Chapter 43
Frankie couldn’t believe Marcus had followed her into town. She hadn’t planned on him chasing her. She’d planned on stopping at the coffee shop, saying her goodbyes, then strutting out in a cloud of sweet revenge, bridges intact if a little singed at the edges.
Now here he was, looking exhausted and angry and something she couldn’t pin down.
“Was there something else you needed?” she asked with a smirk.
He braced a hand on the lamppost and leaned in, close enough for her to catch the scent of soap and sun-dried mud. Like a man about to file a strongly worded complaint with the HOA.
“If I had to guess,” he said, voice frayed with exasperation, “you’re the one who put my real number in a swinger ad for senior citizens.”
Frankie pressed her palm to her chest, eyes wide in mock horror. “I hear you’re going by Maximilian ‘The Hammer’ Grant now.”
His lips twitched. Did he find this funny? “That’s quite the mouthful.”
She studied her nails with faux disinterest. “According to Harriet, who heard from Vivian, men with small—well, you know—usually overcompensate with their stage names.”
Ziggy chose that moment to swing out of his jeep, giving Marcus a long, appreciative once-over. “If I were thirty years older and two martinis in, I’d be lighting a candle to Saint Hammer.”
“Me too!” someone called.
“I did!” another confessed, sparking a ripple of laughter through the square.
Frankie repressed the urge to giggle. She wasn’t even sure she could giggle, but damn it, she liked these people with their ridiculous view on life.
Marcus turned to the crowd. “Could someone please spread the word? The ad was a joke. There’s only one woman I’m interested in, and she’s standing right here. She’s furious with me, and for good reason. I ditched her at the festival. That was a shitty move on my part.”
Frankie froze. What the hell was he doing? Why wasn’t he lashing out? Why wasn’t he furious like he was supposed to be?
“Stop it,” she hissed. “You’re not interested in me, and you damn well know it.”
He dipped close, voice so soft only she could hear. “It’s called crisis control.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she forbade him from controlling the crisis, but he didn’t give her the chance. He hauled her against his chest, stealing her breath, her fury, and possibly a small portion of her sanity with the heat in his eyes.
His mouth brushed her ear. “I’m protecting my brothers.” Then his lips crushed hers.
Don’t. Kiss. Him. Back. Damn it all. Why were her lips moving?
His were moving with the sole purpose of controlling the narrative.
But hers? Pure traitors.
Her foot, at least, was loyal. She lifted it and drove the heel of her stiletto into the buttery leather of his loafer.
He grunted and shifted his stance.
She opened her mouth to laugh, and the bastard used the opportunity to sweep his tongue into her mouth.
When he finally pulled back, wearing a smug smile that deserved its own slap, she gave him one. Not Marcus. Mr. Uptight.
God, that felt good. So good, she raised her hand to do it again, but he caught her wrist midair. He held it easily in one hand, the other rubbing his cheek while grinning like he’d just solved a puzzle. “I deserved that. Personal. Controlled. An appropriate response.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me on fair play.”
“So you do know the concept?”
Frankie inhaled and released a slow, frosty laugh. “Oh, I know it. I practically invented it. In fact, I keep a tutorial in my Birkin on how to cut someone out cleanly and with flair.”
He frowned. “Is it as good as the tutorial I gave you on a masterclass in foreplay?”
She sputtered.
“Confirmed! Sex happened! Who had it on their Bingo card?” a voice from the crowd hollered.
Frankie jabbed Marcus in the chest. “Look what you’ve done. Now they’ll be talking about us for years. Are you happy?”
“Not even a little.” He stepped closer. “Do you even want to know why I chased you down this morning?”
“Because the mudpuddle had you butthurt?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because I wanted to stop you.”
“From what?” Even as she asked, she knew the answer. He didn’t want her telling the locals Gi Gi was his mother. She should. She really should. It would serve him right.
He cupped her cheek, and she shoved his hand away.
“I wanted to stop you from leaving.”
Frankie’s chest went tight. “Of course I’m leaving. Why the hell wouldn’t I be leaving?”
For some reason, her words landed. Like they hurt more than her revenge ever could.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’ve given you no good reason to stay.”
“And you’ve given me one very uptight reason to leave.”
He nodded. “Of course you’re correct, and I’ll eventually wrap my brain around the idea of a life that doesn’t have you in it.”
It wasn’t the words so much as the emotion that cracked her armor, sending a spray of doubt straight through her ribs. He sounded sincere.
Then again, most men sounded sincere when they were angling to keep a friend with perks around for late-night booty calls. Did he really think they could ever be friends again? Let alone one with perks?
“That’s a you problem,” she said. “Because you and I? That ship has sailed.”
“I screwed up. You got caught in the fallout. And you have every right to hate me, to walk away, and leave my heart under those lethal heels.”
A collective gasp reminded Frankie they weren’t alone.
“Who had he’ll-declare-love-first?” someone stage-whispered.
“He didn’t declare love,” Frankie snapped.
“Don’t fall for it.” She turned to their gawking audience.
“He’s just playing the melodramatic card, so you’ll all take his side.
” She glared at Marcus. “Tell them I’m right.
Tell them this is all part of your ‘crisis control.’” She flicked air quotes around the words.
Marcus’s nostrils flared. “Why is it so hard to believe someone could love you, flaws and all?”
“Wow. A false love declaration and a character critique in the same breath. Ballsy.”
He said nothing.
She arched a brow. “Tip for next time. Lead with love, skip the personality review.” Sure she had flaws. Everyone had them. But mentioning them during an admission of love… Un-fucking-believable.
A ripple of “Ooof” rolled through the crowd.
Something like hope flickered across his face. “Does that mean you’ll give me a next time?”
“No. No it doesn’t.” Was he for real? “I’m not one of your damn real estate rehab projects eager for you to facelift my flaws away so that I’m truly worthy of your heart.
That’s not romantic.” Yet, it was probably the only kind of love she’d ever receive.
Rehab love. Fixer-upper love. Because she wasn’t lovable.
Hell, she was barely likable. Which meant his declaration, caveat and all, was bullshit, and he knew it was bullshit, and that was why he’d needed the qualifier.
A mask of nonchalance slid into place. He pulled out his sunglasses and slipped them on. “Understood.” He started to turn, then looked back. “For the record,” he said, “you should have led with the crumbling of my heart in your hands as your go-to revenge. It hurts like hell.”
“Wow, you’re good.” She slow clapped, every clap a dagger. “You’re really good.”
He cocked his head.
“You declare false love, then tell me how much it hurts that I don’t love you back, all so I’ll feel guilty.
And in your convoluted male brain, you think a guilty Frankie will let you off the hook and scrap revenge part two.
Well, here’s a newsflash.” She pivoted toward the crowd, because this needed an audience.
“If I ever give a man my heart, you can safely bet the recipient is Absolutely Not Him.” She pointed straight at Mr. Uptight.
The man who had exiled her, lied to her, and torched her career.
Why in God’s name would she ever love him?
He removed his glasses and let his gaze flick to the Birkin on her shoulder. “Thanks,” he said softly, “for not telling everyone what you know.”
Of course she hadn’t told them Gi Gi was his mother. That wasn’t her style.
“What? What didn’t you tell us?” someone called.
“He has a fetish for being spanked,” Frankie deadpanned.
He gave one small nod, then turned and stalked toward the glitter-covered golf cart.
Something in her chest squeezed. Tight and stupid and entirely undeserved.
She crushed it flat as she watched the cart turn the corner, head out of town, and vanish.
And then she laughed.
It wasn’t sweet or victorious or safe.
It was raw, crooked, sharp as hell at the edges.
If a little sadness hitched a ride at the end…well, that couldn’t be helped.
Not all victories were sweet.
She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders.
Revenge trumps love.
That’s just basic emotional hygiene.