Chapter 18
At noon, Marcus shut the study door and let the silence settle over him like a verdict.
Outside, the crew was on their lunch break. Tools were down, voices muffled by distance. He should’ve been reviewing the punch list, but for the first time since arriving in Gi Gi’s Crossing, the manor wasn’t his main priority.
Renovating the rickety home was supposed to be the headline act. Everything else? Background noise. Now, the noise had a name. Frankie Peterson.
He glanced out the window. Scaffolding finally hugged the east side of the house after months of grinding council meetings, budget debates, and permits moving at the speed of molasses. He should’ve been celebrating. And he was. Mostly.
But the part of his brain not obsessing over foundation cracks and window restoration was recklessly, relentlessly fixed on Frankie Peterson’s sharp edges, untouchable gloss, and the dangerous hint of softness buried just deep enough to destroy a man.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he thumbed Ms. Birdie’s number and pressed call. Straight to voicemail. Of course.
“Ms. Birdie,” he said, steady enough to fool anyone but himself, “Frankie’s done it. The locals love her. She’s practically radiating niceness. I think we can call the matter resolved. She’s yours again. I’ll have someone take over at the bookstore.”
He paused, gaze drifting to the orchard beyond the manor. Pink buds dotted the branches like they weren’t ready to commit. Everything outside was waking up.
And here he was, ending something the only way he knew how…before she found out who he really was. Before she realized the man in her bed was the same man pulling the strings.
When the call ended, the quiet wasn’t peaceful. Just hollow.
He stayed at the desk, elbows braced, staring at the orchard like it might offer forgiveness. The trees swayed lazily, unaware the man watching them had just pulled the pin on something he couldn’t undo.
His phone rang.
He picked up on the third ring. “Ms. Birdie. I appreciate the call back.”
“Well, hello to you too, Marcus.” Her Southern sweetness wrapped around a blade. “So. You’ve decided it’s time to send our girl home?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned into the chair’s faint creak, as if it could anchor him. “She’s proven she’s changed. It wouldn’t be right to drag this out any longer.”
Ms. Birdie hummed. Not a pleasant hum. A grandmother-who-knows-you-lied-about-the-broken-vase kind of hum. “Marcus, I’ve known you since you were in grade school. What is it you’re not telling me?”
His gut tightened. Damn. The woman was intuitive. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is, dear,” she said, her voice softening without losing its edge. “But you started this arrangement. So out with it. Why are you really trying to send Frankie home?”
He looked toward the orchard. The pink blossoms swayed gently, oblivious to the carnage he was about to cause. “Because we’ve developed…something. And the longer she stays, the harder it will hit when she finds out who I am.”
Ms. Birdie didn’t respond right away. “And who is that, Marcus? Her landlord? Her friend?”
His jaw tightened. “You know who I am. I’m the one who sent her here. Mr. Uptight. The one who—”
“The one who wanted to help her,” she cut in. “Let’s not rewrite history. You saw someone spiraling and gave her a chance to reset. While she thinks you banished her, that was never your intent. You wanted to give her space to reflect and grow. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “My intentions won’t matter when she finds out it was me. I know her motto. Apologies are for the lily-livered.”
There was a pause. “Marcus, tell me something. You think Frankie’s slain her demons?”
“Not yet.”
“So she’s unredeemable now?”
“Of course not. But I’ve got no business pulling her strings. I shouldn’t have set this in motion in the first place. Lola lost a major opportunity because of her. I decided that gave me the right to step in.”
“Speaking of Lola, have you had a chance to speak to her?”
“She and her brother have both been radio silent since the show. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. You were saying something about having the right to step in and defend Lola. Please continue.”
“Then Frankie showed up, and she wasn’t anything like I’d expected.”
“And because she’s surprised you, you’re giving up?”
His gaze dropped to the desk. To the grooves carved deep into the polished wood. Signs of age that even the best finish couldn’t erase. “Not giving up,” he said quietly. “Just trying to keep the fallout contained.”
“What kind of fallout, dear?”
He exhaled hard. The woman saw too much. “The kind where hearts stop minding their own damn business.” Saying it out loud felt reckless. And too honest.
“I never pegged you for a man who didn’t believe love could overcome high hurdles,” Ms. Birdie said in a gentle voice.
He slammed his palm on the desk. Not hard enough to crack the wood, but the lamp rattled in warning.
“There’s high hurdles, and then there’s the impossible.
I’m the man she’ll burn to the ground the second she finds out who I am.
No alternate ending. No loophole.” And there’s a lot more at stake than my love life, but Ms. Birdie doesn’t need me explaining that.
“Here’s my advice,” Ms. Birdie said calmly, like she was offering a stock market tip instead of dismantling his entire emotional wiring.
“Stop spinning out over what might happen if your worst fears come true. Instead, ask yourself what she needs from you. Because the Frankie that came before you didn’t do emotions.
Not anger. Not joy. Definitely not vulnerability.
She’s alone in this world. Estranged from her father.
She doesn’t trust anyone, so she has no friends. ”
She paused just long enough for the silence to stretch tight between them.
“Sending her to stew in self-reflection? Maybe it started from a place of arrogance. But make no mistake, it’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for that girl. It’s the starting point for her to learn how to let someone over the walls she’s built to keep everyone out.”
Marcus leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. “And if she discovers the truth of who I am, it could undo all that work.”
“When she finds out, there will be a scorched-earth response. The real question is: are you brave enough to stand in the flames and wait for her to walk through them to you?”
He closed his eyes. “Her hate will have her walking away, not toward me.”
“Absolutely,” Ms. Birdie said, firm as a southern steel magnolia. “Especially with a woman as hard-headed as Frankie Peterson. Your job is to stay put long enough to prove you’re worth the turnaround.”
He scoffed. “Only way she’s turning around is if I’m in a coffin. Just to double-check the bastard stayed dead.”
“You ever hear the one about hate and love being two sides of the same coin?”
Marcus gave a dry, bitter laugh. “What good is love if you’re dead?”
A rustle on the line. A creak of a chair. Then her voice, clear, sharp, and cutting through all the noise. “Take a breath. Think before you take the easy way out. Isn’t the chance at love worth surviving the worst of her wrath?”
Before he could reply, the line went dead. Marcus lowered the phone, the echo of her words trailing him into the silence.
He looked back out at the orchard. They’d just survived a cold, hard winter and had come out the other side. Just like Ms. Birdie said he could.
His thoughts circled back to last night. To Frankie. To the way she’d looked at him just before she let go, when fire and vulnerability flickered in her eyes, when she trusted him with something bigger than her body.
That moment had done something to him.
He couldn’t rewrite the beginning. But what came next was still his to control. He would pull more guys from the manor and have them bust ass to finish the cottage before quitting time, then move her things back before she got home from work.
She deserved a place to storm off to after he told her he was Mr. Uptight, somewhere she could slam a door and plan his murder.