Chapter Five
“That prick!” I stomped my foot when I got home. “A date!” I screamed at myself in the mirror.
I brushed my teeth with reckless abandon. My poor skin had never been more raw or cleaner after a brutal scrubbing.
Shoving my legs into my Garfield pajama pants, I scurried out to my kitchen for a pint of ice cream.
“Jerk,” I declared, opening a brand spanking new tub of peppermint bark ice cream. I bought out all the leftover stock after Christmas every damn year. Sadly, it was a seasonal offering, and currently it was the only treat I bothered carrying up to my apartment, and the solo occupant of my freezer other than a bottle of vodka.
Plopping on the couch, I let the pale pink, cool, and minty mixture tickle my throat. I savored each tiny piece of candy cane and morsel of dark chocolate. My stomach would be bloated all the way to work in the morning, but this very moment was worth it. And needed.
Sad but true: peppermint bark ice cream was my greatest indulgence.
I made a mental note not to look at myself in the mirror and to walk to work from my place rather than Uber or subway, allowing the movement to deflate my belly.
Leaning my head back, I breathed in and out, trying to stop my mind from imagining Mackenzie Dickish Miller on his date. I bet she was tall and lean…and young and fertile.
But why did I care? He was nothing more than a missing piece to a puzzle I wanted to solve.
How dare he blow me off again. Okay, we didn’t have a firm plan or any arrangements at all. He hadn’t known I would be at the event, and I shouldn’t have expected him to agree to my terms—he’d said no already twice.
But third time’s a charm, right?
I continued to devour my ice cream, snatching the remote from the coffee table and wondering what Miller’s date was eating. Probably a salad. Why did this all bother me so much? I’d relegated myself to a lonely life, busy with work and friends.
This mystery woman—the dick’s date—likely hadn’t miscarried a baby at twenty-five weeks, leaving her to deliver a stillborn and work for a year and a half to take the baby weight off, but that wasn’t the point. This was my world, and I was living in it. Many of the choices had been my own. Yeah, I didn’t bargain on losing the baby, but I had married Jeremy. Willingly.
Hitting the button for Christmas Romances on Netflix, I became even firmer in my decision to investigate Paps’s great love story. If I couldn’t have my own beautiful story, I’d settle for year-round holiday-infused romance movies and my grandpa’s love affair instead. Dipping my spoon into my ice cream again, I let all the negative thoughts go and focused on what time of day I should call Corey tomorrow. I had a lull in my appointments around two and decided it was the perfect time. Not too early or too late.
“I know exactly who you are,” Corey said over the phone after I introduced myself. “And you have some mighty big balls. Pardon me for saying it, but you do.”
I couldn’t help the giggle before clearing my throat and stating, “I’m pretty sure that’s not appropriate for you to say over the phone to a woman.”
“Oh, I know. But at this point I’d even take you suing me to get more interactions between you and the boss. There is no better entertainment. I mean, what are you? Four-eleven?”
“Five foot one,” I answered proudly.
“Okay, we’ll say five feet, and you take on that big brute, no matter the issue. You know he’s practically a hermit? Do you? Yet you come barging in any time of day, shoving baked goods at security, making Millsy squirm. I love it. I downright love it.”
“Millsy?” I felt like I’d just been gifted a pint of ice cream, but I’d have to wait to eat it because I was bloated like a whale from the night before. “I’ll hold on to that teensy nugget,” I told Corey, and I would. I’d keep Millsy in my back pocket for when I needed it. Until then, I’d finish the task at hand.
“Don’t think mentioning it to Miller will change a thing. He knows the office refers to him as Millsy, laughs every time he walks in on a conversation where he thinks it might have been used. He’s not penetrable. That’s what you don’t get. Guy is steel when it comes to getting in deep.”
“About the reason for this call. Mr. Miller said to give you a ring and set up a lunch appointment. I guess I am getting through…”
“Sure. He said to make it soon. A little thing about ‘getting it over with’ but I’m thrilled you’re getting through.”
I leaned into the counter in my personal office—the ladies’ room. I never understood why they placed it behind the men’s section, but it suited me. “Are you having fun at my expense? We have really gone three-sixty in this call. First, you commend me about my balls, claiming you can’t get enough of me and your boss. And now…you are insulting me?”
“Not insulting. More warning.” He took on a deep tone. “Mack is a good guy, loved by everyone here. He doesn’t have many who care for him, and he is opening up to you. Yeah, he may want to get it over quickly, but you seem to have a lasting effect on him.”
“I am not the enemy. I’m just a woman who needs help learning about Rose Miller.”
“Hmmm,” Corey hummed. It felt like Mack hadn’t clued him in to our business.
“I’m doing some research on her. That’s all.”
“Hmmm,” again from the other side of the line.
“So, lunch?” I brought us back on track.
“How’s Saturday?”
“You mean tomorrow?”
“You’re quick. Yeah, tomorrow. Mack can meet you at one o’clock.”
“Of course, great, thank you.”
He rattled off an intersection and added, “It’s in the Meatpacking. Don’t be late.”
I knew where he meant—it was a member’s-only spot for the creative world. A safe, chic, and beautiful haven in the middle of a concrete jungle. “I won’t,” I assured Corey.
He disconnected the call, and I went to pee, wondering while crouching over the toilet if this was a true olive branch or a pity lunch.
Armed in a white summer cashmere sweater and linen pants, I stepped inside Mack’s club at five minutes to one on Saturday. I’d been to the elusive venue a few times before…when I was still with Jeremy. I’d made a habit of not returning until now. But who was I to argue with Corey?
“Can I help you?” the skinny woman in all black asked me from behind the front desk.
The club was for wealthy creatives—movers and shakers in the arts, music, and things like advertising and public relations—so I couldn’t help but wonder why Mack went there.
“Frankie Burns. I’m meeting Mackenzie Miller.” I took in her muscular arms on display and the black lacy tank covering her flat chest. I was sure she didn’t have a belly like mine. Or an ass, but none of this mattered.
“Oh, you mean Mack?”
Of course she called him Mack. Most CEOs would expect to be referred to as Mr. So-and-So, but not Mackenzie Miller. He exuded an air of confidence and power coupled with a casual nature…with everyone but me.
“Yes, Mack,” I confirmed.
“He’s on the rooftop, by the pool. Can I see your ID and then you can head up.”
I swiped my wallet out of my tote, snagging my license from the side, and handed it over.
This place was such a sideshow in and of itself. It was just lunch. I wasn’t going to steal anything or take anyone’s photo. I knew that to be a rule—no photos in the club.
She perused my information and handed me back my license and waved me on like the insignificant person I was.
In the elevator, I reprimanded myself for my outfit. Who knew he would pick outside to eat? Not me. I imagined Mack spent his weekend in a suit, and I was way off base when I stepped off the elevator and found him waiting directly outside the doors in khaki pants and a polo.
“Frances.” That was how he greeted me, low and laced with a masculinity I couldn’t quite describe.
“Mack,” I served back. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” I offered.
“It’s my pleasure,” he lobbed.
“Shall we?” He motioned toward the bar and a few tables speckled around it.
“We shall.”
We continued to spar with words as he pulled out my seat.
“Hope this is okay,” he said, looking my white outfit up and down.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’re…a little dressed up. Are you supposed to be showing your angelic side? Did you think this was a date?” He slid across from me, the sun plinking off his dirty-brown hair. I hadn’t noticed before, but Mack Miller didn’t look Jewish… It wasn’t a kind thing to think, and I centered my thoughts. I wasn’t that person. Jewish didn’t have a look…
“I’m hardly an angel, but I don’t date men who went out two nights prior on a different date.”
“You like a fairy tale, don’t you?” His left eyebrow rose as he asked, and I felt the urge to flight or fight.
I looked away. All of a sudden, I wasn’t sure if I could do this.
“I’m sorry. We’re all entitled to like what we want. Sometimes my cynicism ruins everything.”
It was the most honest moment we’d shared. Turning back toward Mack, my gaze caught his gray eyes, a tad softer, almost somber. “If you must know, I do believe in fairy tales…and nightmares…and something mediocre in between. You know, like enough, but not really? My Paps lived in the in-between, in the gray area where he was happy but not ecstatic. But he dreamed about what it would have been like with his Rosie. I bet it would have been multicolor and glittery and more than a fairy tale.”
“It never is really all that.” He contradicted my sentiment. “My grandmother is Rosie in this scenario. At least, you suspect?” Mack looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. I know Rosie is your grandma. He’d mention her from time to time when we were teenagers. And then in his final years he spoke about Rosie a lot. For my own peace of mind, I just want to know their story. Maybe it would explain the low level of sadness always lingering on him.”
Mack had leaned forward to speak when a server swung by asking if we wanted a drink.
Mack looked to me, and I spoke up, needing a bit more courage. “White wine, something dry. I’m not picky.”
The server nodded.
“Bloody Mary,” came from the man across from me. It was an interesting choice. “They do a prix fixe brunch, is that okay with you? I went ahead and requested it for us.”
I could’ve argued, but a gentle nod came from me.
While a basket of muffins and pastries arrived, followed by our cocktails, I spotted a few other tables occupied by city dwellers who hadn’t escaped to the Hamptons, enjoying their weekend, sipping drinks and eating eggs.
“What about the sadness you carry?”
“I’m sorry?” My hand shook, forcing me to set my wineglass back down.
“You. I can’t help but notice there is a current of unease—of hurt, or pain—that flashes off you every so often. Yeah, you’re funny, and your words can bite, and you kickbox, but you’re also sad. What happened, Frances?”
He ran a hand through his hair, his bulky gold watch catching the light.
“This isn’t about me.”
“Do you want to find out about Rosie, who let’s refer to as Milly from here on out?”
“I do.”
“Then that’s the price. I answer what you ask, and you tell me what I want to know.”
“Why? W-why do you want to know about me?” I stuttered over my words.
I watched him swallow, a lump passing over his Adam’s apple, and waited. This man ran a multimillion-dollar empire. And yeah, I’d harassed him to meet with me, but not to inquire as to my feelings. Yes, he was sexy and exuded some sort of hormone that made me want to run my fingers over his skin, but that wasn’t the point.
“I don’t know why, but I do.”
Again, more honesty. It was such a contradiction to the man’s position and authority.
A server interrupted again, this time with frittatas and toast and some sort of arugula salad.
I stuck my fork into the greens and then stopped. Mack’s heated gaze was on me; he was waiting for an answer.
“I was hurt,” I said. “I thought I’d found my fairy tale, but it turned out to be more than a nightmare. Now, I work and enjoy time with friends, but I don’t believe in that sort of happily-ever-after for myself anymore.” Without waiting, I stuffed my mouth with lemon-dressed arugula so I wouldn’t say any more. Next thing, I’d spill my guts and talk about the stillbirth and start crying.
“So, you’re going to live vicariously through your grandpa’s past? Is that it?”
“Bingo!”
“Tell me about the kickboxing.” That’s what he said before taking a bite of his frittata, skipping the arugula.
I laughed. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. We’ll come back to all that pain and suffering later. Besides, I know what you do for work. And I buy custom-made suits, so it’s a bad subject for us.”
Guzzling a little wine, I let the alcohol tingle my throat. “I like it. Kickboxing. It feels liberating. A time when we can be aggressive and express ourselves…”
“Hmmm. I get it. I used to feel that way in college sports. It’s probably why Milly enrolled me in soccer as a kid. It was a way to take out the anger, be competitive, and earn my own…I don’t know what. Pride, perhaps.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but I liked his sincerity. Most people I met these days were not honest and real. “Yes, it’s about me, accomplishing something no one believed I could,” I admitted.
“Exactly. There is something thrilling about doing what everyone said you couldn’t…”
He said it with the corner of his mouth tipped up, and I couldn’t help but ask, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about doing something on my own. Like when I travel, and I sit on the balcony in boxer shorts and drink a coffee without anyone pestering me. Although I feel like you’d find me.”
“Ha, ha! Probably, if you hadn’t agreed to meet me. Tell me, when can we talk about Ros—Milly?”
He smiled, his white teeth on display. “Next time we get together.”
“Next time?”
“Yeah. Now we’re going to order another drink and unpack all this misery you’re toting around.”
“Ummm…”
“I can’t believe it—I’ve rendered all four-feet-and-change of Feisty Frankie wordless. Don’t kickbox me out of here.”
If I wasn’t in all white and gladiator sandals, I might have…