Chapter 22
The phone’s buzz rattled the nightstand, jerking Frankie awake. She groaned, fumbling with one hand while wiping at her eyes with the other. “Hello?” she croaked.
“Frankie, I’m glad I caught you before you left for work,” Ms. Birdie said, sounding far too chipper for this hour.
Frankie pushed up on her elbows, her skull pounding. “Why?” she whispered, nursing the fallout from too much of Marcus’s overpriced whiskey.
“Because I have some fabulous news. You’ve officially been sprung from Gi Gi’s Crossing. I’ve sent my driver to pick you up. He’ll be there at nine.”
Frankie struggled upright. “Why?” A hundred other words pressed at her tongue but…whiskey.
“Mr. Uptight has had a change of heart,” Ms. Birdie said breezily.
Frankie froze. Ms. Birdie didn’t do breezy. Which meant something was definitely up.
“He said, and I quote, ‘fixing you was never his responsibility.’”
Her mouth fell open. Hangover be damned. This required words. “What in the actual hell does that mean? That I’m unfixable? That he’s just…what…tapping out?”
“That sounds about right,” Ms. Birdie replied.
“Fuck him!” Frankie snapped. The words echoed in her pounding skull, but not nearly as loud as the memory of Marcus dumping her last night.
“I thought you’d be thrilled to be brought back into the fold. To relieve Isabella before she combusts from all the double duty.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. There it was. The reason Ms. Birdie sounded off. “What did Isabella do that has you pulling rank over Mr. Uptight to save her ass?”
“Darling, you’ve misunderstood. Isabella’s been delightful,” Ms. Birdie said smoothly. “Her team was just singing her praises at dinner last night. Something about next month’s cover kicking the ass of this month’s Vogue issue. You know the one I’m speaking of, right?”
Of course she knew the one.
It had been painfully brilliant. Vogue had teamed up with Louboutin to spin Frankie’s heel-throwing scandal into marketing gold. The tagline: The Only High Heel for Women of Passion.
She still cringed that her old office had scored viral fame off her disaster. The cover had even made the damn Today Show.
“Yes. I saw it,” Frankie muttered.
“Isabella believes we should enter Naked Runway’s clapback cover in the Cover of the Year Contest,” Ms. Birdie continued.
Frankie had already seen it. Jane, her assistant, had slipped her a mock-up. The cover, set to debut next month, was genius. Hell, it made Vogue’s look like amateur hour.
Times Square drowned in discarded heels and crumpled press passes. Dead center: Frankie and a U.S. Navy sailor in the iconic V-J Day Kiss pose—only Frankie’s free hand was flipping off the camera. One Louboutin dangled from her kicked-up foot, its red sole flashing like a war flag amid the chaos.
The tagline: Naked Runway: For Those Whose Passion Is as Bold—and Unapologetic—as Their Fashion.
It would be a monster hit. A triumphant middle finger to anyone who thought Naked Runway, or Frankie Peterson, was going anywhere but forward.
Frankie tore her thoughts from the cover and back to the real gut punch. Mr. Uptight had decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Another man waving the white flag.
“Oh, look at the time,” Ms. Birdie said. “We’ll talk cover choices this evening over dinner. You’d better pack if you want to be ready by nine.”
Frankie shoved a hand through her hair. “So that’s it? Pack up, go home…still unfixed?”
Ms. Birdie hummed, maddingly thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say that. Think of it as an early release for good behavior. Something that should have you jumping for joy.”
“I don’t jump for joy.” Kids did that. “And, honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about leaving my assignment unfinished.”
“Well, isn’t that as curious as finding an original Hermès scarf in the bargain bin at Target,” Ms. Birdie mused, her voice laced with mischief.
Frankie scowled. “Why do I get the sense you’re poking me on purpose?”
“I can’t help but notice your hesitation,” Ms. Birdie said. “You’re usually decisive. Ruthless, even. Why the dithering?”
Frankie stared at the peeled wallpaper, her stomach twisting. “I’m not dithering. I don’t like loose ends.” And damn it, the biggest loose end of all was Marcus. The way he’d tossed her aside, like she was nothing but a failed experiment. That wasn’t something she could leave unresolved.
“And what loose ends would those be?”
“If I leave now, it’ll feel like I quit halfway through. And Mr. Uptight will forever think I wasn’t good enough to survive small-town life.”
“Hmm. Since when do you care what anyone thinks? Especially a man with no sense of humor.”
“I don’t care about his opinion. I care about mine. That aside, there’s Rae—” The name slipped out before she could stop it. Damn it. Why in the world would she put her life on hold for a teenager with a pain-in-the-ass attitude?
“Ah,” Ms. Birdie purred, savoring the opening. “Tell me more about Rae. Does he have a last name?”
“Not a he, a she,” Frankie snapped, furious with herself for even bringing up the delinquent. “Small-town life fits her about as well as it fits me. I’ve offered to help her figure out how to style on a dime.”
“Frankie, that’s fabulous. I’m so proud of you. In fact, take notes. Turn your time with Rae into an article, and we’ll run it in the magazine’s first issue after your return.”
Was she really considering staying in Gi Gi’s Crossing to prove a point to Mr. Uptight and to help a kid with fashion trauma? God, she needed an intervention. Or aspirin.
“If I stay, I want guarantees that you won’t get a wild hair and give Isabella my position.”
“I’m offended by your lack of trust in my word,” Ms. Birdie replied smoothly.
Frankie relaxed, tension loosening. “So, this isn’t you trying to edge me out and hand the throne to your golden child?”
Ms. Birdie and Isabella were as tight as Skims on a whale.
“Honey, Isabella’s filling in because she cares about you. She wants you to have time to regain your balance. She’s one of the few who’s asked me for the real reason you threw a stiletto. She never bought the ‘clumsy model’ story.”
“You didn’t tell her the truth, did you?” Frankie snapped. It was a secret for a reason.
“The truth isn’t a bad thing. It humanizes you. But to answer your question, no. I’ve not told a soul. As far as the fashion world knows, you’re the face of unapologetic passion. Hence, our cover rebuttal.”
“If I were a man,” she said, “I wouldn’t be here. Mr. Uptight would have scheduled a strategy meeting, not sentenced me to the psychological penalty box.”
“You’re not wrong,” Ms. Birdie said. “If you ever meet him in person, you can share your thoughts directly. In the meantime, are you staying or coming home?”
Frankie rubbed her temples, thoughts swirling. Five more weeks. Thirty-five days of her life. Was she really about to give them up for a promise to a teenager? Or would she vanish on Rae the same way her father had vanished on her and Mom?
“I’ll stay,” she said finally. “I may be many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. I promised Rae I’d help, and I’m going to keep that promise.”
And as a bonus, she could spend those weeks slowly driving Marcus crazy with regret for ever walking away from her bed.
Ms. Birdie let out a satisfied hum. “Lovely. I think you’ll find the next five weeks…refreshing.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “You sound suspiciously pleased.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ms. Birdie’s smile was audible, even over the phone. “You always make the most interesting decisions when you follow your heart. Now, I’ve got to go. Ziggy just arrived, and the way he’s fidgeting, my morning meetings are about to be rearranged.”
The line clicked dead, leaving Frankie alone with her pounding head, her twisting thoughts, and a creeping suspicion Ms. Birdie had just maneuvered her into something she couldn’t see yet.
And then, like a hangover boomerang, came the vague memory of last night. Her and Ziggy…planning a friendship club.
Guaranteed chaos.