Chapter 23
The crunch of tires over gravel cut through the morning rain tapping the scaffolding outside Marcus’s office window. His insides clenched. That had to be the car Ms. Birdie sent to take Frankie back to Manhattan.
In three minutes or less, she’d be gone. Out of his life. Whatever had sparked between them, snuffed out. All for the greater good. A clean break. A willing sacrifice. And maybe, if he kept saying it that way, his heart would stop shouting: you mother-fucking idiot.
A stronger man would stay put. Not check the window. Not look for one last glimpse of the woman who’d turned his careful life on its axis. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be listening for a knock on his back door in the hopes she’d stop and say goodbye.
“Hell.” He set down his coffee and moved to the rain-streaked window.
Headlights cut through the gray. A backfire cracked the stillness. Marcus froze. Not a town car. George’s battered pickup rattled up the drive, and it wasn’t for work. Renovations were canceled while his brothers were in town.
As if on cue, Frankie rounded the corner, blue Birkin swinging, umbrella popped. On her feet, sky-high blue heels beneath a dress that hugged every curve. Buttons ran from hem to collar like a dare.
George hopped out and opened the door. She climbed in with easy grace, no backward glance, a short black wig he had not seen before in place.
“Wonder what that one’s called?” he muttered, grabbing his phone and calling the only person who could untangle this mess.
“Birdie residence,” Ms. Birdie answered on the second ring.
“Why,” Marcus ground out, staring down the drive, “did I just watch Frankie leave for work?”
“I did what I could,” Ms. Birdie replied, infuriatingly calm. “Told her she was no longer needed. Strongly encouraged packing. Even offered transportation.”
“And?”
“She refused. Said she made a commitment she intends to honor.”
“Commitment to what?”
“To help Rae Mathers.”
Marcus blinked. “Come again?” Rae Mathers was basically a walking detention slip. How the hell had she landed on Frankie’s radar?
“According to Frankie,” Ms. Birdie continued, her tone softening, “she made a promise to this child, and intends to keep it.”
“And you just let her tell you no? Aren’t you her boss? Doesn’t her commitment to Naked Runway come first?”
“Darling, I know you’re under a great deal of stress, and because of that, I’ll refrain from saying what I think about your tone of disrespect. But I will say this… You need to tell her you’re Mr. Uptight. Tell her the truth that you and your brothers have a secret worth protecting.”
For one reckless heartbeat, he considered it, what it would mean to go rogue and place his trust in Frankie Peterson.
But the thought barely had time to bloom before he crushed it. Frankie was impulsive. The stiletto incident had proved that. Hell, she’d promised revenge on Mr. Uptight more than once if she figured out who he was.
Between her high emotions, vows of revenge, and a journalist who could sniff out secrets between two monks, there was no way in hell he could risk telling Frankie either of his remaining truths.
Gi Gi hadn’t sacrificed everything for him to blow it chasing the impossible dream of a woman like Frankie.
Family first. Always.
“I can’t risk it,” he said, voice scraped raw.
Ms. Birdie sighed. “Then you’ve got a problem. One I hope you solve before it costs you both more than you can afford.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me, too.”
He hung up before she could say anything else. The scent of bacon hit him halfway to the kitchen, and his stomach growled in response. Giovanni must have run into town and grocery shopped. Having a chef for a brother wasn’t all bad.
Rounding the corner, Marcus spied Luca leaning against the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“You look like shit,” Luca drawled.
Marcus grunted and shoved past him into the kitchen, where his other three brothers were gathered.
Lorenzo was hunched over his laptop, fingers tapping out financial Morse code. Giovanni moved at the stove like bacon was his love language. Antonio sipped his Bloody Mary with the kind of smug calm reserved for men whose stocks, and egos, were always up.
“I’ll have one of those,” Marcus muttered.
“Perfect timing,” Giovanni said cheerfully. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“So,” Antonio said, pouring another Bloody Mary and sliding it across the table as Marcus dropped into a chair, “did you get rid of her?”
“Apparently,” Marcus said, voice flat, “she’s developed a sudden fondness for honoring commitments.”
His brothers exchanged a look. One Marcus knew too well. Trouble was brewing.
“Can’t fault her for having principles,” Giovanni said at last.
Marcus rolled his eyes. “She’s fine hurling a stiletto like a javelin but give her a promise and suddenly she’s the Patron Saint of Moral Obligation.”
Luca pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and straddled it. “Perhaps we should revisit the idea of your admitting you’re Mr. Uptight.”
Antonio closed his laptop. “Odds are high, hating Marcus would win out over any promise she made, and she’d run back to Manhattan.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and you guys were right.” Marcus raked a hand through his hair. “A pissed-off Frankie is a loose cannon we can’t afford to light. No telling what she’d say to Carter should the woman corner her for an interview.”
Giovanni grimaced. “We can’t give Carter that opening. If she gets Marcus’s name as the victim of the wild stiletto, she’ll start digging and won’t stop until she finds her next big story. Something that will end with his image on national news.”
“So,” Lorenzo said with a slow, vicious smile, “it’s time to implement Plan B.”
“If we’re making plans, shouldn’t we start with Plan A?” Marcus asked.
“Keep up, Bro. Plan A was for her to go home a happy camper,” Luca said.
“And Plan B is?” Marcus asked warily.
“The Bad Boyfriend Project,” Lorenzo said with a smile.
“What?” Marcus snapped.
“AKA Make Frankie Go Home Unhappily,” Antonio explained.
“Again. What?”
“We’re not talking in a way that leads to crushed balls followed by a slow, painful death, but instead in a low-key get-her-out-of-town way,” Luca said brightly, raising his coffee cup as if in a toast.
Marcus grunted. This whole thing was a cluster fuck, and it was his fault.
“As long as your plan doesn’t leave me ball-less, I’m all ears.
I’m guessing you assholes already have a sabotage strategy half-baked and waiting for my signature before you head back to Manhattan after breakfast.” When he’d sent out word that construction work for the day was cancelled, he’d explained bigwigs from the company he worked for had come to town to assess the manor’s potential as a retreat location.
This to explain Giovanni’s BMW in the driveway and the four strange men in town.
“Started to, but then Luca’s latest scandal took over,” Antonio said. “But that’s a topic for another day.”
Marcus glanced at Luca, who had the grace to look sheepish, but said nothing. At best, the five of them had a couple of hours to devise a plan. There’d be opportunity later to find out what the hell his brother had done this time.
Giovanni dished up plates of bacon and eggs and set them in front of each of his brothers before taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. “Eat while you brainstorm make-Frankie-hate-Marcus ideas, or the eggs will get cold.”
Luca grabbed a slice of bacon and leaned forward, holding it like a lecture stick. “This all started over shoes. Seems fitting if you ask her out on a date and then take a swipe at her footwear.”
“Wait. This scheme involves our dating?” Marcus asked.
“How else would you become bad boyfriend material if you’re not failing on dates?” Giovanni asked. “Keep up, bro. This isn’t rocket science.”
Antonio added, “Critique her wine of choice,” while covering his eggs in ketchup.
“Heathen,” Giovanni muttered, swiping the bottle. “Where’d this even come from?”
“I carry it. I don’t trust restaurant ketchup,” Antonio replied, snagging it back.
Marcus stared at the ketchup bottle, remembering the small bottle of hot sauce that had fallen from Frankie’s bag on her first day in Gi Gi’s Crossing. And that book on how to make friends. Maybe she really had been trying. Or maybe it had all been a performance for Mr. Uptight.
“Show up late. Constantly,” Lorenzo said, pulling Marcus back into the conversation at hand.
“Forget important dates,” Giovanni chimed in.
“Oooh. I’ve got a good one,” Luca said, “call her by the wrong name. Preferably in public.” He grimaced and rubbed his jaw as if recalling a specific time he’d done just that.
“Bonus points if the name you call her is the name of the woman who broke your heart and made you afraid to ever commit,” added Lorenzo, before grimacing himself.
“There is no woman from my past who made me afraid to commit,” Marcus said.
“Make her up,” they all replied in unison.
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. If he didn’t like her, if he didn’t care, half of these dumbass ideas might’ve actually worked. “Why do all of you have these ideas locked and loaded like heartbreak is your part-time job?”
“Why do you not?” Giovanni asked. “Have you never wanted out so badly you let her think it was her idea? Keeps the exit wounds cleaner.”
“I’ve dated and broken up responsibly.”
“Eww,” Luca said, and the other three nodded like he’d admitted to flossing during sex.
Dear God. Had all his brothers made a hobby out of emotionally waterboarding women? “I do not need to be a medium to know that Gi Gi is rolling over in her grave listening to the lot of you. As she should be, considering she raised you better.”
“Says the man who had a woman banished to a small town because she tapped his head with a stiletto,” Lorenzo fired back.
Marcus blew out a breath. “You’re right. I’m scum.” He resisted the urge to point out that the tap had left a scar. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. Mock the shoes, critique the wine, show up late, forget things, call her by the wrong name. Did I leave anything out?”
Luca raised his mug. “And if none of that works, just be the guy her mother warned her about.”
Marcus arched a brow. “Warned her about?”
Giovanni leaned in, all evil grin. “Every mom says it. ‘Never marry a man who…’ Fill in the blank. You figure out her who. Then be that guy.”
He didn’t have to guess. Frankie had told him herself. She’d never marry a man who tried to change her. She’d said it right before he exiled her to the cottage.
This was the guy he needed to become. The guy who chipped away at her, dulled her shine, made her question who she was.
The guy she’d run from.
Marcus sat back, the decision hardening in his chest. He didn’t want to be that guy. But he would be. For his brothers. For the plan.
If he played this right, she’d walk away angry. Not curious. Not suspicious. Not close enough to see just how much she’d also meant.
The Bad Boyfriend Project was officially in motion. And this time, he was counting on her talent for holding a grudge.