Chapter 37
Marcus stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Manhattan penthouse and stared out at the city, feeling as steady as a man on a ledge during a hurricane. Far below, Central Park lay quiet, a postcard pretending not to know better.
Two weeks away from Gi Gi’s Crossing hadn’t cured anything. The city only made the unrest inside him sharper.
His pulse jumped at the memory of his rushed exit. The media calls, the careful trail of counter-rumors he and his brothers seeded to pull the reporter off Frankie’s scent.
Only in New York.
Still, relief didn’t come. He was unraveling.
Because last night, Frankie had sent a text.
Frankie: Do you like my sharp edges as much as I like your guarded ones?
Only Frankie Peterson could make sharp edges sound like flirtation. And now he had to face the thing he’d been denying:
He had feelings for Frankie Peterson. Real, messy, inconvenient as hell. Emotions he couldn’t confess without first telling her he was Mr. Uptight.
That admission sent him straight into a late-night spiral that ended with a text to his brothers.
Marcus: Now that the reporter scare is behind us, I want to tell Frankie I’m Mr. Uptight. Help me brainstorm all the possible endings so that I can plan accordingly.
She deserved the truth. And if there was any hope of building something that could survive the fallout, it had to start with honesty.
He raked a hand down his face. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And now he was one unanswered message away from doing the stupidest, bravest thing of his life.
According to George, whose daily renovation updates now arrived with a generous splash of unsolicited town gossip, Frankie had been holding court at the café, retelling the day Marcus showed up in a suit to collect her after work.
In her version, he was one mixed signal away from dropping to a knee with a diamond the size of the town square.
Instead, she told the adoring crowd, he had gifted her a grouchy stray she named Sir Hissalot and a golf cart.
The cart, she clarified, was only on loan.
A present she was expected to return at the end of the romance.
In short, Frankie Peterson was having a spectacularly good time. At his expense.
He shook his head. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. He wasn’t angry. How could he be, when every jab she delivered, no matter how sharp, was laced with affection?
Affection that felt real. Too real.
Real gave him hope.
For now, he owed her a response.
His fingers hovered over the screen, his heart thudding. Then he typed:
Marcus: More than I should.
He sent it.
Her reply came almost at once.
Frankie: I can’t believe I’ll be back in Manhattan in a week. Feels like I just got here.
For a beat, his heart whispered, Ask her to stay.
But that was wishful thinking. Frankie Peterson was not a small-town girl, and he might be drafted into it. He sighed. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
Marcus: Gi Gi’s Crossing will never be the same.
He let it land. Flirty. Neutral. A breadcrumb in banter’s clothing.
Her answer was swift.
Frankie: If by that you mean better dressed, you’re welcome.
Marcus: There’s that. Also, the town delinquent is now only moderately terrifying.
Frankie: Every woman should have a terrifying side.
He didn’t disagree. And if he ever told her his identity, that terrifying side would be aimed at him. Chest tight, he put the phone down instead of replying.
Later that afternoon his screen buzzed.
Frankie: This just in… Chantilly Falls is hosting a “Twilight Picnic B) you tell her after, she still detonates, but at least she has one good memory to come back to. My vote is B.
Another buzz.
Luca: Tell her the truth. Always. Just do not expect forgiveness on your timeline.
Outcomes: 1) she walks and never looks back; 2) she walks and circles back; 3) she does not walk, but she makes you earn every inch.
If she loves you, she will find her way through the anger.
You just have to be strong enough to stand in the storm until she gets there.
And another.
Giovanni: My playbook: worst case she makes you a Gi Gi’s Crossing spectacle and coins new verbs with your name; middle case she bans you from her closet and the cat hisses when you inhale; best case you grovel correctly, she softens, and you two get a long life of being wrong together.
Also, if she throws another stiletto, duck faster.
Marcus exhaled, thumb resting on the glass. He could feel the hours he’d been holding his breath slide out of him.
Marcus: Copy. After the festival. Private place. No shoes within throwing distance.
Another ping.
Lorenzo: Good. And take water. People forget to hydrate during righteous fury.
Luca: And flowers. Not roses. Something scrappy that survives weather.
Giovanni: Helmet optional.
He set the phone down. The countdown had started.
What were the odds he would make it through her tirade without a few new scars, and maybe, if he was lucky, a future?
Even then, the zip code problem would still be waiting.
She was not staying, and he might be the one the town kept.
An apology could win forgiveness, but it would not decide who moved.