Because last night, Frankie had sent a text.
Frankie:Do you like my sharp edges as much as I like your guarded ones?
Only Frankie Peterson could make sharp edges sound like flirtation. And now he had to face the thing he’d been denying:
He had feelings for Frankie Peterson. Real, messy, inconvenient as hell. Emotions he couldn’t confess without first telling her he was Mr. Uptight.
That admission sent him straight into a late-night spiral that ended with a text to his brothers.
Marcus:Now that the reporter scare is behind us, I want to tell Frankie I’m Mr. Uptight. Help me brainstorm all the possible endings so that I can plan accordingly.
She deserved the truth. And if there was any hope of building something that could survive the fallout, it had to start with honesty.
He raked a hand down his face. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And now he was one unanswered message away from doing the stupidest, bravest thing of his life.
According to George, whose daily renovation updates now arrived with a generous splash of unsolicited town gossip, Frankie had been holding court at the café, retelling the day Marcus showed up in a suit to collect her after work. In her version, he was one mixed signal away from dropping to a knee with a diamond the size of the town square. Instead, she told the adoring crowd, he had gifted her a grouchy stray she namedSir Hissalot and a golf cart. The cart, she clarified, was only on loan. A present she was expected to return at the end of the romance.
In short, Frankie Peterson was having a spectacularly good time. At his expense.
He shook his head. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. He wasn’t angry. How could he be, when every jab she delivered, no matter how sharp, was laced with affection?
Affection that felt real. Too real.
Real gave him hope.
For now, he owed her a response.
His fingers hovered over the screen, his heart thudding. Then he typed:
Marcus:More than I should.
He sent it.
Her reply came almost at once.
Frankie:I can’t believe I’ll be back in Manhattan in a week. Feels like I just got here.
For a beat, his heart whispered, Ask her to stay.
But that was wishful thinking. Frankie Peterson was not a small-town girl, and he might be drafted into it. He sighed. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
Marcus:Gi Gi’s Crossing will never be the same.
He let it land. Flirty. Neutral. A breadcrumb in banter’s clothing.
Her answer was swift.
Frankie:If by that you mean better dressed, you’re welcome.
Marcus:There’s that. Also, the town delinquent is now only moderately terrifying.
Frankie:Every woman should have a terrifying side.
He didn’t disagree. And if he ever told her his identity, that terrifying side would be aimed at him. Chest tight, he put the phone down instead of replying.
Later that afternoon his screen buzzed.
Frankie:This just in… Chantilly Falls is hosting a “Twilight Picnic & Prosecco” on the same night as the Great Gatsby Festival. The town is spiraling.
