Chapter 15
Frankie woke up furious.
Not because he was gone, but because she’d tried to seduce him into staying, and he’d still walked out.
I haven’t even called you Daddy yet. Haven’t been naughty enough to earn that spanking.
His parting words. You should get some rest.
“Where’s a sex-nup when you need one?” she grumbled. Now, with daylight bleeding through the windows and the bed cold beside her, she cringed. She wasn’t into spanking. But with him—
She flung back the blankets and stood, pulse kicking harder when she saw the room.
Her trunks. Her shoes. Her bag.
He’d set all this up before last night was even on the table.
Like she was worth the effort. Like she was more than just a tenant in his crumbly haunted mansion.
Or, more likely, because the cottage wiring was a death trap and he either had this room ready before they went to Manhattan or he’d spend another night on his study couch.
Her stomach knotted, rage curdling with regret. She shoved it down.
If Marcus D Grant—damn it, she still didn’t know what the D stood for—thought he could show up, rock her world, then vanish with a forehead kiss and a patronizing pat on the ego? He was out of his damn mind.
She yanked on her robe, tied it, and stalked to the window. It was raining. Naturally.
Through the rain-streaked glass, she caught him.
Marcus, the foreplay fugitive, jogged to his Jeep.
He bent to fish his keys out from under the floor mat, which killed any illusion of billionaire-level security, then climbed in without a single glance at her window.
The engine rumbled, tires spitting mud as he pulled away, clearly determined to flee the scene of the seduction before he had to face the woman he’d left high on orgasms and low on closure.
A clap of thunder made her jump. She’d told George she would walk today because he had a meeting this morning. Maybe he could go in late. No harm in asking.
She grabbed her phone and realized she didn’t have George’s number.
Marcus would. She could text him and ask him for it, but that meant making the first move.
She scowled, then tapped out a message designed to scream unbothered.
Frankie: Good morning. It seems Gi Gi’s Crossing has once again failed to consider my wardrobe when arranging the weather.
Would you be a doll and send George to escort me to the bookstore like the VIP I clearly am?
Bonus points if he brings coffee. Your favorite tenant.
Who still might sue if these pants get wet.
She hit send before she could second-guess it.
Moments later, his reply lit up the screen.
Marcus: George is en route with an apple and attitude. He’s under strict orders to treat you like the VIP you clearly are: Very Impractical Pants. Try not to terrorize the townspeople before noon. P.S. Don’t forget, someone’s probably reporting your every move back to Mr. Uptight.
Her breath caught.
Of course he remembered their secret swap.
But he didn’t get to kiss her like she mattered, touch her like she was something rare, vanish like it meant nothing, and then casually drop her secret back into the conversation.
She’d traded her Mr. Uptight secret for his. A calculated exchange that let her ditch the Francesca B act around him. Which meant she could respond full-strength Frankie Peterson.
Her grip on the phone tightened as she tapped.
Frankie: I did not reveal my secret during pillow talk, so don’t treat it like one. You and I are not on cutesy footing. Yes, you made me come last night during foreplay. Newsflash: I’ve moved on. You should too.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breath ragged despite the smug send-off.
This was why she didn’t do relationships, let alone open up. Vulnerability was a risk best left to people with less at stake. She had a career. A reputation. A brand. And she’d risked it all last night on a crooked smile and an orgasm so good it should have come with a nondisclosure agreement.
She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling herself together with deliberate breaths. Bare feet on the floor. Blankets draped across her lap. Rain tapping the window.
Her gaze caught on the nightstand.
A lemon-yellow book.
How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole)
The gift her therapist had shoved into her hands on her last day of therapy. She hadn’t cracked it once since arriving. She picked it up now and flipped to a random page.
Vulnerability isn’t a crisis. It’s a decision to show up as yourself—even if the jury’s still out on whether you’ll be accepted.
Her lips twitched. The world hadn’t ended. Sure, she’d slept with a man she barely knew and, for the first time in her life, had briefly considered spanking as foreplay instead of a lawsuit.
Maybe that was growth: panic, recovery, and a punchline.
She set the book back down and stood.
An hour later, Frankie unlocked the front door of Just One More Chapter and stepped inside, umbrella snapping shut with practiced flair.
She gave her wig a quick pat, making sure Lilith, all glossy black attitude with a thin leather headband, stayed exactly where she wanted it. Lilith wasn’t about fitting in. She was built for power moves and clean exits, the kind of hair that never apologized for taking up space.
“Good morning, Francesca!” a woman across the street called out, waving like they were sorority sisters.
Her first impulse was to ignore her. But then she remembered: be nice. This was her practice zone.
She pasted on a smile, gave a perfectly composed pageant wave, and called back, “Good morning!”
Apparently, one greeting was all it took for the whole block to swivel toward her, waving and smiling. Frankie gave them an all-purpose nod before ducking inside and flipping the sign to Open.
The second the door closed behind her, she beelined for the counter, kicked off her boots, and changed into her heels.
Some women wore power suits.
Frankie wore four-inch stilettos and tolerated no questions about it.
The landline rang.
She stared at it.
One of those ancient handsets with a coiled cord, no caller ID, and no mute button. Basically a dare to answer.
It rang again.
She rolled her eyes. Picked it up. And dropped it right back onto the cradle.
She’d agreed to open the shop, smile at strangers, and attempt basic human warmth. At no point had she consented to blind trust via old-school phone.
Naturally, it rang again.
Frankie sighed, snatched the receiver, and barked, “What?”
Silence.
Then, laughter.
“Oh wow,” a woman said. “That was aggressively unfriendly.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “And?”
“I’m just saying, I’ve been gone for one day and you’re already answering the bookstore phone like it’s a debt collector.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “Who the hell is this, and why are you interrupting my morning?”