Chapter Twenty-Three When Walls Come Down #2
Maddie’s mouth slowly curls up in a smile. “What, is she your girl . . . friend?” she draws out the word.
“Not hardly. People my age don’t have girlfriends.”
“Exactly. People your age have wives . . . and when are you going to get one of those?”
“Hmm, let me think . . .” I tap my chin. “Never.”
Maddie laughs.
“I gotta go, kid. Be good, okay?”
“I’m always good,” she says, smiling.
She is too. Maddie’s a great kid. Even if my dad messed up royally, having Maddie in my life has been a nice consolation prize. I’m not sure my mother would agree with that statement, but it is what it is.
After my phone call, I head back out to find Charles and Francesca. They’re where I left them in the main salon, but it appears they’ve changed into pajamas.
Frankie has a huge bowl of popcorn in her lap, and both she and Charles are engaged in some type of self-care ritual, complete with lavender-colored eye masks.
I catch sight of Charles and do a double take, realizing he’s also wearing fuzzy pink socks, Frankie’s no doubt.
“That’s a new look for you,” I say.
Frankie shushes me. “His feet were cold.”
“And the . . .” I gesture to her face.
“For your information, these are gel eye masks. They increase hydration and reduce puffiness and undereye circles.”
“Of course they do.” I nod, trying not to smile.
“We’re just about to start a movie. Join us,” my uncle says, touching one finger to his undereye mask.
I made plans already . . . apparently last night I promised Jack and Sebastian we’d go to the casino tonight.
“I have extra eye masks. But you need to put on pajama pants if you’re joining us.”
“I don’t own pajama pants.”
“Then what do you sleep in?” She looks genuinely perplexed.
I cock an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
She holds up both hands. “Nope. Never mind.”
The blush on her cheeks tells me she’s remembering the time she interrupted my shower.
“Give me five minutes, and I’ll join you.” Right after I break the news to the deck crew that they should go along without me.
“Do you want popcorn?” Frankie calls after me.
“Obviously,” I call back.
I change into something more comfortable and join them again, sinking down on the sofa across from Francesca. Charles has commandeered the leather BarcaLounger in front of the TV. There’s a fresh bowl of popcorn waiting for me on the coffee table, and I help myself to a handful.
“What are we watching?” I ask, munching on the popcorn.
My uncle selects a history documentary about World War I and falls asleep after the first fifteen minutes.
“Oh thank God,” Frankie says, getting up to grab the remote once we’re sure he’s out.
I chuckle, watching her. I’m not sure why or even how, but each small thing she does seems to delight me. I wonder why neither of us questioned his selecting this movie, but now I see she was merely biding her time until he fell asleep.
After she changes the channel to a real estate reality show, she peels the sticky eye mask from Charles’s face and gingerly covers him with a blanket, and something shifts in my chest.
“I was wrong about you.”
“Huh?” she asks, settling back in beside me.
“You’re good for him.” I tip my chin toward my uncle.
“Well, I’m enjoying his company. Who else can you go to dinner with so early that you’re in pajamas by seven o’clock?”
“That’s an excellent point.” I hesitate, my gaze moving between her and the TV. “I’m not sure if you were serious about never drinking again . . . but what do you think about a glass of wine out on the sky deck?”
“I say let’s do it.”
She turns the TV off and lowers the lights, leaving Charles asleep in the recliner—at least for now.
Frankie grabs a throw blanket and wraps herself in it while I work the cork out of a bottle of red and pour us each a glass.
We navigate the steps and find a spot on the sun loungers.
It’s dark and breezy, but the stars are out in full force, giving everything a pale glow.
The nightlife in Monaco seems a million miles away.
I take a slow sip of my wine, letting the taste settle on my tongue before swallowing.
Across from me, Frankie is curled up in one of the lounge chairs, her legs tucked beneath her, her own glass of wine balanced loosely in one hand.
Her hair is a little wild from the wind, and the glow from the deck lights makes her skin look soft, golden.
She takes a sip, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “You know, for a guy who’s usually surrounded by models and millionaires, I’m surprised you’re slumming it with me tonight.”
I smirk, swirling the wine in my glass. “Trust me, I’d rather be here than trapped in some overpriced club, listening to bad remixes and pretending to care about someone’s father’s hedge fund.”
She gasps in mock surprise. “Did I hear you say you enjoy my company? Somebody write this down.”
I huff a quiet laugh and shake my head. “I said no such thing.”
“Oh, but you implied it,” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows. “I think I’m starting to grow on you.”
I scoff, taking another sip of my wine. “Let’s not get carried away.”
She leans forward, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair, watching me like she’s enjoying this way too much. “Just admit it,” she goads. “I’m charming. Delightful. A ray of freaking sunshine in your otherwise jaded existence.”
I exhale slowly like I’m irritated, tilting my head back to look up at the stars. “You are . . . tolerable.”
She presses a hand to her chest in exaggerated offense. “Tolerable?”
I fight back a smirk. “Fine. You’re . . . slightly better than tolerable.”
She lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. “Wow. That’s practically a love confession, coming from you.”
I shake my head, unable to stop the amused grin that tugs at my lips. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”
She clinks her glass against mine, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Too late.”
I watch her for a moment, feeling something shift—something subtle but undeniable. She’s working her way under my skin, and worse, I don’t entirely mind it.
The breeze chooses that moment to pick up, blowing her hair into her face. She hands me her glass of wine so she can gather it all up in a neat bun on the top of her head. I’m mesmerized.
“How’d you do that?” I ask, handing her back her glass not even four seconds later.
“Hmm? Oh, girl magic.” She smiles and takes a sip of her wine. She looks at me over the rim of her glass. “All right, Mr. Perfect, tell me something humiliating. There’s no way you’ve made it through life without at least one mortifying moment.”
“My most embarrassing moment?”
She nods.
“I promise you can’t handle it.”
“Try me.”
I sigh, leaning back. “I once officiated a wedding for my friends after becoming ordained online.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, it was, until the end of the ceremony when I said You may now kill the bride.”
Francesca bursts into easy laughter. “That’s actually amazing.”
“Is it, though?” The wedding was very fancy—at a country club just outside DC. The hard stares I got from the bridal party were brutal. I’d never put my foot in my mouth like that. Until I did.
She waves me off. “I promise that’s nothing. That’s like a Tuesday for me.”
I chuckle and shake my head.
“Are a lot of your friends married?”
I take another sip of my wine, enjoying this moment with her more than I thought I would. “Some, yes.”
“What about you? Ever have the urge?”
I’m contemplative for a moment, no doubt surprising Frankie, who watches me with a stunned expression.
Maybe she expected me to scoff at the idea of marriage.
“I got close once,” I say softly. “Someone my parents thought would be suitable since her family runs in the same circles as mine. I guess we made sense on paper.”
“What, like an arranged marriage?”
I scowl. “More like a civilized arrangement—I guess they thought she was the kind of woman men like me end up with. They know the score—ironclad prenup and the like.”
“That sounds so romantic.”
“Yeah, well, I got cold feet and pulled away. I couldn’t really picture myself tied down with one woman. And I was too young at the time.”
I wasn’t used to feeling this exposed. Around her, it’s like my defenses don’t work and every word, every look, feels like I’m giving away pieces of myself.
“And now?” she asks, gazing at me like she’s genuinely curious.
“And now . . . I’m not sure.” I physically shudder at the thought. “My parents are a disaster, and I guess that’s left its mark on me.”
Francesca nods. Who knows, maybe she can relate to me in some strange way. We’re both figuring out our place in the world and what we want out of life. Maybe we have more in common than I ever realized.
That’s a weird thought.
“You always assume people with money are just having an easier go of it,” she says, swirling the ruby-colored wine in her glass.
“In some ways, sure. They don’t have to worry about paying the mortgage, but there are lots of other issues. Trust me. If money buys happiness, why are my parents the most miserable people I know?”
She doesn’t have any answers for me, not that I expected her to. But for now, her quiet understanding is enough.
“Thanks for . . .” I pause, searching for the right words.
“For what?” she asks, turning to meet my eyes.
“For listening. Being my friend.”
“Are we friends?”
“If we’re not, I don’t think I have any.”