Chapter 20
Behind Frankie, the cottage’s front door clicked shut like a single, smug clap. As if the Universe had just said, “Well done.”
She flipped on a light and kicked off her heels with enough force they’d need an emergency session with their therapist.
After just two nights at the manor, she’d been demoted. Exiled. Banished back to the servants’ quarters like some mouthy upstairs guest who overstayed her welcome, and she had no idea why.
Last night had been good. Hot, even.
Whatever had gone wrong was on Marcus. He’d had one foot out the door long before she brought up the spanking option. While it may have startled him, it wasn’t why he’d bolted.
For whatever reason, he’d brought her to orgasm and then run. The logical explanation? A sudden bout of what-have-I-done guilt after spilling his and his brothers’ secret to a virtual stranger.
Typical male move. Build walls, mortar them until they could survive a nuclear blast, reinforce with steel beams, and wrap the whole thing in barbed wire.
“Fine,” she snapped, channeling every fired employee denied the promotion they thought they’d earned. “I get it.” She could build walls taller, stronger, and more intimidating than any man could manage.
What wasn’t fine was his lack of transparency. A brave man would have just come right out and said, “Let’s pretend last night didn’t happen.”
And while that would have dented her ego, she would have handled it like an adult…preferably one wearing nothing but her dignity and a killer dress.
Instead, he’d let her ramble. Let her go on and on about vulnerability and communication.
She stormed into the kitchen and glared at the chipped porcelain sink. “Damn you, Marcus D Grant.”
She ripped off her bracelets, dropped them onto the kitchen table, and uncorked the whiskey without ceremony. A generous pour. No ice. She carried it to the living area, collapsed into the faded loveseat, and followed her therapist’s advice for the next time she felt like screaming.
She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.
It didn’t help. Not nearly enough. But it kept her from throwing the glass at the wall.
When she was done, she smiled. That actually felt…nice.
In Manhattan, screaming bought you a wellness check and a pointed email from the co-op board.
Her gaze landed on a half-collapsed moving box, the book How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole) peeking out from the top. The title promised even assholes could cultivate at least one good friend. Frankie wanted to believe that was true.
“I’d like at least one person to ugly cry at my funeral. Preferably not the priest,” she told any ghosts listening. “And the homeless man who sleeps near my condo, the one I slip coffee shop gift cards to every Friday, doesn’t count. If he showed up and cried, it’d be over the caffeine shortage.”
She waited for the ghosts to answer.
They didn’t.
She leaned forward and grabbed the book. “Funeral attendance aside, I wouldn’t mind finding someone to talk to between now and death. Like right now, after being unceremoniously dumped by my half-night stand.”
When the ghosts didn’t laugh at her joke, she flipped to the table of contents. Thirty try-hard chapter titles smirked back at her.
“You Can’t Network If You Don’t Show Up. Friendship Isn’t a Vibe, It’s a Verb. Stop Judging People Before They’ve Finished Saying Hello.”
That last one she didn’t hate. But she also didn’t love. Some people deserved to be judged on sight…especially if they wore Crocs unironically.
She flipped through pages until she landed on: Connection Requires Initiation.
She stared at the words.
When was the last time she’d initiated anything that didn’t involve a contract and a layout? Never. Well, not since the Isabella debacle.
Was that when she’d given up on making friends? Was her alone status Isabella’s fault? Was she why Frankie now lived in social Siberia?
While she wanted the answer to be yes, she muttered no. Her actions, or lack of them, were all on her, not Isabella.
Damn it. When she went back to Naked Runway, she was going to have to make an effort to initiate a less-hostile connection with Isabella.
She sighed, loud and dramatic enough to startle her antisocial ghosts. “Wouldn’t hurt you guys to read this book, too.”
The problem was, how did someone initiate a connection without it crashing and burning the way things just had with Marcus?
Obviously, the answer had to be in the book.
If someone had taken the time to write about making friends, that meant she wasn’t the only friendless person wandering around Manhattan.
Not the only one deemed terminally unlikable.
Hell, maybe there was a whole epidemic of people who’d forgotten how to human.
She glanced out the window, the same one she thought she’d seen someone peeking through her first night in Gi Gi’s Crossing.
This weird little town definitely had people who could use a few lessons. After all, misery loved company. And poorly cuffed jeans.
An idea smacked her upside the head.
According to Ms. Birdie, one of her banishment tasks was to start a book club. But what if she started a different kind of club instead?
A friendship club. Not that she’d ever call it that. Or admit to it. Even under duress.
No, she needed something fashion adjacent. On-brand enough to protect her ego. Subtle enough to hide her real mission.
She crossed to the counter, grabbed the notepad by the phone, and flipped to a blank page.
She’d be doing the town a favor. Introducing them to a way of gathering that didn’t involve paperbacks and lukewarm tea.
This would be an Image Upgrade Club. With liquor. A place to ease the locals into the art of fashion while secretly giving herself a chance to figure out why she was so terrible at making and keeping friends.
They’d think it was about polishing their appeal. Sophistication. Charm. How to avoid denim-on-denim unless it was intentional.
Mr. Uptight would see it as a community service project.
But really, it was for her. A stealth attempt at self-improvement disguised as civic service. And if she could pull one over on Mr. Uptight in the process? Even better. The smug bastard wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought.
The residents of Gi Gi’s Crossing would be her guinea pigs for learning how to make friends. If it worked, she’d return to Manhattan with an actual friendship skill set. Something that had always felt like an accessory she’d never figured out how to wear without looking ridiculous.
She scrawled a few potential group names.
“Style & Substance.” Too Goop-adjacent. Might summon Gwyneth.
“Chic Happens?” God, no. That sounded like a novelty wine your aunt buys in bulk for bunco night.
“How to Impress a City Slicker (Without Losing Your Soul).” Clunky, but closer.
She flipped to a clean page and wrote, in big, underlined letters: Operation: Small-Town Chic.
“Operation: Small-Town Chic.” It sounded like something Isabella would pitch during a meeting while sipping oat milk and texting her better half.
And yet, it felt right.
Frankie jotted down names of a few locals who could use low-key friendship coaching disguised as fashion tips.
Rae. Obvious choice. Maybe the school counselor had a short list of other lovable outcasts with underdeveloped social skills who could join her.
George. He’d sweated through his flannel just trying to ask if she liked muffins during their three-block commute. A prime candidate.
Poppy. The waitress knew everyone’s business and spread it with a smile. Inviting her wasn’t charity. Having the town’s gossip queen on her side felt like smart strategy. And anyone forced to wear a cherry-red uniform and sensible shoes deserved an invite on principle.
Harriet the Spy. Wore camo and sat in trees. A clear cry for help.
Marcus. She rolled her eyes and scribbled in the margin: HARD PASS. Underlined. Twice.
She looked at her list, at the title, at her barely touched whiskey. This was either the dumbest idea she’d ever had or the one most likely to land her a crown in the Town Gossip Olympics.
Either way, she needed backup.
She grabbed her phone and tapped Ziggy’s name. As her second-in-command at Naked Runway, he was contractually obligated to answer and pretend to be thrilled about it.
He picked up on the second ring. “If this is a murder confession, I’m in. I’ll bring a shovel and snacks, but I’m not digging in Versace.”
“Ziggy,” she groaned, sinking into the loveseat. “Do you ever answer like someone whose frontal lobe has fully developed?”
The last time she’d spoken to him, it had been to say he wasn’t actually fired. She’d had a change of heart and decided he, along with every other editor at Naked Runway, could have their jobs back. Naturally, she’d made him call all the others and deliver the good news himself.
“Only for boring people,” he sniffed, with the drama of a man draped across a fainting couch. “What’s going on? You’re either drunk, desperate, or hiding a scandal.”
“All three,” she said. “I’m starting a club.”
A long pause. “A club?”
“Think friendship meets fashion rehab. With themes. And tough love. And judgment.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Probably. But I’ve read a book.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I told Ms. Birdie the air in a small town would ruin you. You were not meant to breathe air particles polluted with flannel fibers and crock-pot steam.”
“I need back issues of the magazine. Friendship features. Worst-dressed retrospectives. Express shipped. Annotated.”
Ziggy inhaled like he was preparing for a monologue. “Frankie. Darling. Sweetheart. I love you. But no.”
She frowned. “No?”
“I’m not sending anything.”
She blinked. “Why the hell not?”
“Because I’m bringing them myself. I need out. Eddy…” He sighed like the weight of a thousand fashion faux pas was on his shoulders. “It’s not good right now. He’s sending ending-soon signals, and I could use a break. Or a distraction. Preferably one with wine and Frankie-level judgment.”
Frankie’s heart squeezed. As new couples went, Ziggy and Eddy didn’t make her gag.
“Zig…”
“Don’t count us out yet, queen. Just make sure this town’s got room for one more emotionally unstable fashion editor with impulse control issues, a Sephora rewards card maxed out at Rouge status, and an affinity for blackout shopping.”
She grinned. “You can’t truly be so concerned that you’d come to Gi Gi’s Crossing voluntarily.”
“Honey, I’m more anxious than an unpaid intern who left a couture gown in the back of a taxi and then realized the receipt was in the gown.”
“In that case, bring wine. Lots of wine. This town doesn’t even have a liquor store.”
“Please, I’m bringing enough to open one. See you just as soon as I get the okay from Ms. Birdie to take some me-time.” He hung up.
Frankie set the phone down, let her head fall back, and smiled at the water-stained ceiling like it was a freshly waxed runway.
This wasn’t just control. This was the start of a comeback, front row, spotlight ready, and guaranteed to make the Miss Informed gossip column. She could already see the headline: Runaway Heiress Melts Down in Small Town, Forms Cult.