Chapter 46
Marcus hadn’t seen Frankie since the day she’d tried to bolt from Gi Gi’s Crossing without a goodbye. In hindsight, he should’ve let her go…saved himself the humiliation and the emotional hangover.
Instead, he’d chased her and gotten sucker punched by her fury and his own damn hope.
The final insult? His grand exit…in a rhinestone-bedazzled golf cart.
He grimaced at the memory. He’d made it as far as Chantilly Falls before pulling over and calling George to find his damn keys and bring his Jeep.
They’d swapped vehicles like fugitives in a spy movie, and then Marcus had hightailed it back to Manhattan.
That had been two weeks ago. Fourteen days of licking wounds—not from the senior kink prank, he’d earned that—but from realizing his grand gesture had been a grand failure.
He’d left her a confession of love, doubled down on it for the whole town to hear, and she’d laughed.
So yeah. He was alone, doing what any self-respecting idiot with a bruised heart would do… recalibrating.
The first thing he’d done when he got back? Blocked her number. Not because he hated her—God, if only—but because every buzz of his phone sparked a hit of irrational hope. And when it wasn’t her? It felt like rejection all over again.
He’d blocked her. And then pretended he’d moved on.
Fuck me.
Thankfully, his assistant was off sipping something tropical on the vacation he’d gifted her, blissfully unaware that her boss was spiraling into broken-hearted teen drama territory.
With the office shut down for the month, there was no one to nag him about trivial things like showering, sleeping, or calling the girl.
Not that his phone had stopped ringing.
The infamous sex ad Frankie had plastered around town had made him wildly popular with the over-seventy crowd.
He still hadn’t changed his number. Couldn’t. Because even though she was blocked, if he ever unblocked her…she could reach him.
But hey. Hope.
Hope that received CPR via a damn billboard.
He never would’ve seen it, being too committed to the art of wallowing, if Ms. Birdie hadn’t sent a courier with a note that read: Get your ass to Times Square and look up.
Naturally, he’d resisted. For a whole ten minutes.
Then curiosity strangled his pride, and he found himself shoulder to shoulder with camera-happy tourists, craning his neck skyward.
He hadn’t realized how many billboards were in Times Square until his retinas burned and he started questioning every life choice that led to scavenger hunts in tourist hell.
And then he saw it.
It didn’t scream. It whispered.
Mr. Uptight: You hid your truth. I hid my feelings. We are even. Or we could be. Meet me tomorrow at our coffee shop at 3 pm. ~FP
A secret broadcast to thousands that only he was meant to understand.
Bold. Discreet.
Unmistakably Frankie.
It hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs. She wanted to talk. Not text. Not lob insults from across a crowded room. Meet.
Every ounce of his soul begged him to go to her office right then, haul her into his arms, and start the conversation sooner rather than later. He ignored the instinct. This was her grand gesture, and she’d earned the right to set the rules.
He’d be at that coffee shop before three, waiting like a man who’d already decided the conversation wouldn’t end with goodbye.
They had a lot to work through. He wouldn’t ask for forgiveness, and not because he feared her apologies-are-for-the-lily-livered wrath, but because he didn’t deserve it. This was their chance to stop circling each other and finally see what was waiting if neither of them flinched.
That was the plan.
Until social media got involved, and the story went viral.
By nightfall, the billboard was everywhere. Social feeds. News alerts. Podcasts with titles like Uptight Romance and FP Unmasked.
And then Carter—relentless, razor-sharp Carter—was on TV. Her eyes gleamed as she stood beneath the billboard.
“A cryptic message appeared in Times Square tonight,” she announced. “Addressed only to ‘Mr. Uptight’ and signed ‘FP.’ Who are they? Lovers? Rivals? Something in between? Reporters across the city are on alert, watching for clues.”
Marcus stared at the screen, stomach sinking. To him, it was fucking obvious FP stood for Frankie Peterson. At what point would the thought flick across Carter’s radar? And when it did, would she dismiss it as a coincidence, or cover her bases and put a tail on Frankie?
If it were him, he’d do exactly that. Shadow her and stake out every damn coffee shop in Manhattan tomorrow at three, hoping to hit jackpot.
The thought chilled him.
Podcasters. Tabloids. Gossip accounts. Every outlet would be circling, desperate to be the first to unmask Mr. Uptight and FP.
And if his face ended up on the evening news?
It wouldn’t just expose him. It would expose his brothers. And if the wrong people were still watching—even after all these years—it might put anyone they cared about in the crosshairs, too.
He sat with that, examining every angle. Any contact with Frankie now, secretive or not, risked dragging her into his danger. Walls have ears. And now the whole damn world had eyes.
Would those who wished harm to the DeLuca brothers harm an innocent? In a fucking heartbeat. In the world he’d been born into, revenge had no morals.
So he chose the only move that wouldn’t put a target on her forehead.
He stayed away. Instead, he got a room at a hotel across the street from the coffee shop. A room with a clear view.
He told himself watching was enough. That this was strength, not weakness.
Day One: She appeared just before three, disguised like a moody Parisian, beret tilted just so, sunglasses swallowing half her face. She lingered near the hot dog cart, scanning faces, pretending to scroll. Waiting.
For him.
Marcus’s chest squeezed so tightly he had to brace a hand against the wall.
He saw the way her posture shifted as the minutes ticked by. Hope straightened her spine. Doubt tightened her shoulders. Disappointment softened her.
She waited thirty minutes before leaving, head high but steps too quick.
And Marcus—who’d once been taught to leave a town in the dead of night without looking back—had never wanted to run toward someone more.
Day Two: She came like an Italian film star this time. Tortoiseshell sunglasses. Pretzel in hand. He almost smiled at the defiance of it. But behind the shades, he imagined her eyes scanning faces. Looking for him.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the hotel window. The city blurred.
Somewhere beneath the ache was something colder. Older.
He remembered being six. Hidden in the back of a bakery delivery truck, stale bread pressed to his nose to keep from sneezing.
At the same time, his father’s men whispered about a woman in the shadows of the alley who’d waved at the boys when they’d emerged out of the back entrance of an establishment and had witnessed them climbing inside the truck.
He’d buried that memory years ago. But watching Frankie alone, being watched by strangers, it surfaced like a ghost clawing its way out of the dark.
She wasn’t just waiting. She was exposed. And she didn’t even know it.
Day Three: She wore the wig she’d arrived in at Gi Gi’s Crossing. Distressed jeans. A shirt that screamed Love is a Scam.
She was baiting him. She knew exactly what memories that wig carried.
For a moment, he laughed. Then he saw a tourist’s camera swing in her direction, just for a heartbeat, and Marcus’s entire body went cold.
Yesterday’s childhood recollection roared back to the surface.
He was six, peeking through the shutters of the bread truck while Father’s men trailed the friendly woman.
Giovanni, the oldest of them, had explained to his brothers what was happening. She’d seen too much.
It had been Marcus who’d waved at her first as they’d exited Papa’s place of business. Prompting her to wave back. He’d been so young. Lesson learned and never forgotten.
He shuddered.
Day Four: Blanche. Aviators. Lip gloss that could blind a cab driver.
A palate cleanser from yesterday’s thoughts.
He could almost smell Frankie’s perfume.
Hear her dry one-liners as they’d danced at the festival.
Their laughter mingled like hearts flirting.
That moment in time when possibilities existed.
As if in omen, a cloud moved across the sun. His stomach turned. Love and monsters didn’t mix.
Day Five broke him: No disguises. No armor. Just leggings. A hoodie. Sunglasses perched on top of her head. Vulnerable. Real.
She waited an hour. Didn’t touch her phone. Didn’t eat. Didn’t smile.
When she finally left, her shoulders sagged, something in his chest fractured so hard he staggered back.
The Frankie he’d met that first day in Gi Gi’s Crossing wouldn’t have shown up once, let alone five days in a row.
But she had. For him. And she’d done it never imagining the truth.
He was across the street, watching, terrified of what might happen to her if he stepped into view.
She probably thought his proclamation of love came with conditions, and she no longer met them.
He pressed his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids, but the image of her didn’t fade.
Day Six: No Frankie.
The pounding on his door shattered the silence.
“Open up or we break it down, Kink Grandpa.”
Marcus cursed. He hadn’t even told them the name of the hotel.
He dragged himself upright, stalked to the door, and yanked it open.
All four of his brothers stood there like a weirdly handsome intervention. Each one holding liquor like it was a peace offering or a threat.
“Ms. Birdie says hello,” Giovanni said, shouldering past him. “And you’re welcome for the room number.” He raised a bottle of bourbon. “We brought gifts.”
Antonio held up a bottle of limoncello. “For nostalgia.”
Lorenzo offered a bottle of red. “Courage.”