Chapter 12
Frankie hadn’t expected Marcus to find her until she wanted to be found. How in the hell would he even know about a speakeasy coffee shop? And even if he did, there was no way he paid ten bucks for coffee.
And yet.
In he’d strolled. Not Ms. Birdie, whom she’d invited. Him. Her damn landlord. Like he owned the joint.
She hadn’t asked how he found her. Ms. Birdie had clearly gone running to Mr. Uptight, who then tattled to Marcus. In other words, she’d chosen Mr. Uptight over Frankie. That betrayal pinched harder than Frankie wanted to admit.
On the walk back to the Jeep, they stayed silent. Him, probably because he sucked at conversation. Her, because Francesca B refused to materialize. And without her, Frankie didn’t trust herself to speak.
Now, two hours into the four-hour drive back to Gi Gi’s Crumbling, the silence had her nerves clawing for release.
“What’s next on the agenda?” she asked, aiming for pleasant.
“I figure you’ll squeeze in a couple of hours at the bookstore before closing,” Marcus said, eyes straight ahead. “I’ll check on the progress of the construction crew.”
Damn. The bookstore and its booby-trapped binder awaited. “You’re not going to feed me?”
“This isn’t a date.”
Of course it wasn’t a date. She didn’t date small-town men. “You only feed women you’re dating?”
“As a rule, yes.”
“Francesca would like to formally accept your invitation to dinner,” she said with an airy flourish.
“I didn’t invite you.”
“You were going to.” She cut back the airiness this time but still landed somewhere between theatrical and helium balloon on its last gasp.
“You want to have dinner with me?”
“Thank you for asking,” she said sweetly, deliberately misinterpreting.
“But, as you can imagine, I don’t usually dine with men who can’t keep up with my lifestyle.
But since it’s you, I’ll consider the invite.
Do you have references? Preferably someone who survived dinner and lived to tell about the date? ”
“Again, not a date. And no references needed, trust me.”
Of course, it wasn’t. But her chest felt warm. And her breathing felt unsettled. She didn’t love that.
Because this wasn’t a date.
And it wasn’t supposed to feel like one.
“So…no references?” she asked, trying to sound disappointed instead of curious.
He gave her a long look. “I’ve been known to splurge on the occasional all-you-can-eat shrimp feast at Red Lobster.”
“Quick question. Am I meant to swoon over that?”
“Has anyone ever mentioned how utterly undelightful you can be?”
“Francesca B is offended.”
She turned and pressed her nose to the Jeep window as they took an exit and drove about a mile down a deserted stretch of road. Then, like a postcard materializing out of nowhere, civilization appeared. A charming wooden sign cheerfully announced: Bienvenue à Chantilly Falls.
She blinked twice, then grinned. The pastel explosion of quaint shops, flower boxes bursting with geraniums and pansies, and whimsical signage with names like Boulangerie and Café au Lait practically squeaked European charm. “Did we accidentally detour through Paris?”
Marcus chuckled. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?”
“How have I never heard of this place?” Then again, she was a born-and-bred Manhattanite whose unofficial motto was: If it isn’t accessible by taxi, subway, or Uber Eats, it doesn't exist.
Marcus slowed in front of a cozy bistro named Le Petit Murier, its ivy-covered brick exterior and fluttering, teal-striped awning straight from a movie set.
“It’s breathtaking.” Frankie slid him a playful glance. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always be an uptown girl. But this?” She waved toward the cobblestone street. “This makes small-town life marginally less horrifying.”
Why couldn’t Mr. Uptight have banished her here instead?
Marcus’s smile pulled tight. “Harriet told me they won a Rebrand My Town contest a few years back. The producers called it the best little French town this side of the pond.”
Frankie arched her brows. “Someone should hire them to rebrand Gi Gi’s Crumbling.”
“Touchy subject. Gi Gi’s Crossing had hoped to win. Didn’t even make the finals.” He parked the jeep. “To make it worse, several local businesses in Gi Gi’s let their leases lapse and moved here. The ones left behind are still bitter.”
“Explains all the vacant storefronts.” Frankie shrugged. “Hard to blame them.”
Marcus came around and opened her door. “Careful. I’ve been told cobblestones and designer heels don’t always get along.” He offered his elbow like it was the 1950s and she was the Duchess of Fancy Footwear.
She took it with a slow smile. “Manners again? Who are you, and what have you done with Marcus?” What she really wanted to ask was who the woman had been. The one who taught him that stilettos and cobblestone were a bad match.
He laughed, low and easy, guiding her toward the bistro.
But Frankie was only half listening. Ever since overhearing that cryptic phone call last night, her curiosity had gone from wild to manic. Whatever secrets Marcus was hiding weren’t just intriguing. They were practically begging her to uncover them.
Inside Le Petit Murier, the air wrapped around Frankie like a cashmere shawl scented in freshly baked bread and browned butter, the whole place holding a doctorate in seduction.
A hostess with a pixie cut and red lipstick that could stop traffic approached with a cheerful, “Bonsoir!”
“Bonsoir,” Marcus echoed, his accent just polished enough to suggest he hadn’t learned it on Duolingo but had probably still flunked oral exams.
Frankie held the observation. He was already suspicious enough of her.
“D?ner pour deux?” the hostess asked, menus poised.
Marcus nodded, and they were guided to a cozy table near the window. Candlelight flickered over rustic wood and café-tiled floors. He pulled out her chair. Gentlemanly again.
As she passed him, a swirl of sandalwood and spice hit her senses, warm and expensive. Her body sighed before her brain could veto the reaction. She stiffened. Surely it was the ambiance making her pulse trip like that. Had to be. Restaurants like this came with mood lighting and poor judgment.
The hostess set down their menus. “Theo will be your waiter tonight.” Then she vanished, as gracefully as if she’d exited stage left.
“You’re staring,” Marcus murmured, a thread of laughter in his voice.
Frankie blinked. “Was I?”
“Definitely.” He didn’t look away. “But I can’t blame you. I clean up nicely.”
She narrowed her eyes, then watched as his gaze swept slowly over her face.
“Now, you’re staring,” she said.
“Was I?” He smiled, all mischief and ease. “It must be because your beauty just knocked my manners out cold.”
Her cheeks went warm. What the hell?
She lifted her menu and muttered from behind it, “Maybe we should talk instead of trying to win a blinking contest.”
“Your topic of choice?” He mirrored her pose, menu lifted just enough to frame the amused gleam in his eyes.
Frankie lowered hers a fraction. “I overheard your phone call last night.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “How much did you hear?”
She tapped a manicured finger against her lips. “Something about a list. Brothers. An inheritance from your mother. You know, light eavesdropping.”
“You must have camped out in the hallway.”
She reached across the table and nudged his menu down. “Please. I do not camp. I linger stylishly.”
His lips twitched.
She went for the kill. “That’s not a hand-me-down suit. And you’re definitely not just a middle manager overseeing roof repairs. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Marcus didn’t flinch. “The lady skips foreplay entirely, I see.”
She rolled her eyes. “Classic male deflection. I accuse you of hiding your identity, and your brain swan-dives into the most overrated part of a man’s sexual skill set.”
He leaned in, matching her energy. “Overrated? Bold claim.”
“Bold yet true.”
That caught him. His brows lifted in open disbelief. “Care to expand?”
“Men. Suck. At. Foreplay.”
Marcus groaned softly, gaze flickering to her mouth. “All men?”
“I’ve yet to find one who managed to bring me to orgasm with foreplay,” she said, unapologetically. “I’ve decided it’s a lost art form.”
He leaned back, fingers tapping the table, gaze locked on hers. “I envy the man who proves to you that foreplay, done right, can be better than the main event.”
She laughed, pulse kicking. “You mean the mythical man who doesn’t treat foreplay like a three-second prelude to a letdown? He’s right up there with the guy who says ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ and means it.”
He clutched his chest, mock-wounded. “On behalf of all men, I apologize you’ve found us so lacking.”
Frankie shrugged. “Not a problem. That’s why God created vibrators.”
He choked on his water.
“I warned you, I don’t do polite small talk.”
“That you don’t.”
“And since I’m not trying to impress you, can we get back to your secrets?”
“Secrets? I thought your topic of choice was sex.”
She scoffed. “Nice try. You’re the one who brought up foreplay.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now, be a peach, and tell me your secrets.”
He leaned in, the candlelight catching the warmth in his eyes. “Trust me. My secrets aren’t half as interesting as what I could teach you about foreplay.”
Frankie leaned in with mock solemnity. “Let me guess. Every woman’s been vocal about your talents, so you’ve concluded you’re the foreplay king?”
He grinned, confidence unfazed. “Exactly.”
She shook her head, laughing softly. “You’ve evidently never watched When Harry Met Sally. Women can fake orgasms just as easily as they lie about their weight.”
He shrugged. “Don’t take my word for it. My offer to prove it stands.”
If he thought the offer would rattle her, he clearly hadn’t been paying attention.
One-night stands didn’t faze her, and she wasn’t shy about saying yes to sex.
“Tell you what. Tell me about that phone call I overheard last night. And if it turns out to be less titillating than the idea of you outperforming my vibrator, then I’ll take you up on your offer. ”