Chapter Twenty-Three When Walls Come Down
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Walls Come Down
Hayes
The bass thrums through my chest, an unrelenting pulse that matches the headache brewing behind my eyes. Monaco’s nightlife is exactly what I expected—too loud, too flashy, too many desperate men looking for an easy way to impress women. And right now, they’re all looking at Francesca.
I lean against the bar, watching as some guy in a too-tight button-down leans in closer to her, flashing what I’m sure he thinks is a charming grin. Frankie laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and something sharp twists in my chest.
Where the hell are our drinks?
The bartender slides a cocktail her way first—of course—while I’m left waiting, jaw tightening as I watch the guy introduce himself. His hand hovers near Frankie’s arm, testing the boundaries of contact, and I catch myself scowling.
I’m not jealous. That would be ridiculous.
But I am irritated. Annoyed. Mildly homicidal, maybe.
I’m not sure what’s come over me.
Frankie’s still laughing, oblivious to my mood, but when she finally turns, her eyes catch mine. Something in my expression must tip her off, because her smile falters for just a second before she smirks.
“Why do you look like you’re plotting a murder?” she teases, raising her glass.
“Just enjoying the show,” I say flatly, finally grabbing my drink. “Didn’t realize you had such a fan club.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. He was just being friendly.”
I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn settle. “Yeah? He gets much friendlier, and I might have to remind him you didn’t come here alone.”
Frankie snorts. “What, you planning to fight him?”
I arch a brow. “You think I’d lose?”
She hums, pretending to consider. “Hard to say. He looks scrappy.”
I glance back at the guy, unimpressed. “He looks like he moisturizes more than he works out.”
Frankie’s laugh is sudden and real, and for some reason, that sound takes the edge off. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe it doesn’t matter if men look at her, talk to her, want her attention.
But the thought of someone actually getting it?
That doesn’t sit right with me at all.
“I’m glad you talked me into coming out,” she says, taking a sip of her sugary cocktail.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
She lifts one bare shoulder. “Because I wouldn’t have otherwise, and while this isn’t my scene, it’s fun to mix it up once in a while.”
A guy with slicked-back hair and bad veneers approaches from behind her, placing a hand on her lower back. “Hello, future wife.”
Frankie laughs, light and unbothered. “Well, that’s ambitious.”
His pickup line annoys me—greatly—but I stay where I am, pretending not to care while every muscle in my jaw disagrees. As I watch them make small talk, something clicks into place.
Frankie is wife material.
Even if this idiot is only seeing her for her curves and that knockout smile, there’s more—so much more.
It’s in the way she listens when someone speaks, the way she holds her own without needing to raise her voice. The way she lights up when she’s proud of something. She’s funny. Smart. Kind without being naive. Sharp without being cruel.
Someone’s going to be lucky as hell to stand across from her one day and hear her say I do.
Just not this guy.
Not that I care about things like marriage.
My parents’ disaster of a situationship cured me of that particular delusion a long time ago.
Still . . .
It’s getting harder to pretend I don’t care who gets to stand beside her.
“Come dance with me and Kira,” Colette says, grabbing her elbow and interrupting her conversation with the guy vying for her attention.
“Sure.” She smiles. “Hold my purse?” she asks me sweetly, setting the miniature handbag in my lap.
I grumble something that must sound like consent and watch as she saunters away, moving her hips to the pulse of the beat. I’m transfixed, unable to look away, even for a second. Which is . . . insane. This is Frankie.
The light streaming through the salon windows is more painful than helpful. My head throbs as I sip on the coffee in my hand, hoping it will work its magic.
Charles is sitting across from me, looking perfectly fine—because he didn’t go out clubbing with us last night. He’s a picture of health and normalcy, but I can tell by the look on his face that he’s enjoying my suffering.
“Good morning,” I mutter, my voice rough from last night’s abuse.
Charles raises an eyebrow. “You look . . . well, like you had a good time.” He’s practically holding back a laugh.
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
He sips his coffee, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’m just saying, I’m glad someone had fun. Can’t say I’m envious of the hangover you’ve got going.”
Before I can throw something at him, the door opens and Frankie walks in, looking like she’s struggling just as much as I am. She stops when she sees us, putting a hand to her head. “Ugh, good morning to everyone except for me.”
I snort, relieved to see I’m not the only one feeling like death. I offer her a cup of coffee. “But maybe this will help.”
She raises an eyebrow at the mug. “This looks like something that could wake the dead.”
“It’s strong. Trust me, it’s the only way to survive this,” I tell her, raising my own mug in a mock toast.
She sits down next to us with a heavy sigh. “I feel like I’m going to die.”
The sound of the doorbell ringing cuts through the conversation, and I stand up, stretching my sore muscles. “IV’s here.”
Frankie’s face falls a little, and she shoots Charles a look. “Did he just say IV?”
I nod, walking toward the door. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
I return with the nurse, who’s already setting up the equipment—a silver pole where various bags of saline filled with vitamins and minerals hang, as well as latex gloves and packets of IV needles. As soon as Frankie sees the needles, her face goes pale, and I’m taken aback. “What’s wrong?”
She forces a smile. “I’m fine, just . . . not great with needles.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, and I’m surprised at how vulnerable she looks.
I raise an eyebrow, walking over to her. “You’re serious?”
She nods, avoiding my gaze. “Yeah, I’ve never been good with them. I pass out every time.”
I stare at her for a moment, not sure what to say. Compassion for others isn’t exactly my strong suit. But for her, I feel more than I probably should. “First, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” My tone is gentle but firm.
“That’s possibly the sexiest sentence a man’s ever said to me,” she murmurs, eyes meeting mine.
I kneel beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Well, I’m serious. You don’t have to do this, the choice is entirely yours, but if you want to try it, I promise it will make you feel better.”
She hesitates, biting her lip. “You’ve done it?”
“A couple times. Either when I was sick and recovering from the flu, and a couple of times after bachelor parties and things like that. You’ll feel great in an hour. But I’m serious, only do it if you want to.”
She thinks it over and finally nods. “Okay, I’ll do it. But don’t . . . don’t laugh at me when I pass out.”
“I won’t,” I promise, even though I can’t help the slight grin pulling at my lips. “I’ve got you.”
The nurse starts setting up, and Frankie’s face turns an even paler shade.
I sit down beside her, just trying to be there without adding to her nerves.
When the needle finally goes in, she inhales sharply, and I feel her tense against me.
Then, her eyes flutter shut and—just like that—she’s out cold, slumping to the side.
I catch her before she can hit the armrest, my heart racing a little.
“Hey, Frankie?” I say softly, worried. “Come on, wake up.”
The nurse steps back, nodding. “She’ll be fine, just give her a minute.”
I continue holding her steady, my fingers brushing the back of her neck as I keep her head from tilting. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until she stirs again, slowly blinking her eyes open.
“I told you I’d pass out,” she mumbles, barely able to keep her eyes open.
“You did,” I say, my voice quiet. “But you’re okay now. See?”
She smiles weakly. “I owe you one.”
I chuckle softly, reaching for a soda from the table and then offering it to her. “It’s nothing. Just trying to keep you alive over here.”
She weakly takes a sip, her fingers brushing against mine. “You’re way better at this than I expected.”
“Well, I do what I can,” I reply, feeling oddly protective of her in that moment.
I can’t help but notice how close we are. How . . . easy this feels. It’s a side of me I’m not used to, but it’s hard to ignore when she looks at me like that. A little more vulnerable, a little more . . . real. And for once, I’m not in any rush to back away.
As predicted, a few hours later both Francesca and I are feeling better.
She spent the day with Charles, mostly sunbathing, and I made myself scarce.
We’ve just returned from an early dinner in town with Charles—they wanted to be back in time for Jeopardy!
While the two of them disappeared to the main salon, I venture to my suite to call Maddie.
It’s early afternoon in New York, and she should be getting out of school.
Since I didn’t expect to stay here—it’s already been several days longer than I told her—I figure I should update her on my whereabouts.
I sink onto the end of my bed and FaceTime her.
Maddie answers with a wave and a smile.
“You lost a tooth,” I say, smiling back at her.
She shows off the blank spot where her front tooth used to be, her tongue poking into the space. “Yup. Got four dollars for it too.”
“What else is new?”
“Nothing really. When are you coming back?”
I explain to her about the trip so far, basically stalling for time, because I’m not sure, honestly. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on the old man,” I settle on.
“Nuh-uh, my mom told me he hired some lady to go with him.”
I chuckle. “Francesca is more than just some lady.”