Chapter 27
Marcus had survived his fair share of surprises in Gi Gi’s Crossing, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of a wild-haired man in shiny gold pants bursting through the manor’s front door, a Vegas revue apparently missing its headliner.
“Where is Marcus D Grant?” the stranger demanded, scanning the foyer as though expecting a spotlight to cue his entrance.
“That’d be me,” he said flatly.
The man lit up. “Fabulous!” He thrust forward a hand weighted with rings. “I’m Ziggy. Just Ziggy.”
Before Marcus could respond, footsteps echoed across the foyer’s gleaming tiles. Frankie dashed in, cheeks flushed, hair wild, clearly mid-panic. “Ziggy!” she hissed, seizing his sleeve. “I told you—” Her gaze cut to Marcus, and she clamped her mouth shut.
Ziggy ignored her. “Francesca, don’t worry. We’ve already established instant chemistry.” He turned to Marcus, lifting his chin like a tragic actor delivering his final line. “He won’t deny me sanctuary in my hour of heartbreak. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Marcus blinked.
“Ziggy, you cannot just barge in and declare chemistry,” she snapped.
Ziggy pouted like she’d punted his emotional support cat. “So I can’t provoke instant lust? Please. Tell her, Marcus. You want me.”
“Ziggy—” Francesca warned.
“I’m straight,” Marcus cut in, managing it with all the grace of a man confessing to a misdemeanor.
“Oh.” Ziggy’s shine dulled. “This is all Eddy’s fault. He’s broken my gaydar!”
Marcus dragged a hand down his face. “Francesca, would you like to explain what’s happening?” Did this man know her as Francesca or Frankie?
Ziggy squared his shoulders. “Excuse you. It’s Ziggy’s story. Ziggy will tell it.”
Marcus sighed. “I’m listening.”
Ziggy struck a pose, hands on his hip, chin lifted in full peacocky authority.
“It all began when I discovered the town’s only B&B was booked solid.
Crammed with hunky contractors in toolbelts who, rumor has it, will be swinging their hammers for months under your command.
” He flicked a hand toward Marcus. “Naturally, I had no choice but to seek refuge in this manor. Bonus points on the soon-to-be brimming with hot, sweaty men detail.”
Marcus bit back a grin. He couldn’t decide if Ziggy was terrifying or just the best entertainment he’d had all week. “I don’t rent rooms.”
Frankie wedged herself between them. “I told you, Ziggy, the manor isn’t a hotel—”
Ziggy shushed her with a flourish and a finger to her lips. “I was hoping to find a safe place to…regroup.” His voice cracked, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “From my heartbreak.”
Marcus stilled. The theatrics were absurd, but the pain underneath rang true.
Ziggy dabbed at an imaginary tear, then aimed a watery smile Marcus’s way. “Please, Mr. Broody McSuit. One night. I’ll take the sofa. Or broom closet. Though full disclosure, I’m allergic to dust.”
Broody McSuit? He wasn’t broody. And he sure as hell wasn’t wearing a suit. “Pretty sure the broom closet’s out of commission,” he said wryly. He cut Frankie a look. “Is the couch in the cottage not big enough?”
“Cottage?” Ziggy’s voice pitched into scandalized horror. “You have my Francesca living in a cottage?”
Marcus nodded, baffled. What the hell was so offensive about a cottage?
Ziggy’s brows shot up. “This can’t be true. No one puts my FB in a cottage. It’s like putting caviar in a—” He broke off mid-simile, spinning toward Frankie. “Darling, don’t you worry. Ziggy has arrived. I will take the cottage. You will stay here in the manor, where you belong.”
Frankie just blinked.
Marcus tried to read her expression, but she kept her gaze fixed on Ziggy, leaving him in the dark. What the hell was he missing?
“You’re welcome to come back to the manor,” Marcus offered, careful to keep his voice neutral. “If that’s what you prefer while Ziggy’s in town.”
Ziggy clasped his hands in triumph. “Perfect. I promise to be gone in one week. Two max. Three if the healing process drags. Six months if my emotional scar tissue proves stubborn. A year at the absolute outside. I promise I’ll not stay a minute past the moment this heartbreak simmers down, and I can gather my wits. ”
Marcus arched a brow. “Your heartbreak,” he repeated, his tone edged with curiosity. “Are you…running from someone?”
For once, Ziggy’s showmanship cracked. His features softened, the sparkle dimming into something raw.
“Yes,” he admitted quietly. Then, with a throat-clear and a pasted-on-smile, he rallied.
“But we needn’t dwell on my misfortunes.
All I require is Francesca. She’s the only person alive who can deliver the truth without mercy. That’s all I want—honest advice.”
The words landed harder than Marcus anticipated. He hadn’t thought of Frankie as someone who had left a circle of friends behind. From the way she carried herself, not to mention that damn friendship book, he’d assumed she was a solitary force of nature.
Frankie exhaled, raking her fingers through her hair. “I’ll help you sort through your heartbreak.” Her gaze flicked to Marcus, then darted away. “But don’t make a scene. Don’t tell anyone where I am. And you are absolutely not staying a year.”
Ziggy pursed his lips in a delicate pout. “Darling, the heart mends on its own timetable. I can’t rush grief. My last heartbreak took two years to become bearable.”
Marcus coughed, stepping in before the conversation spiraled further. “How about we show you to the cottage? It’s quite cozy.”
Ziggy glanced down at his loud outfit, clearly torn between complaint and gratitude. “Cozy can work,” he said loftily. “As long as I can stretch out. My morning heartbreak yoga requires full wingspan.”
Frankie gave a quick laugh that actually sounded genuine. “Come on,” she said, motioning for him to follow. “Marcus, could you have someone bring my things back to the manor?”
“Sure.”
Marcus watched them head toward the door, Ziggy rolling his suitcase with a clatter that echoed off the manor’s stone threshold.
Perfect. Now he was hosting a walking heartbreak while simultaneously trying to secure the title of Worst Boyfriend Alive for a woman who’d firmly planted him in the friend zone.
And with Frankie back under his roof, the odds of The Bad Boyfriend Project succeeding had officially skyrocketed. The sooner she left town, the sooner he and his brothers could breathe easier.
It didn’t take a genius to see the fastest way to send her packing…pull the trigger on the last-resort tactic. Bad sex.
On paper, it was brilliant. In practice? Madness.
And yeah, it would make him a colossal asshole.
Sleeping with her while she didn’t know he was the very man who’d exiled her?
That was a betrayal worthy of its own headline.
But he’d take Asshole of the Year over Brother Who Put Them All at Risk.
Both titles made his skin crawl, but one scraped bone deep.
Which left him with a problem.
How exactly did one even do bad sex? Forget her name? Over-apologize? Narrate the play-by-play like a golf announcer. He pictured himself whispering, “And now…we approach the green.” Yeah, no. That would kill him faster than it killed the mood.
Then again, his humiliation was a small penance for the deception he was about to drop on Frankie. She deserved honesty, not a bad night of sex. He deserved—
Marcus dragged a hand down his face and forced himself to breathe. Ziggy’s chatter followed Frankie in a rapid-fire stream of questions about local dining and whether the town stocked at least one boutique with sensible lounge attire.
Was he really considering sabotaging himself between the sheets? Apparently so.
Too bad Plan D didn’t exist.
Plan C was his last stop.