Chapter 28
One hour later, Marcus opened the back door and found Frankie waiting like she owned the place. Hand on the banister, overnight bag at her feet, a half-smile tugging at her lips.
“Ziggy says he loves the cottage, but the bathtub clashes with his complexion and the refrigerator wheezes like it’s on its last pack of cigarettes,” she said, brushing past him. “He also says thank you, though I think it was more of a ‘don’t screw this up for me’ thank you.”
She didn’t touch the bag. Last night’s Frankie, the one who opened her own doors and bought her own snacks, was gone. This one clearly expected gentleman service.
Marcus closed the door with a soft thud and followed, grateful he hadn’t broken her with his half-assed bad boyfriend routine. “That’s what we do in a small town. We make room for our friends, family, and neighbors.” Even if those houseguests threatened your sanity.
She stopped halfway up the stairs, cocked her head, and gave him a sultry look. “Now you can add to that welcome list, women in need of a stiff drink and a little vibrator therapy.”
Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, then cleared his throat. Fuck.
A thousand responses flooded his brain, all of them off-limits.
He grabbed her bag instead. What kind of idiot actively tried to sabotage a relationship with a woman he was this attracted to? Oh right…him. “Did Ziggy get settled in?”
“Settled? Please. He was halfway through a bubble bath and ranking my guest list by likelihood of social catastrophe. So yes, he’s thriving.”
“Guest list?”
She flashed him a bright, dangerous smile.
“Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t know. I’m starting a friendship club.
First meeting is tomorrow night, and naturally the manor was the obvious choice.
I can’t serve liquor at Just One More Chapter without a permit, and we both know that is impossible in this town. ”
“What kind of club?” A woman considering running back to Manhattan didn’t start clubs. Evidently, his bad behavior on their so-called date hadn’t even moved the needle on getting her out of Gi Gi’s Crossing.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” she said.
“I’m not sure how anyone misinterprets the term friendship club.”
“Okay, fine, it is exactly what it sounds like. But it’s not because I’m desperate. Or weird. Or needy. It’s…therapy related. And you damn well better remember anything I tell you falls under our shared-secrets pact. You blab, I blab. Mutual destruction. Very Cold War chic.”
Marcus stopped at her bedroom door and stared hard at her. Trust Frankie to make therapy sound like a tactical maneuver. “Got it. No blabbing. Tell me more about this club.”
“My therapist gave me this book. How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole). Because apparently, I am an asshole that four weeks of therapy could not fix. Anyway—” She froze, eyes widening, then gave a visible shudder. “Wow. Pact or no pact, that was…an overshare of honesty. Gross.”
“You think honesty is gross?” Therapy was supposed to have softened her edges, taught her not to throw shoes at people who disappointed her. Instead, she’d turned it into a personality critique.
“Honesty is hype. Oversharing is gross. Combined, they’re boring.”
“Boring?”
“People act like they care when you’re talking, but really they’re just counting down the seconds until they can grab the mic back.”
“Fascinating worldview,” he said, setting her bag on the bed. “Thanks…for sharing.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was never an oversharer until Mr. Uptight interfered in my life.”
“And he’s the one who sent you to therapy?” Marcus kept his tone light, as if he were clarifying a footnote.
“Right.” Frankie’s mouth curved, sharp and vengeful. “Mark my words, when I discover his identity, he will die a thousand ugly deaths.”
Marcus forced his expression into something neutral, even amused, though the threat landed with precision. All the more proof she could never know it was him.
“What if you meet him and fall in love with him? Will he—”
“Bite your tongue. Fall in love with him? Not a chance.” She shuddered. “Absolutely not him.”
The declaration shouldn’t have stung, but it did. He cleared his throat. “Tell me more about this friendship club.”
She perched on the edge of the bed and slipped off her heels, which, against his better judgment, drew his eyes straight to her legs. Long, bare, and entirely too distracting.
“Officially, it’s being called Operation Small-Town Chic. Because I couldn’t exactly put How to Fake Being Friendly So You Don’t Die Alone on the invitations. But it’s kind of brilliant. And philanthropic, if you ask me.”
“Philanthropic, huh?” He forced his gaze away and moved toward the door like he might actually use it.
“In case you haven’t noticed, this town needs fashion help. And their social skills? Borderline tragic. I’ve invited the ones who need me most.”
He told himself to say goodnight and keep walking. That would’ve been smart. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe like a man staring down a train. “You’ve read one book on making friends and now you’re running seminars?”
“Please. I was already an expert. I just didn’t bother to deploy my knowledge. For obvious reasons.”
This should be interesting. “Such as?”
She grabbed a decorative pillow and plucked at the fringe. “I don’t like people.”
He bit back a smile. And still, she was starting a club. Not for show. Not to prove a point. To actually try. She was hiding it under fashion, but the truth peeked out like a tag left dangling on new clothes.
It made her human. Messy. Maddeningly…likable.
Which was exactly the problem.
He shoved the thought away. The Bad Boyfriend Project was already wobbling like a drunk on roller skates. If he let himself enjoy her honesty, he was done for.
Still, surely he had more bad boyfriend moves available to him that didn’t involve bad sex. Moves that would produce quick results. Preferably ones that didn’t come with asshole tactics and lasting psychological scars.
Think. Think—
The foster cat.
George had griped about it again while rewiring the upstairs outlets. Grouchy. Territorial. Demon-possessed. Returned by the past three residents who’d tried to adopt it.
Perfect.
Marcus pulled out his phone and typed fast.
Marcus: SOS. Bring the cat. The angry one. Say it’s a welcome-to-town gift for Frankie. Her feelings are hurt she hasn’t received a welcome basket and Ziggy has.
He hit send, pocketed the phone, and realized he was grinning. Fantastic. He was plotting feline sabotage while smiling like a man halfway in love with his target.
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you texting a woman? Perhaps the one who showed up at midnight two nights ago?”
“What makes you think it was a woman?”
“Are you saying it wasn’t?”
“I’m saying, what makes you think it was?”
“You’re smiling like it was.”
“I’m smiling like a man basking in the glow of your emotional growth.”
Her gaze sharpened, suspicious but also a little amused. “That better not be a dig.”
“Scout’s honor.” He flashed a grin, turned, and walked out before she could see that he was sweating bullets under the smile.
Because sabotage wasn’t supposed to feel this much like foreplay.