Chapter 38
Saturday night, Marcus stood in the shadows at the edge of the square, watching golden light and Gatsby-era decadence spill over the crowd.
Harriet the Spy had slipped him last week’s Gazette with a knowing smirk—the paper sat in his palm like a court summons.
He knew every line, but he looked anyway.
Miss Informed
By Miss Informed
Staff Writer, Gi Gi’s Gazette
Glittered Golf Cart, Missing Hunk — Coincidence?
Well, well, well. Absolutely Not Him handed over keys and a disclaimer.
Our very own runaway heiress, Francesca B, was spotted cruising town in a golf cart gifted by the hottest hunk in Gi Gi’s Crossing. Not your average small-town gesture. This one came with keys, attitude, and insiders say, a verbal disclaimer: Absolutely not yours forever.
Rude.
Naturally, Francesca did what any woman of style, spite, and unprocessed romantic tension would do.
She bedazzled the hell out of it. Rhinestones.
Streamers. Possibly vengeance-powered headlights.
All week she’s been seen terrorizing sidewalks and traffic law with Sir Hissalot riding shotgun and looking ready to collect a debt.
Did I mention she doesn’t have a driver’s license?
Here’s the kicker: He’s missing in action.
The man renovating Gi Gi’s Manor, last seen arriving at Francesca’s workplace in a suit that screamed marry me, has since vanished. One moment, he’s dressed like he’s about to drop. The next, gone. Not even a brooding text to one of the locals.
Which raises the obvious question: What happened to Marcus D Grant?
Did he flee to mend a broken heart?
Or should someone check for freshly dug graves behind Gi Gi’s Manor?
While we’re asking questions, rumor says a reporter reserved a room at the local Airbnb, then canceled at the last minute. Did she ditch us for Chantilly Falls’ feeble attempt to one-up us?
Stay glossy. Stay nosy. And for the love of gossip, never return a borrowed golf cart unaccessorized.
That’s the tea. Steep accordingly.
Miss Informed
Marcus dragged a hand across the back of his neck and exhaled. He deserved every syllable of the dragging. The cart. The disappearance. Even the suit that screamed marry me. Earned.
He folded the paper and slid it into his jacket pocket, where it crinkled like it had an opinion.
A jazz trio worked beneath a canopy of string lights. Laughter rippled, mixing with the low thump of speakers and the shuffle of dancing shoes. The square thrummed with temporary magic.
He scanned the crowd again. Still no Frankie.
Her text had pinged twenty minutes ago.
Frankie: Minor event emergency. Don’t start any dance-offs without me.
Very Frankie. Which meant she was either defusing a bake sale standoff or confiscating Ziggy’s confetti cannon.
The event had already outperformed expectations, largely thanks to Ziggy, who staged a live Gatsby catwalk down a red carpet on Main Street. Golden lights dripped from every storefront. Sequins shimmered. Champagne fizzed. The square looked dipped in gold dust and confidence.
Rae and her band of misfits buzzed at the edge of the dance floor, decked out in vintage pieces Evelyn from Threads had helped them find and reimagine. Roaring Twenties met small-town rebellion.
George had somehow ended up with a feathered headband and a pocket watch.
Harriet stood nearby, camouflaged in sequins, binoculars hanging like she was covering a covert operation.
Vivian held court in front of her bookstore, reclaiming her throne with effortless grace; the twins, snug in vintage prams, wore Gatsby onesies with tiny, feathered headbands.
A rotating stream of admirers cooed like they’d won the walk-off by sheer cuteness.
None of it mattered, until he caught his first sight of the night of Frankie Peterson.
Gold fringe rippled as she crossed the square, every step scattering light.
The dress narrowed her into a silhouette that demanded notice.
Elbow-length satin gloves gleamed under the lamps, a long strand of pearls swinging against her hips.
Gatsby red mouth. Blanche subdued beneath a jeweled band.
She didn’t just belong to the party. She was the party.
She didn’t see him at first, so he got the luxury of watching her unguarded, tossing one-liners and lighting the square. Then her gaze found his.
“Crisis averted,” she called, smirking as she stopped in front of him. “Poppy’s date no longer clashes with her color palette.”
He adjusted the lapel of his white dinner jacket, ivory silk with a peak lapel and a single button. “Tragic near miss. I would hate to be that man.”
Her eyes traveled over him, slow and satisfied. Crisp shirt. Black bow tie. Satin cummerbund. Patent leather shine. She lifted one shoulder. “Full disclosure, I had a backup date on standby.”
“Smart woman.”
For a reckless beat, he let himself believe he could keep this.
Ziggy raised a clipboard. “Charleston, darlings. Grab a partner.”
Frankie took his hand and pulled him onto the floor.
The music burst to life. Fast. Bright. Dizzying.
They hit the Charleston like a door they both knew by feel.
Kick, cross, heel. He drew her through an underarm turn; she stole a beat and added a shimmy that put heat in his throat.
They traded the lead without speaking, laughter catching at her mouth every time he reeled her back in.
Her heel slid on a rogue sequin.
He caught her without thinking, one arm at her back, their faces inches apart. She looked at him like she had never been this happy.
The music slowed. Ziggy lifted his clipboard with theatrical flourish. “And the winners are…Harriet and George.”
Frankie let out a mock gasp. “Damn. I thought for sure I bribed the judges better than that.”
Marcus grinned. “Hard to beat George’s smile.”
“True,” she said softly. “But I’m more partial to yours.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “Not nearly as partial as I am to your body. You look so damn sexy tonight it’s a miracle we aren’t banned from the dance floor. Maybe we should skip out early. Your ride back to Manhattan is coming too fast.”
The light in her eyes dimmed.
“What?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Nothing. Just…for a second, I almost wished I was staying in Gi Gi’s Crossing a little longer.”
The words hit like a gut punch. She almost wished to stay.
He took her hand. “Let’s get out of here. We need to talk.”
“Is talk code for sex?”
“Not exactly.”
He was about to say something honest, maybe even hopeful, when a voice cut through the crowd.
“There she is!”
His spine locked.
Not here. Not now.
He turned and spotted the last person he wanted at this party—Melanie Carter, Channel 8. Microphone up, cameraman in tow, eyes pinned to Frankie like she’d just found a unicorn in Louboutins.
Panic slammed him. Their intel had been wrong. Fuck.
He had no idea whether Melanie knew the man’s name. One look at him and Frankie together and the what-if would light up. And once it lit, she would dig. She always did. Straight for the secret they couldn’t afford to be discovered.
“Three, two, one… We’re live,” the cameraman said as the light flared.
Marcus pulled the ballcap out of his pocket, slipped it on, lowered his head, and slid into the press of bodies, rounding the fountain, using sequins and feathers as cover until he disappeared along the dark edge of the square.
Melanie’s voice rose, bright and polished. “Viewers, I’m Melanie Carter, and in case you don’t recognize her, this is Naked Runway’s Frankie Peterson. The woman Manhattan media calls the Runaway Editor in Chief. The woman who threw a stiletto during Fashion Week.”
He didn’t hear the rest.
By then, he was already gone.