Chapter 36
Frankie tapped her coral nail (Power Flirtation) against the rim of her lowball glass and surveyed tonight’s turnout for Operation Small-Town Chic Club.
Rae and her friends had come early and bedazzled the golf cart within an inch of its life at Frankie’s request. Officially, it was prep for the Great Gatsby Book Festival parade. Unofficially, it was sweet revenge.
Marcus Grant had been gone nearly two weeks and hadn’t reached out once. Not even a pity thumbs-up. Nothing.
Silence shouldn’t have mattered. Yet somehow it made her feel…forgotten.
Which was absurd.
She was unforgettable.
Now, so was his golf cart.
“Tonight’s objective,” she told the semi-circle of club members in Gi Gi’s ballroom, “is to identify your season and learn how your personal color palette can rescue your wardrobe, save your wallet, and, in extreme cases, salvage your dignity.”
Ziggy stood beside her in plum wide-leg trousers and a pale lilac tee that practically sang Cool Summer. He clicked to the first slide, a flower-shaped color wheel labeled cool, warm, and do not wear that.
“Your season,” he said, “is not about your birthday or your aura. It’s about harmony, undertones, contrast, the color of your veins and the whites of your eyes.
Knowing yours can be the difference between radiant skin and looking like curdled yogurt when you wear mustard.
” He sent a pointed look at Poppy’s mustard T-shirt.
Poppy tugged the hem, bristling. “Well, I never.”
“That’s not what he said,” Ziggy snickered.
Gasps rippled through the room.
“Who? Who are you referring to?” Poppy demanded. “Was it—”
Frankie stepped in. “Seasonal color analysis divides you into Spring, Summer, Autumn, or Winter. Know your season and shopping gets easier, your closet makes sense, and people stop asking if you’re tired when you’re not.”
“In other words,” Ziggy said, reclaiming his post, “you stop looking like fashion is happening to you and start looking like you studied for the test.”
Harriet cleared her throat. “Is this the same science that made a salesclerk tell me I should stop wearing my favorite color…fuchsia?”
Ziggy gasped and clutched his chest. “Fuchsia? That’s your favorite? I am reeling.”
“Knock it off or I’ll hit you with my binoculars,” Harriet snapped.
Sir Hissalot chose that moment to wind between Ziggy’s legs with a disdainful flick of his tail. Ziggy swatted at the air. “Meow,” he said, miming claws. “Sir Hissalot has competition.”
Harriet ignored him and zeroed in on Frankie. “It just dawned on me…I always thought Jim and I divorced because of his monogramming obsession.”
“You’re killing me, Harriet,” Ziggy muttered.
She waved him off. “Now I’m wondering if we were actually seasonally incompatible.”
Frankie leaned forward. “I’m listening,” she said, testing a green-light phrase from her friendship book. One meant to invite connection rather than frostbite.
God help her, she actually cared what came next. Worse, she wanted Harriet to keep talking. Was this how friendships happened? Softly, without fanfare. One weird, honest moment at a time.
Across the room, Ziggy blinked. “Was that…genuine human warmth?”
Frankie didn’t look at him. “Shut up. Harriet’s talking.”
“As I was saying,” Harriet went on, eyeing the swatch book like it proved her theory, “the man loved icy blues and pale lavenders. Next to him, I disappeared.”
Ziggy burst into laughter. “Isn’t that the point of camouflage?”
Harriet straightened. “I do not wear camouflage all the time. Keep it up and I’ll kick your ass.”
Twenty minutes later, laughter still lingered as Frankie crossed the room and flipped on a vintage lamp.
Its warm glow washed over a tufted velvet chair, now positioned dead center like a throne awaiting judgment.
She and Ziggy had commandeered it from the basement, rescuing it from renovation exile.
She swept an arm toward it with all the flair of an emcee unveiling a game show prize. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Frankie declared, “may I present the hot seat.”
“We shall start with a demonstration. Rae, darling, come be our brave volunteer,” Ziggy said.
Rae blinked. “Me?”
“Don’t fight your destiny,” Ziggy said, waving her forward.
Rae glanced at the others, then approached with the wary caution of someone about to be sawed in half. She perched on the chair, stiff and wide-eyed.
Frankie stepped beside her and held up a mirror. “Observe: clear eyes, fair hair, soft contrast between features. My bet is Light Spring.”
Ziggy eagerly selected swatches. “Mint green. Soft peach. Pale coral.” He held each to Rae’s face, nodding like a proud fairy god-stylist. “This child will glow brighter than a Pinterest mood board.”
Frankie lifted a dark fabric square to Rae’s jawline. “Black, however, drains her. See that shadow? That is the death of joy.”
Rae squinted into the mirror. “So, no black hoodies?”
Frankie hid a smile. According to Chapter Four of How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole), shared activities build trust. Which made this swatch-fest a master class in covert emotional manipulation. And honestly, less painful than trust falls.
Ziggy clutched his pearls. “Sweet pea, you’re a daffodil, not a villain. Let the darkness go.”
Laughter burst again until Frankie hushed them with a semi-playful scowl. “All right. Who’s next?”
George raised a tentative hand. “What am I?”
Ziggy squinted, sizing him up like a rare gemstone. “You, darling, are a Soft Summer with a dash of chaos. Sage, soft rose, periwinkle, yes. Tangerine orange, never again. It is wreaking havoc on your energy.”
George looked down at his shirt. “I thought orange was rugged.”
Ziggy shook his head gravely. “Your thoughts should be sued for slander.”
For the next hour the room buzzed. Mirrors flashed, laughter bubbled, swatches fluttered like confetti.
At eight thirty, Ziggy closed the last velvet-lined kit with the reverence of a man returning crown jewels. “Darlings, color has been served.”
Frankie clapped lightly. “And that concludes tonight’s activities.”
“Thank God,” Ziggy sighed. “My feet hurt, my mascara is settling, and I am down to my emergency-reserve charm.”
When the last club member vanished into the night, Frankie joined Ziggy on the fainting couch.
She tipped her head. Harriet’s comment still needled. “What would you do if your best friend’s emotional season completely clashed with yours?”
Ziggy eyed her. “Explain.”
“You are excessively perky and I am unrepentantly grumpy,” Frankie said. “Opposite palettes. Does that mean we should never aim for more than our current surface friendship?”
“Doll face, my feelings for you are not surface. Are you saying my affection is unrequited?”
Something in his expression faltered, but it vanished so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“You like me more than surface?” Frankie asked carefully. “Why?”
He pressed his palm to his chest. “Darling, were you absent the day Sophia lectured on the Opposites Attract trope?”
“If I was there, I tuned her out.”
“You are my bestie,” Ziggy declared, with the conviction of someone delivering a headline. “And don’t you dare argue. You’d lose.”
Frankie looked at him sideways. “But I am not nice. I have been told I leave scars.”
Ziggy’s smile softened, the showmanship gone. “Frankie, you matter to me. I adore waltzing with your sharp edges. They keep me on my toes and my wit polished.”
Hmm. She would like to think Marcus felt the same. Odds were he did not waltz.
Not when he definitely did not text. Or call. Or grasp basic communication like someone interested in being her friends-with-perks guinea pig.
Which was fine. Completely fine. She had picked him because he was safe.
And clearly temporary.
Ziggy finished his drink and stood. “My bath awaits.”
“As does my vibrator,” Frankie said dryly.
He staged a gasp and slipped out, leaving the manor quiet.
On impulse, she reached for her phone. According to the book, step ten in building a genuine connection was to risk a small truth during a rough patch. She wasn’t sure if radio silence from your temporary lover counted as a rough patch, but if it didn’t, it should.
Before she could second-guess herself, she typed:
Frankie: Do you like my sharp edges as much as I like your guarded ones?
She set the phone aside, pulse skittering. That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t cautious.
That was real.
She shouldn’t be doing real with a guinea pig. They were for practice. For screwing up. For getting it wrong so you can get it right when it finally matters.
Not for real.
Hell. Who was she kidding?
Marcus wasn’t just anyone.
He was the reason she had even tried to be likable in the first place. Not because he’d asked it of her, but because she wanted to be a better version of herself around him. He was the first person who made her want to change.
Unlike that sanctimonious jackass Mr. Uptight, who tried to force her to.
Her phone stayed still on the cushion. Outside, the baubles on his ridiculous golf cart caught the porch light and glittered like a dare.