s failing.”
“That sounded suspiciously like sympathy.”
“It’s not that,” he replied, too fast. “It’s just…this morning, on the drive in, she hijacked the radio and broke into a full-volume, off-key rendition of ‘Material Girl’. I told her to keep it down. She dared me to sing backup.”
“And?”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “And I did. Like an idiot. And she laughed. Not her usual polished laugh. It was real. Loud. Messy. The kind of laugh that makes you think maybe the world isn’t as bleak as you thought.”
Ms. Birdie stayed silent. Which unnerved him more than her usual sass.
He shifted. “I thought the best-case scenario was that this little detour would return a safer version of her to the world. Toned down. Easier to digest.” He rubbed the back of his neck, annoyed with how uncomfortable this line of thinking made him.
“But this morning…I don’t know. Watching her laugh like that.
Watching her be. It made me think—” He trailed off, the words catching him off guard even as he spoke them.
“Maybe the point isn’t making her safer.
Maybe it’s giving her space to become someone no one saw coming? ”
A pause.
He exhaled. “Even her.”
“And how would you feel if the consequences of her actions turned out to be a blessing in disguise?” Ms. Birdie asked, voice gentler now. More curious than confrontational.
He swallowed. Where was the fairness in Lola’s chance getting blown out of the water, while Frankie landed sunny side up?
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. He was starting to suspect he did know. And it scared the hell out of him.
“If you’d like to attempt damage control, and I assume you would, since you’re not saying good riddance, you’ll find her at a little coffee speakeasy called Petal & Thorn. Hidden behind a flower shop in the Lower East Side.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You’re not supposed to. That’s what makes it cool. Or exhausting. I forget which.”
“I’m headed there now. Thanks for not bailing her out.”
“Go to the back door. Knock twice. Password is bitter bloom. And Marcus—”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes when a person’s pretending to be someone else…that’s when their true self comes through.”
Marcus paused.
That line landed closer than he liked.