Chapter 29
Frankie sprawled across the mattress, smug and boneless.
Post-vibrator clarity was a hell of a drug.
Her earlier vibrator joke, dangled like an engraved invitation, had failed because she’d handed him a mile of foyer and three minutes to forget.
Rookie move. Next time she’d keep the line holstered until pillows were in play and his brain had shifted into low-power mode.
Marketing fail.
Before she could spiral into thoughts of why that contaminated the friendship test, his voice floated up the stairs.
“Francesca! You’ve got a visitor. And he’s brought a gift.”
She sat up. “Is it couture?”
Silence.
Padding downstairs, she braced for either a Girl Scout with overpriced cookies or a bookstore customer seeking revenge for being handed the wrong happily ever after.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Quiet and Mysterious,” she said when she spotted George. “You bringing me flowers? Chocolate? A severed head?”
George paled, shoved a cat carrier at her, and mumbled, “Welcome to Gi Gi’s Crossing. We have a town tradition. No one leaves without adopting one of our strays.”
Frankie crouched and peered inside. A gray puffball glared back with one eye, its whole face radiating contempt for happiness.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, delighted. “He looks like he already hates me. Perfect.”
“Don’t take it personally. He hates everyone,” George said, grim as a man delivering bad news. “It was his turn to be gifted. Again.”
She blinked. Again? Had someone adopted and then returned this homeless ball of snarls? How rude. “I have always wanted a cat with as much attitude as me.”
From the corner, Marcus stiffened. He watched her with a look that said he didn’t trust whatever game she was playing.
Then again, how would he know she had a soft spot for the unsheltered?
She’d never told him about the eviction notice Dad had ignored.
Three months unpaid, not because he couldn’t, but because he was a dick. Then he left.
She crouched beside the carrier, her voice low and conspiratorial. “You and me, gremlin. Let’s ruin some lives together.”
“Name’s up for grabs,” George muttered, edging for the door.
“I dub thee…Sir Hissalot, Duke of Disdain.”
“Here’s his stuff,” George blurted, pointing to a tote by the door before bolting.
Frankie rummaged through it. Toys, a litter box, and a book on how to train a cat. “Fabulous. A textbook for teaching a cat, which everyone knows is impossible. Challenge accepted.”
Marcus cleared his throat, jaw ticking. “Adopting a pet is not improv, Francesca. It’s schedules, enrichment, litter hygiene, and consistent boundaries.”
She lifted a hand. “Did you copy-paste that from a parenting blog?”
His mouth flattened. “Fine. Consider it pet adoption transparency. Did you know cats demand daily apologies from their humans?”
She smiled. “Cute. I don’t apologize. He’ll get toys, boundaries, and a performance review.”
When she eventually returned to Manhattan, the cat would stay behind with Marcus.
A parting gift. She fully intended to train it to pee in men’s shoes and judge them while doing it.
Therapy hadn’t revoked her grudge-carrying privileges.
And after banishing her to the damn cottage following one night that ended after appetizers, followed by lackluster date manners, Marcus was overdue for payback.
Marcus frowned. “Be aware—cats and ghosts? Not a great mix.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Harriet claims cats attract or enrage ghosts. She even made charts about it. Something about liminal energy.”
“Liminal energy,” she repeated. “Refresh my memory on that term.”
“One paw in this world, one in the beyond. Cats are beacons to ghosts. Especially in old houses with history.”
“In other words, I’ve upgraded to Haunted Manor Plus?” She grinned. “Delicious.” Naked Runway had taught her one non-fashion truth: the otherworldly was real.
His brows drew together. “If you hear phantom footsteps or wake up to find that cat staring at the ceiling like he’s translating ghost Morse code…don’t blame me.”
Frankie couldn’t believe her luck. He’d just handed her the perfect, gift-wrapped, Friends with Perks opening. “So basically, you’re volunteering to sleep with me for protection?”
He huffed out a breath. “It’s my way of saying haunted houses aren’t for the faint of heart. Or faint of fashion.”
She laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re afraid to take me to bed again. Afraid the other night was a fluke. That you can’t make me come twice in a row with just foreplay.”
Bullseye. His jaw worked, a tell he couldn’t hide.
Spiraling never looked so handsome.
She lowered her voice. “Performance issues?”
“It wasn’t a fluke.”
“Great. I’ll be ready in an hour. I’ll settle Sir Hissalot, take my bath, and you can come and prove it. Bring confidence. Leave excuses.”