Chapter 25
Marcus tapped the steering wheel, staring at the cottage like it might explode. In his mind, Frankie was inside, heels on, arms crossed, fire loaded behind her eyes, waiting for him to crawl to the door and grovel for being not just late but aggressively, unforgivably late.
Instead, he honked.
Not a polite, oops-my-bad honk. A long, full-body, soul-offending honk. Twice.
The Bad Boyfriend Project had officially begun.
The cottage door burst open. Marcus braced, already composing his defense.
But instead of fury, Frankie stepped out with a smile bright enough to gut him. Jacket half zipped, heels clicking like she owned the gravel, and not a trace of the storm he’d hoped to trigger.
She didn’t even wait for him to get out. Just opened the Jeep door and slid in. “Is it true? Are we going to a drive-in? What movie? Do they have several to pick from?”
Why the hell did she sound excited?
“If I’m paying, I’m picking,” he said, aiming for flat. “If you don’t like drive-ins, might as well head back in.”
She twisted to face him, eyes lit like this was an actual date. “Don’t laugh, but I’ve always had a fantasy about a guy taking me to a drive-in and buying me every snack at the concession stand.”
He stared at her. There was no way she meant that. It had to be sarcasm. She was baiting him. She had to be.
He reached for cruelty. “I’ve heard concession calories are harder to burn off for women your age.” Even as he said it, his stomach dropped.
For the briefest second, something cracked in her expression. Then she smiled again. Too bright. Too smooth.
Damn it. She’d handed him a rare vulnerability, and he’d used it for target practice.
Which was the point.
But still.
“I like this wig,” he said, trying to fill the silence. “Reminds me of Wendy.”
“Wendy?”
He let out a low whistle, pushing the memory like it mattered. “She was one hot momma. I’ve had a thing for redheads ever since.”
Frankie turned forward again, her jaw tight.
“Tell me more about Wendy,” she said. The words were light, but her tone? Pure icicle.
“College lifeguard. Redhead. Gorgeous. Wicked laugh. Left me for a women’s rugby coach.” He stole a glance at her. “Looked a lot like you do now, if you squint and subtract the middle-aged fine lines around the eyes.”
Frankie didn’t respond.
He glanced at her again. She was watching the road like it might offer her a better date.
Perfect. With any luck, his next jab would land the knockout.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear Giovanni’s voice right before they drove away.
“If all else fails? Be the worst-case scenario. Bad date. Bad sex. Cry a little. Tell her you love her. She’ll vanish before sunrise.”
Marcus sighed. Bad sex and crying. If that was his killer blow, he’d be the cautionary tale she told at every fucking dinner party.
“My Wendy’s name was Samuel,” Frankie said, her voice too calm to be casual. “Lead singer in a band. Shaved head, sexy as hell smile. Cried when I left him for the drummer. Looked a lot like you, but with more muscle and better stamina. Never once left after the first quarter in the bedroom.”
He chuckled, a real laugh sneaking past the wreckage of his plan. There she was. The kitten with claws.
They pulled into the drive-in just as the sky dimmed to the kind of blue that warned you the mosquitoes were clocking in.
The movie screen stretched between two rust-streaked poles that looked one stiff wind away from collapse.
Around them, truck beds, hatchbacks, and lawn chairs dotted the lot, the whole scene screaming county fair, minus the funnel cake.
Marcus parked. Killed the engine. Tried not to think about how much he didn’t hate this. Because he wasn’t supposed to enjoy her comebacks. He was supposed to be the villain.
And villains didn’t laugh when the heroine swung back harder.
“What’s the movie?” she asked.
“Some old action flick. Lots of explosions. Possibly a rogue alien.”
Frankie beamed. “Even better.”
What the actual hell was she playing at?
“Can we get popcorn and pop and—”
“Bad news,” he said, patting his pocket. “Concession stands a no-go. Left my cash on the kitchen counter.”
She blinked. “Seriously?”
“It happens.”
She sighed and reached for the door. “Then I’ll treat it like an orgasm and make it happen without a man.”
The bite in her tone nearly cracked his composure. He smothered a grin. “I don’t recall you fussing too much about my technique between the sheets. Maybe you’ve never had a real man.”
He braced for impact. A verbal grenade. Possibly heel to the shin.
She gave him a toss of her hair, then navigated the gravel like it was a red carpet.
“Who the hell are you and what have you done with Frankie Peterson?” he muttered.
When she returned, her arms were stacked with popcorn, candy, and two oversized sodas.
Marcus fought the urge to help. Rolled down the passenger window instead. “That took you long enough.”
She nudged the door open with her elbow.
A nearby couple clapped.
“Marry her,” someone called.
Marcus slouched lower in his seat. Of course, the drive-in was crawling with romantic idiots.
“Here,” she said, passing him his drink.
He took a sip, made a face. “Too much ice. Rookie move.” Then grabbed a fistful of popcorn. “You know,” he added, eyeing her balancing act as she climbed in, “I’ve always preferred women who wear flats.”
She paused mid-squat, leveled a look at him. “Then it’s a miracle you ever dated anyone worth a damn.”
“Stilettos are impractical,” he said, watching her slip them off.
“So is testosterone,” she said sweetly.
“Gonna have to agree to disagree on that one, little lady.”
She turned toward him, her lips pinched but eyes sharp. “My dad used to say flats made Mom less of a distraction. That heels invited trouble. So now I wear them. I’m no man’s invisible woman.”
Marcus blinked. Damn. Who tells his wife to take up less space?
The movie kicked off with a guitar riff that could resurrect the dead and credits that practically screamed chaos. A car chase launched before the popcorn had a chance to settle. By minute two, something exploded. Twice.
Frankie curled into her seat like she’d been handed front row seats to a sold-out Broadway show. She popped a kernel of popcorn and whispered, “This is better than I hoped.”
It made him twitchy. All that joy and ease. Like the night hadn’t already started with a slow drip of insults and deliberate disappointment.
Twenty minutes in, the action hero dropped a one-liner so absurd, Frankie snorted soda through her nose. She wiped her face with a napkin, eyes still dancing.
He should’ve rolled his eyes. Should’ve thrown in some line about how she’d embarrassed herself. But his chest tightened instead. She was luminous like this. Unguarded and real. And entirely too easy to fall for.
Luckily, the hero gave him a lifeline by yanking the heroine into a kiss while literal fireballs rained from the sky.
“Must be nice,” Marcus muttered. “Finding the will to make out when you’re about to be vaporized. Personally, I’d prioritize oxygen.”
Frankie glanced at him, half-curious, half-concerned. “So, not a fan of romance?”
He scoffed. “Most overrated thing on the planet.”
She sipped her soda like she was preparing a cross-examination. “Where do you stand on grand gestures?”
“What are those?” he asked, dead serious.
“The over-the-top way a hero or heroine tries to say sorry for doing something monumentally stupid in a romance novel. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I’m looking forward to the day when I’m the recipient of one.”
“You want some guy to screw up so bad he has to pull a hail Mary just to win you back?”
“Not the screw-up part, obviously. But yeah. I want a guy to love me enough that he’d put his pride on the chopping block to prove it.”
Marcus cut her a long, skeptical look. It was like someone had swapped out Frankie for an upgraded version built for romcoms. No barbs. No verbal jabs. Just this…open, unsettling charm. Where was the fire? The sharp edges?
“I suspect grand gestures rarely happen in the real world,” he said slowly. “If a simple ‘I’m sorry’ can’t fix things, maybe the couple doesn’t belong together.”
He braced for her to mock his emotional IQ or accuse him of ruining love stories for everyone.
But she didn’t explode.
Instead, she leaned in. Not enough to touch, but enough to make him feel the heat. Her perfume hit him…a clean, floral scent that did things to his focus.
Then she reached across him, slowly, for the popcorn. Her fingers grazing his wrist.
“Sometimes the woman makes the grand gesture,” she said, voice smooth. “Granted, it’s usually a blowjob. But it’s a proven blueprint that works.”
His pulse flinched. What the hell was going on?
“You sure you’re not some Stepford Frankie knockoff? The real one would’ve stabbed me with a spork by now.”
She tilted her head, completely unfazed. “Maybe I’m evolving. You should try it sometime.”
He gave a huff of a laugh, low and skeptical. “Yeah, I’m not buying that.”
Her lip curled. “Fine. If you want the truth, I’ve decided to give you a shot at being my platonic friend. You know, since the whole sex friend thing didn’t work out.”
His stomach dropped. Platonic? Platonic was worse than hatred. Platonic meant she’d put him in the discard pile and labeled it growth.
How was he supposed to be the world’s worst boyfriend if she’d stopped seeing him as a boyfriend?
“Do you ever just…do normal reactions?” The words slipped out before he could yank them back.
She turned her head slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Normal is highly overrated.”
“So are platonic friendships,” he said, letting his hand drift to her thigh. Mixed signals could still do the trick.
She stilled. “Care to explain what that’s supposed to mean?” She pointed at his hand like it had just violated a treaty. “Did you or did you not move me back to the cottage after one night of appetizer sex?”
“I didn’t move you because I wanted to stop having sex.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Under the same roof felt too relationship-y.”
She blinked, slow and dangerous. “And that hit you when? Right after you proved your tongue worthy of a gold medal?”
He swallowed, scanning his brain for the worst possible boyfriend response. “Why do women always have to take things so personally?”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “Why are men afraid of their feelings?”
“I’m not afraid of mine. I’m afraid of yours.
” He shrugged, trying to make it look casual, not like he’d rehearsed the line in his head a hundred times.
“I left the night before last because we hadn’t set clear boundaries.
Because I hadn’t told you up front that I’m a strictly friends-with-benefits guy.
I don’t do commitments or awkward toothbrushes in the bathroom. Just fun until the fadeout.”
“You flatter yourself if you think I’d ever fall for a man destined to live in a small town.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mark my words. You and every one of your brothers will end up making Gi Gi’s Crossing your permanent address by the time you’ve all finished your little tasks. And before you ask how I know this, it’s simple. I’m a woman. I can hear the truth buried inside another woman’s carefully chosen words.”
She turned back to the screen. Lips tight. Spine straight. Gaze forward like the movie was the only thing that mattered.
Marcus let a beat pass. Then another.
Then, with the kind of smirk that begged for a slap and a drink tossed in his face, he leaned in. “Now that we’ve established we’re both strictly no-strings types, what do you say we get out of here? Revisit that bedroom I had redone for you. Be a shame to waste that mattress.”
Frankie tilted her head slightly, like she was studying a particularly offensive bug on her shoe.
“Maybe we should,” she said coolly, “so I can smother you with a throw pillow.”
Marcus grinned. “So, I’m hearing a yes…with a little added kink?”
“You’re hearing a yes that ends in death,” she snapped.
“Worth it,” he muttered behind a fake cough.
There it was. The edge he’d missed. The real Frankie. The woman who could dismantle a man with one sentence and a flick of lashes. The woman who could ruin him with a single glance…and look gorgeous while doing it.
And he was actively pushing her to that point. Baiting the dragon. Playing the idiot in a rom-com where the last-resort step was bad sex, followed by inexplicable crying, and ending with a poorly timed love confession.
God help him if he wasn’t able to tank their relationship so bad she left Gi Gi’s Crossing before it came to the execution of worst-case scenario.